Jan 1, 2pm. Brunswick: my living room. Period arrived today. Usually source of relief (? New Year’s resolution: stop forgetting condoms) but is today only source of extreme pain. Am too hungover for this shit. Spent first hours of year vomming kebab. Do not remember eating kebab. Must have eaten kebab? Identified in toilet bowl actual pieces of tomato. Will not eat tomato for long time.
4pm. Have just eaten pizza w cheese and tomato. Feel better about self, future of tomato-eating, 2015 in general. Cramps agonising. Need Naprogesic but too weak to walk to chemist. Got retweeted. Cheered up.
Jan 4, 8am. Sydney: floor of airbnb. Took antihistamine last night re: mosquito bites resembling dermatological Andes. Unknown side-effect of antihistamine extreme drowsiness. Fell asleep at bar during conversation about poetic structure. Remember TV in bar because seemed weird to have TV in bar. TV playing movie sex scene w closed captions. Closed captions said “MMMM. OH YEAH. (GRUNTS.) (MOANS.)” Giggling like child: last thing I remember. Beer in hair. Read on internet beer supposed to be good for hair as DIY mask but hair does not agree. 2015 have made fool of self so far ~9 times. More than one time per day. New record?
Jan 10, 1am. Brunswick: my living room. Tonight at party agreed to write column for Scum in style of Bridget Jones’s Diary mostly because share surname with protagonist of said. Do not have active love triangle w British Austen-hero types but will attempt anyway. Would not say no to love triangle w Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. Am drunk and feeling v Bridget Jones as result.
2am. Am inspired to diarise all aspects of own life. Be truthful to point of disgusting. No such thing as too much information. Will ignore paranoia that own life prosaically uninteresting to rest of world. Will speak forthrightly about lived experience of femininity. Chris Kraus: “I think the sheer fact of women talking, being, paradoxical, inexplicable, flip, self-destructive but above all else public is the most revolutionary thing in the world.” Am revolutionary. Am self-destructive. Am horny. Wonder if diary experiment will get me laid.
Jan 11, 3pm. Brunswick: my backyard. Cat has run away. Spent morning walking alleys of Brunswick shaking bag of cat biscuits and calling pitifully. Did not emerge. Am holding it together. Helping me to hold it together: bag of weed purchased in local bookstore using copy of Eimar McBride’s A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing as cover. Felt v much like half-formed thing until smoked some of weed.
10.30pm. Cat appeared in kitchen miraculously. Holding onto her and will never let go kind of like in Titanic except plan to follow through on actually never letting go. Reputation as crazy cat lady cemented w housemates. Do not care. Cat is life.
Jan 14, 8pm. Brunswick: my bed. Saw T on bike today. Saw thin, powerful thighs (in shorts!) kind of bursting thru skin as pedalled. Stifled actual groan of longing. Will not text him. Have not had sex since October. Career as sex writer may suffer but can write about fantasies instead? Do readers need to know if sex real/fictional? Is this diary real/fictional? Partly fictional as just invented date of T-on-bike sighting. Also is not real initial. Semi-fictional diary either desperate or liberating. No, is both.
9.30pm. Texted T. Has been hour. No reply. Many regrets.
Jan 16, 11am. Parkville: my office. Still no reply from T. Am now in Destiny’s Child “Independent Woman” mindset. Have been overheard singing “throw your hands up at me” under breath while standing near photocopier. Am pretending didn’t happen. (Both singing and text.)
9pm. Northcote: T’s. As T took each vegetable out of fridge he said its name quietly like each one old friend. Caressed eggplant. Will soon (?) caress me.
Jan 17, 6pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Could not really call that a caress. Was v satisfactory time but feel slightly used. Believed T wanted to reconnect. Was wrong. Am trying not to overanalyse but obviously impossible. Cannot stop thinking about moment of ejaculation. T v self-conscious about this fact of life. Is cute but also he is adult and should accept bodily function. Personally find this particular bodily function v sexy. Sublime moment of simultaneous vulnerability/invincibility. Physical enactment of pleasure, release, return to stasis. T one of those guys who does not like flaccid dick to be seen by lover. Am not fan of this self-consciousness. Would like to lounge naked after sex but instead frantic scramble for underpants. Ruins atmosphere somewhat but suppose not everyone so comfortable in own body as self. T dismissive of me this morning. Can take hint. Will not text again.
8pm. Westgarth: Sophie’s place. Have had wine and long conversation re nature of crushes. Why crushes so crushing? Why must combination of loneliness/imagined love ruin simple appreciation of human beauty? Why impossible to fuck object of crush without feeling will die if do not marry immediately? Am being melodramatic. Do not want to marry man who talks to vegetables. Do not want to marry at all. Marriage institution for other people but not me. Am too bitter for such optimistic declaration of love. Love disgusting.
Jan 25, 2am. Brunswick: bed. Sugar Mountain festival verdict: v good time. Sunburn rating: 5 stars. V friendly/attractive crowd except for anonymous groping of butt during Nas. Men who think is ok to touch butt not attached to own body can fuck right off. Men who take advantage of large crowds to touch butts bane of my existence. Men bane of my existence. Men. MEN????? Why
Jan 29, 10am. Parkville: my office. Ordered vibrator from internet last week. Clicked wrong shipping address on Paypal and inadvertently had large purple dildo delivered to work. Fuck. Have hidden purple dildo in handbag under newly purchased 2015 diary. Hope does not contaminate diary/year w current embarrassment via magic of symbolism. Feel like criminal. Feel like incredibly powerful woman. Have contemplated testing new dildo at work but decided not worth risk of unemployment.
7pm. Brunswick: my bedroom. Housemates out. Have tested dildo. Is success. Need cigarette.
Emma Marie Jones is a Melbourne-based poet and writer and the Sex Editor at SPOOK magazine. Her short fiction, poems, essays and criticism have appeared in SPOOK, Scum, The Lifted Brow, Stilts, The Suburban Review.