Emma Jones’s Diary: September

September 2, 9.00pm. Footscray: Eloise’s house. Look I’m not saying I’m broken-hearted but if I was hypothetically still a lil bit bruised from the whole 3-day-old text-message-rejection thing I can tell u that taking dumbass couch selfies with one of ur BFFs is the only way to heal. Thank u moon and stars 4 Eloise. ღƪ(ˆ◡ˆ)ʃ♡ƪ(ˆ◡ˆ)ʃ♪

 

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September 10, 9.30pm. Northcote: Joe’s Shoe Store. Have been watching Bad Girls’ Club w housemates. Have u seen this show? Is premium quality reality TV 100% would recommend. Prioritise BGC over punctuality; show up half-hour late for date w TDHAC, who has shown up on time but jacked on Tramadol. Once conversation topics “how are u” and “my thesis” are exhausted TDHAC is barely able to hold own head upright. Entire platform sole of new shoe falls off, crumbles in hand. Am devastated. At least provides new topic of conversation, reason for taxi. Shared taxi. To TDHAC’s. Huh.

 

11.30pm. Thornbury: TDHAC’s. Not sure either TDHAC or self in mood for sex. TDHAC too jacked; self too devastated re: shoe.

 

11.45pm. Oh. Ok. Sex.

 

12.45am. TDHAC too timid to fuck hard in his bed as his bed noisy, IKEA bed that may alert housemates to fact sex is happening in house. Assure TDHAC that noises issuing from own mouth far louder than noise IKEA bed could make; housemates surely already aware sex happening. TDHAC still insists we fuck on floor. Asks if his request to fuck on floor will “make it into diary”. Confirm will.

 

September 11, 4.30pm. Thornbury: my bedroom. Have just published Emma Jones’s Diary: August and announced to world shame/pain of third text-message dumping in as many months. Am aware Dork Butt will read but do not care. Am proud to voice, convey own feelings as own feelings valid and important.

 

4.35pm. Have just received weird, anonymous hate mail??????? From troll calling self “squirting anecdote”?????????

 

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Am thinking about panel spoke on during Emerging Writers’ Festival about being woman on internet, taking up space on internet. Am breathing. Am thinking about what Clementine Ford said during panel about ignoring, rising above mean trolls. Am breathing. Am thinking about how own feelings “valid” and “important”. Breathing. Breathing.

 

4.36pm. Am thinking about how maybe everything from own nose ring to own vagina is reducible to mere stereotype. Am fixating on words “ugly”, “depressed”, “fuck off”.

 

5.00pm. Am staying home. Am no longer in mood for launch party, RnB club night was looking forward to all day. Am aware troll intended to hurt and has now got wish. Try to picture troll in fedora; feel slightly better. Walk w housemate M to local bottlo for tinnies, in prep for night on couch.

 

September 14, 11.00am. Melbourne: The Wheeler Centre. Writing thesis. Current output: ~1,500 words per day. Practicing craft, using big ol brain, teasing deep, interconnected critical ideas out via poetics perfect way to still eruption of anxiety re: troll. Re: troll or triggered by: troll? Do not like to give troll satisfaction of having caused anxiety. Anxiety constantly present, merely dormant. Troll powerless rly, troll trigger in same way bad photo of self or memory of embarrassing thing did two weeks ago trigger. Troll’s meanness hollow, self-serving. Do own trench coat, sneakers. Do listen to 90s pop ironically. Do smoke weed, have fringe, write abt vaginal fluids and lesbian experiences. Am edgy. Am powerful woman. Does troll know me? Was troll merely providing journalistic observations on physical appearance of self? Fuck u, troll. U only hate me cos u ain’t me.

 

September 18, 7.00pm. Melbourne: West Space Gallery. Attending “What Would A Feminist Methodology Sound Like?”. Theme is “care”. Listening to poems by Aurelia Guo, Cinnamon Templeton, Eva Birch, Katherine Botten. Listening to whistles in the dark, arms touching other arms, listening to—no, feeling—care in room, people caring for themselves and one another. Must take better care of self. Must stop forgetting to eat, must post more selfies, must fertilise and water wall around own vulnerability until it grows v strong. Strong enough that text messages rejection and trolls cannot penetrate. Mission self-care begins today.

