The Melbourne Girl’s Life: A Modern Day Tragedy

She’s at the lowest of lows: crying in the shower with snot and conditioner running into her mouth on a Saturday night, while the rest of the city is out socialising and not ingesting their own bodily fluids. Staring dully at the mold on the shower tiles as the warm fountain trickles into a freezing stream, she realises it probably couldn’t be worse.

Should she finally renounce society and people once and for all? These thoughts cross her mind periodically, but society is hard to renounce in the city, she soon discovered. Remaining unseen in a share house is nearly impossible. And to ignore her primal social longings while social media alerts her of every interaction her friends are having without her… it’s painful, frankly, and laughing with her Netflix friends isn’t quite the same. She now knows the depths of despair that Emily Bronte probably felt.

All she wants is some chocolate and to have a little crying session with a hot water bottle. But she doesn’t own a hot water bottle. And the only service station within a safe walk in the darkness of a Saturday night has out-of-date, strangely crumbly chocolate.

She just shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today, she decides while towelling down her body as she stands on the perpetually moist grey carpet on the bathroom floor. It doesn’t bother her like it used to. Nor do the spreading water stains on her bedroom walls, or the peeling wallpaper. Humans are highly adaptable beings. Well, bad things come in threes and she got turned down by three of her (only) friends tonight. At least she’s reached rock bottom. Her favourite café was closed when she went there in the afternoon…is this a sign of the city rejecting her? Should she concede and move home to the north east coast where people are sparse but nature is bountiful and connections are forged with inanimate things like flowers and rivers instead of people?

Self-pity is amusing in hindsight, she mused as she threw another used tissue to the pile growing around the bin. Especially when you’re alone on a Saturday night in your pyjamas instead of in a sexy dress and a bearded man’s arms. It’s a tragedy, really.


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