I’m done, badness out - stitches, yes and some curious air pockets sewn up in there. Ginger. Little. Getting empathy. Trying to lie down but it’s when you do that that ideas come to move. Music influences your writing doesn’t it – hard to be sweet and verbose with Black Market Baby on in the background. Hard not to become, I dunno, drawly. Matter-of-fact. Might take a Panadol. Might eat some salmon, stoke up the barbie. The sun is shining. It’s 6:45pm. Kiki went to sleep after making some truly bizarre faces. It’s silent. Thinking about Paris. About what I want the next part of my life to look like. I’ve never thought very far ahead. Never further than tomorrow or a few weeks. But now I’m trying to find pictures. They are coming. Had some brilliant post-op revelations – aside from all the overwhelming love – thought – hey I’ll rewrite my novel as a choose your own adventure – the idea felt so brilliant I just couldn’t believe it – couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before – spent ten hours lying in the hospital bed plotting it out in my mind. Was excellent fun. Drugs affect me deeply I’ve realised, it takes a while for them to get out of my system and they hit me hard. I was too wobbly to go home like normal – couldn’t stand up. The drugs, I said, they hit me hard. Tried hard not to vomit in dad’s BMW – the ride just too smooth.