february 23 2024

It’s a shoot day. I wake up from a weird dream at the crack of dawn and slather Nair all over my body before hopping into the shower. I’m blasting Snow Strippers from the mini speaker I keep by the toothbrushes and trying not to think too much. I’m supposed to be cheeky and fun for the shoot and even I am growing weary of my attitude these days. I don’t have any real problems but I can’t shake the winter blues, I can’t help acting pouty and bourgeoisie.

“They’re permanent and I’m not, oh-oh, ah-ah”

I dance around and turn the knob until the water gets as hot as I can take it. The skin on my chest glows red.

An hour later, I make my way to the studio. The sun is out and shining down on me. I can feel the depression lift and float away on the wind like a Dries Van Noten 100% silk pink print scarf. It’s that specific of a feeling. I unzip my jacket and watch a pigeon shit off the ledge of someone’s balcony. I know it’s uncouth to say this out loud but it really is all in your head at the end of the day.

The studio is all the way in the East End and when I arrive, I sit down and tell Myla, my makeup artist, about the time I was at a club in Berlin and witnessed a man in the bathroom on his knees, hands behind his back, asking people to pee in his mouth.

“Girl, what the hell!” she says.

“I used to live a crackhead lifestyle,” I tell her.

And I really did. I have so many stories and they come in handy whenever I need to pass the time. People tell me they can’t imagine what I used to be like, they tell me they can’t picture it. I feel like even I mostly forget. There are so many things that have happened that I just do not give a fuck about anymore. I’ve memoryholed so much of my life and I think it is better this way. I only want to remember the funny parts. This is how you let go.