 

September 19, 1.00pm. Thornbury: my bedroom. Have just blown entire Centrelink payment on new pair of sneakers online as act of self-care/thesis procrastination. Mission self-care totally working.

 

September 22, 11.00am. Somewhere on the Princes Freeway. Am headed to Eloise’s grandmother’s beach house in Saint Leonard’s for Super Mega Thesis Workin Bee. Am blasting Nicki Minaj from shitty iPhone speakers, feeling troubles unravel from around neck like scarf in wind.

 

September 23, 9.00pm. St Leonard’s: Eloise’s grandmother’s beach house. Omg let’s talk abt The Bachelorette and the vicarious pleasure of watching grown, super-macho, grossly heteronormative men battling with pressures such as “feeling feelings”, “being necessarily subservient to woman by nature of show’s structure”, and “objectification”. Let’s talk abt how Osher Gunsberg is literally only man in entire show who does not transpose sports vernacular to dating. U cannot say “gave 110%” when talking abt flirting, men! U cannot “put best foot forward” and “get out there to win”! Girl is not cup! Girl is not ball! Girl is not something 2 sing weird songs abt in sweaty huddle w many bros wearing same socks as u! Have only got 800 words left to write of thesis. Feel giddy w approaching freedom.

 

September 26, 4.00am. Thornbury: my bedroom. Party trick: able to recite entire MLA citation for Julia Kristeva’s Powers of Horror and Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble off by heart. No, no. Better party trick: able to quote 400-word chunks of Hélène Cixous’s The Laugh of the Medusa on demand. No, no. Even better party trick: able to cry and/or throw up anywhere, any time, at mere mention of words “thesis deadline”.

 

September 30, 6.30am. Thornbury: my bedroom. It my birthday! Am 28! Am gonna look so hot today! Am gonna get so many facebook notifications!  ◌⃝ℋ੨ᵖᴘᵞ ℬⁱᖇᐪમᵈ੨ყ♡* ͙⁎♡⃝◌

 

8.00am. Southbank: ABC studios. Am on ABC Radio National talking abt sex in young adult fiction at lunch time today. Happy birthday 2 me! (U can listen to the podcast of my ~fully sik radio appearance~ right here if u wanna.)

 

2.00pm. Docklands: SPOOK office. Tfw u have a lil crush and it’s ur birthday and the object of ur crush posts somethin rly cute on your facebook wall and u sit there in your desk chair squirming and smiling until ur news editor/BFF Hannah asks u wtf is wrong with ur face or do u just need 2 pee ~ΒΙяΤΗDΑΥ LOVE(◍•ᴗ•◍)/

 

7.00pm. Thornbury: my house. Hannah arrives for Bachelorette and wine. What could possibly be better birthday present than live-tweeting man-babies and getting wasted?

 

8.30pm. Better birthday present than live-tweeting man-babies and getting wasted: already being wasted and receiving deep in-joke gift from housemates/angels M & M. :’)

 

✩•̩̩͙*˚·͙˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ BONUS NYWF WEEKEND MINI-DIARY ·͙˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩

 

October 1, 7.00am. Melbourne: Southern Cross Station. AM FAR TOO HUNG OVER 4 THIS SHIT. Only seat on Skybus facing backwards but cannot wait for next Skybus lest miss flight. Desperately drink water, chew gum to give mouth something to do other than vomit.

 

8.31am. Tullamarine: Tiger terminal. HAVE LITERALLY MISSED CHECK-IN BY ONE MINUTE. Kind lady employed by Tiger sees panic-stricken face, takes pity, asks what is wrong. Lie a little, tell kind lady is own birthday and have just missed check-in for flight. She sneaks me onto flight and wishes happy returns.

