I know what you did last summer.
You drove and drove and drove before stopping for a sip of ginger beer. You ran down to the beach at dawn. You ate burgers and dried mango, and pizza by the slice. You bought tickets to see bands and danced - badly - and smiled at people you didn't know. You inhaled someone who lives on the other side of the world, you dreamt about them when they left. You talked. You listened.
You stole your sister's bikini and floated in the pool. You didn't get sunburnt once. You drank bitter, strong negronis and made new friends that lived in teepees, literally. You swung in a rainbow hammock and walked down wooded roads. You kissed a Canadian with a moustache, you regretted it.
You wrote love notes, and scrawled angry rants. You punched the air and wrestled the dog. You moved home, and started again. You killed three succulents. You shot on film and ate scoops of caramel ice cream with your sisters. You bought flowers for yourself, you let them turn black and dark in the vase. You read book, after book, after book. You didn't cook much, but you met a boy that wants to teach you how to make paella.
You stalked Lena Dunham on Instagram, you wondered about what it would be like to date a photographer. You ate long, loopy strands of spaghetti with clams and opened a jar of pickles. You bought wine for your dad. You slept with the fan on. You thought about how fucking fantastic it is to be nearly 25. You thought about how paralysingly scary it is too. You drank beer in the shower, you worried about your job. You worked hard. You felt bad about not writing here. You missed it.
1, 3, 4, 6: Sydney's Flower Market for this story.
2: Windowpane, Fitzroy.
5: People's Market, Collingwood.