London Bridge sunshine

There’s truly no better high than the post-laser adrenaline rush — that lingering sting, a kiss from the Cynosure laser, chased by an Earl-Grey-double-shot-iced-oat-matcha-latte, a Klonopin, and a dash of dex. Life’s weirdly beautiful sometimes. And who doesn’t love brain chemicals lol.

Lately my writing has only made it as far as a final draft in my Notes app, languishing in the purgatory between late-night venting and publication. Since my birthday, I’ve been deep in a burnout-downward-spiral — putting it gently. Depression on the prowl like an alley-cat in heat, accompanied by a heady dose of self-doubt and heightened anxiety that leaves me feeling sick to my stomach. This led to me sending a long, slightly manic email to my prescribing doctor asking for either more — or perhaps new — pills to try. Her assistant kindly scheduled me an appointment at my earliest convenience. So now we wait…

Slurp. With pursed lips I suck on my waterlogged soggy paper straw. Mmmmm… Matcha: my longtime muse, my milky green companion. If you’ve been keeping an eye on my Patreon, you’ll notice every recent post features a photo of the matcha I was sipping mid-write-up. I’ve never had the nerves for coffee — mine are already strung tight like harp strings. Cocaine, ironically, has a calming effect (classic adhd brain defect). But coffee? A jittery nightmare of nausea and tremors. I must have some strange hypersensitivity. It’s cruel, really — I adore the taste. Still, maybe it’s a blessing. Matcha comes with antioxidants and aesthetic value. It’s the hot girl drink. Every time I buy one, I’m compelled to post a silly photo of it on my Insta story, which end up in a highlight reel, appropriately titled Matcha. I tell myself it’s all an elaborate joke, a little trolling for anyone who might take me seriously. Social media is so performative and absurd—like, who actually cares that I’m on my eighth matcha this week? No one. But still, the ongoing photo log amuses me. Lately, I’ve milk-shaken things up and gone with oat milk instead of almond— perhaps (well, obviously) because Blank Street only have oat milk and I’ve recently added them to the tiny roster of beverage cafes that I trust . I usually stick with almond milk, not only for its delish natural sweetness, but because you can definitely taste the almond, which saves me from the first sip crisis where I recoil, “Wait... have they given me dairy milk by mistake?”.

I’m currently sunning myself outside Jenki; Borough Market. My fave small, authentic matcha cafe chain. Home to the location exclusive, London Fog Matcha I’m currently savouring.

The vibration of tourists on foot and men in navy suits on their lunch break creates an engulfing rumble. The way waves crash against rocks, London has its own costal-ish soundscape —both soft and violent. A strange sort of white noise one can easily drown in. The smells of Borough Market assault my nose in a mostly unpleasant, but thought-provoking way. The strongest scent is meat — pork, I think? Although, what would I know — salty and gamey. As I catch an additional whiff of cheese, I’m reminded just how not vegan-friendly the market is, despite my idealism.

I find it charming, though, that the lazily draped fairy lights are turned on, glowing despite the midday sun. Borough market has a certain flavour of unexpected whimsy. —The scalloped canopy, visually similar to a white pleated tennis skirt, crowning a forest of emerald-green iron columns decorated with ornate Victorian spirals. The further in you mosey, the dingier it becomes—until your eyes adjust to the sunlight filtering through overhead glass panels, which trap and blend every food aroma into a single, pungent scent so dense it seems to hang in the air. The floor, an uneven, worn patchwork of cobblestone and cement, not very heel friendly I am reminded.

Today is a good day I affirm to myself. I feel genuinely energised after a laser session. There’s something intoxicating about the pain — where I once flinched, I now savour the zaps. I’ve done 12 sessions thus far and just signed on for six more, plus a new course for my navel and underarms. Honestly? The thought of not returning to my clinic makes me weirdly sad. So of course, I let them upsell me those additional courses —and affiliated skincare products!! I’ll keep going until there is nothing left to zap! At this point, I’ve spent around £500* — a small price to pay for peace of mind and a silky-smoooothie skin.

*This is why, in my op, men should always pay on dates.

No 50/50 when women spend hundreds on maintaining a hairless pussy alone! Not including the many other time consuming expenses we endure: hair, nails, makeup, clothes… Need I go on? Men couldn’t even walk a metre in the heels I run for my Ubers in. I believe the best thing a woman can invest in is her appearance— it opens doors. Interestingly, research suggests men perceive overly intelligent women as less attractive and unlikable. As unfortunate as it is, there's often a social advantage in underplaying one’s intellect as a female—letting others underestimate me is a strategic move.

Truly though, laser has been one of the best investments I’ve made — for both my beauty regimen and my mental health. Shaving is a fool’s errand. A single day of smoothness followed by stubble? No thanks. Especially with my OCD — I’m hyper-focused on hygiene and cleanliness. Hair, in my opinion, traps odor, feels uncomfortable and looks messy. Perhaps I’ve internalised the perverted male fantasy, derived from porn, of a prepubescent-looking pussy? But you know what? I also really prefer it this way. Even if I was celibate I’d still get laser.

Much to my dismay, I’ve got an important phone app this afternoon at 2:30 — one I absolutely cannot fuck up or miss, at great personal detriment. So unfortunately, I can’t spend the rest of the afternoon sunbathing at my little table in the rare London sunshine, as I’d otherwise love to do. I allocated myself an hour of vitamin D-ing, it’s passing much faster than I’d like. I’m in such a perfect little sun trap here... I really should come to London Bridge more often — not just for my laser appointments.

So, regrettably, I must start editing this now and post while I’m still feeling emboldened enough to do so!