 

1.00pm. Sydney: Central Station. WTF? There is NO FOOD here. LITERALLY NO FOOD. Only food option 2x185g bags salt ’n’ vinegar chips for $8.50. As have not eaten yet due to rushing around for buses, flights spend ~$20 on 4x185g bags of chips for 3-hour train to Newcastle.

 

2.20pm. Somewhere on train line between Sydney and Newcastle. Look I’m 3 packets of chips in and I’m gonna tell u I’m regretting the chip decision. Mouth dry, water unavailable.

 

4pm. Newcastle: Staple Manor. Sian is here! Sophie is here! Seb is here! Sam is here! Steph is here! Casey is gonna b here! OMG all of u are here there are too many names to list! Fuck the chip decision! Get me some wine!

 

October 2, 8.00am. Newcastle: Good Brother. Breakfast thesis edits a good, productive start to morning. Yes. Am feeling industrious, bathed in sunlight, basking in oncoming freedom of thesis deadline, in oncoming pleasure of favourite beachside festival spent making, drinking, writing, talking w some of dearest friends.

 

3.00pm. Newcastle: The Royal Exchange. Have just finished panel w Kate Iselin and Hugo Gray called “Writing Sex”. Is exciting conversation w panel and w audience abt sexual relationships, technology, ethics of writing abt ppl u fuck and the borderlines between personal/political. This lil diary gets a mention. Turns out u guys are readin abt my sex life! Hi! I hope u are vicariously enjoying my slow, complete meltdown! I love u all.

 

6.30pm. Newcastle: The Great Northern. Look I wanted to call our literary trivia team “Lil Hemingwayne” but I got outvoted. “Carpet Diem” does not win, but we do all get p drunk which is kind of a win if u think abt it carefully.

 

October 3, 8.00am. Newcastle: Good Brother. Breakfast. Long black. Thesis edits. Productivity. Invincibility. YEAH.

 

11.00am. Newcastle: The Gun Club. Just attended panel called “Slaying Australia’s Sacred Cows”. V deep, interesting dissection of dominant white, male Australian subjectivity and how this applies to current issues, the way we view them, the way we talk and write abt them. Hoped that somebody would mention the bro code from The Bachelorette. Am so happy for any opportunity to disempower the “bloke” by laughing at him.

 

12.00pm. Newcastle: Hunter Street Mall. Run into Izzy, go shopping for costume necessities. Buy matching crop tops like the #1 QTs that we are.

 

5.00pm. Newcastle: The Gun Club. Have just spoken on panel called “Editing Ignorance” w Samantha Forge, Jennifer Dougherty and Leonie Hayden. Is an editor’s responsibility to the author or the reader? When addressing ignorance who r we protecting? And is it an editor’s responsibility to teach writers abt issues they don’t fully understand? My response:

 


11.00pm. Newcastle: Central Hotel.
I AM RLY DRUNK! I AM IN A JELLYFISH COSTUME THAT LIGHTS UP! I LOVE EVERYONE! I WANT TO DANCE TO “ANACONDA” FOR A THIRD TIME! COME 2 ME SO I CAN SWipe at u gently w my silvery tentacles it is a dance move i have created called the stinGER!

 

October 4, 10.00am. Newcastle: Ocean Baths. Omg Newcastle u have done it again. Q: Is there a better cure for a hangover than a swim? A: Yes and that is a swim w some good mates who don’t laugh at u when it takes u 45 minutes to put ur whole body in the cold water.

 

11.45pm. Newcastle: The Royal Exchange. HAVE U READ THE POETRY OF HERA LINDSAY BIRD. HAVE U BECAUSE IF U HAVEN’T GO AND DO IT NOW. She just read at the Late Night Readings and she SLAYED omg.

 

12.30am. Newcastle: Ocean Baths. It dark and everyone swimming. Sitting on concrete steps smoking a cigarette using Sam’s hair as a windshield. Watching the bodies moving in the black water in a circle. Laughter and the crashing ocean. It is corny maybe to love a weekend but I love this one and I love it every year. I love it, we love it and it loves us back. I love u all omg I am so drunk rn.

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.

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