I hate food.

No, I don’t suffer from anorexia nervosa or bulimia nervosa or some fear of food or getting fat or anything. But most food is feral. Jelly is pigs tendons. Eggs are a chicken’s menstruation. Cows milk is just that; fatty milk to fatten up baby cows. Not for people. Am I the only one who thinks the world has gone a little cuckoo?

Hippophobia is a fear of horses. That’s just twisted – the word for the fear, I mean, not the fear. You’d think that the people who make up names for fears, who look up the latin or greek prefix and create the word from there would have an ounce of common sense about them and not label the ‘fear of horses’ hippophobia. Why couldn’t hippophobia just be the fucking fear of hippos?

“Hi Sophie”
I turn around.
“Hey Michelle. How are you?”
“I’m good thanks. Its so warm today isn’t it? Almost beach weather - yay!”
Michelle giggles.
I giggle.
I like my work. Everyone is always nice.
“Doing much this weekend?”
It’s a toss up between hanging out with the Law/Commerce guys at The Botanic and drinking sophisticated cocktails like Cosmopolitans and Gin and Tonics. Or, I could watch my old school friends drink vodka-and-lift, or bourbon-and-coke, or some other random mixed drink at the stingiest, seediest places in town because they’re poor arts or journalism students. I’ll probably run into an ex-boyfriend, four guys I’ve slept with and three I’d like to sleep with. I’ll get home, take off layers of eye make-up - trying not to wake my housemate up in the process – and just crawl into bed.
“Nothing much planned” I say to Michelle.
“Yeah, me either.”

Michelle grabed a slice of left-over pizza out of the staff room fridge. We had a book launch last night, so there was plenty of as-yet-uneaten free-for-all digestives left in the kitchen. I took another swig from my water bottle, wondering if that tiny extra bit of contact with plastic would be the one to trigger the creation of a cancer cell, deep in my oesophagus.

Where am I going with this? I’m so glad you asked. You see, as a child of Generation Y, I have this compelling need to explain myself, and I am sure you don’t object to this. If you do, stop reading. Unlike the first line of ‘House of Leaves’, this is for you. This is for you to see, to understand and accept, to analyse and interpret, in whatever manner you see fit.

But don't judge me.

That would be a waste of my time, and yours.

Now, shall we see what happens next?