Diary #5: This Hill Is a Cosmic Typo

(Re-upload)

This is my blog.

Second time’s the charm - because firsts are for optimists and virgins.

I’m in bed again - shocker. The setting that triples as stage, sanctuary, and soft-walled psych ward. A mattress turned confession booth. The one piece of furniture that never asks why.

Our sharehouse reads like the cast list of a rejected HBO pilot: six chaotic students, two dysfunctional bathrooms, and one sandal-flapping nuisance we call She - as in She’s back, as in those aren’t our footsteps and no, we won’t be sleeping tonight.

The backyard hill is so violently sloped it feels like a cosmic typo, like God held down Command+I mid-anxiety attack and accidentally italicised the earth. When I’m high, it morphs - cinematic, glitchcore, divine. A green screen of AstroTurf, cricket limbs twitching like corrupted AI code, lint rising like ghosts with nowhere better to haunt. It arches upward into some scammed Y2K afterlife, the kind you’d find advertised on a LimeWire banner: “HEAVEN - NOW IN LOW RESOLUTION.” Everything’s overexposed. Nothing’s truly dead. Everything here is green in the wrong way. Not fresh or eco-chic, but Nickelodeon-slime-meets-military-trauma.

Exhibit A: My vape. Berry Cherry Pom. A flavor that never existed in nature. It hums next to me like a vibrating pet rock and tastes like the inside of a teenager’s mouth after prom.

Exhibit B: A moldy VHS of Cinderella that I occasionally dust like it’s a haunted family urn.

Exhibit C: The hill. Always the hill.

This is what happens when you live in a house where people only vacuum when the floors start emotionally blackmailing you. We use one pink linen sheet, washed bi-weekly like it’s a shared organ. Our diet is themed: chicken-based and anxiety-driven. If we’re not eating Grill’d, we’re eating Subway, which we pronounce like it’s French. I don’t know if that’s a joke or just a coping mechanism.

I’ve developed a new religion, too: new restaurant, new cocktail. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a spiritual practice since Year 7 Confirmation. I wasn’t allowed alcohol for three years (not legally, morally), and now I’m sipping on matcha margaritas and spicy lychee gin things like some sad baby housewife in a Sofia Coppola deleted scene.

My mother is convinced I’m sick again.

I tell her no, I’m fine. I’m good. Translation: the demons are currently clocked out. She nods with that stiff-jawed, sun-spotted grace only a former yoga teacher can master. She was always golden - “a total fucking sun”, and I, her twitchy little moon, orbiting in hunger and humidity.

And here’s the part where I admit: there are people I want to write about. So badly.

But I’m either ethically bankrupt or just a writer. I can’t decide.

THURSDAY NIGHT BONG THOUGHT: What if I bought a mini waterproof camera and flushed it down the toilet? Not for fetish reasons. For existential ones. To find out where my shit goes. What’s its final destination? Does it see things? Feel abandonment? Dream of being solid again?

It made me think of shrinking myself down, Alice-style, into the only safe place that’s ever existed: my grandparents’ old garden. They sold the house ten years ago. There was a hill - not a hill, more like a chubby grassy ripple - and I used to lie on it like I was melting. The air was always soft. The world, a little quieter. No one knew me there.

Now, in dreams, everything chases me. Tsunamis crash through childhood kitchens. Fat white rabbits bolt from my touch like I’m toxic. Skyscrapers rise in terrifying, wrong proportions - some thin as needles, some wide and planetary - looming like AI renderings of God. And then they fall. Or I fall. Or I watch them fall and can’t do anything. The fall is always green too. Like envy. Or vomit.

I’m addicted to dreaming. It’s the only place I don’t have to be consistent. Or interesting. I can be scared. I can be cruel. I can be tiny.

I want to write something new. Something that bleeds green in all the ways that make you wince. Green like jealousy, like infection, like that fake grass they used on the set of Teletubbies. Green like the toxic little slug in Flushed Away who sings “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” as the ship goes down. Green like a rotting popsicle on the floor of a childhood car that smelled like plastic and despair.

The world is getting louder, and I keep making it louder.

More tabs. More apps. More avatars of myself.

The internet is the only place where I can say something and feel it echo.

And maybe that’s the sickness.

Or maybe that’s just being twenty-something and angry and brilliant and watching the world burn with a wet handshake in your heart.

Either way - this is my blog.

And the hill is still there.

And I’m still here.

And we’re both a little green.