Same bitch, same problems

Botched selfies, hirsute tops and servicing both mouths

Inside thoughts. Here’s Everything I said, did and thought in a week plus some things I shouldn’t be admitting in public.

There was something about going into the first working week of the new year which felt different. Normally, I subscribe to the Timothée Chalamet way of being. The ‘I aspire to greatness’ raison d’etre. Positive, clear-headed, inspired. Not to mention grateful that my monstrous New Year’s hangover has finally subsided and my kids have fucked off back to school. New year, new me. Frothing at the mouth for fashun. Titillated by all the mindless content I’ll be creating. That’s probably until we get to about March, which is when i slump back into my rest of year depression and general sense of disillusionment. This year, however, I’m not feeling so refreshed. Same bitch, same problems. Maybe it’s because of all of the stuff that’s happening in Venezuela, or the fact that i havent had an adult conversation in about a month. Is a holiday not just parenting, but in a different location? But looking at everyone’s smug in/out lists and performative gestures of change is making me want to tear my eyes out. Obviously i want these changes too: I want to looksmax, healthmax, careermax. I want to moneymax, partymax, brainmax. I want to sleepmax, freakmax, eatmax. I want my kids to max, my house to max, and Tom to max. At this point i might as well change my name to max. It’s just right now im finding it hard to envision the shift. But maybe things changed once i’ve had a drink.

What I saw

On Friday I went to see the Cecil Beaton exhibition at the National Portait Gallery, who actually took one of my favourite portraits of my mum back when she was a young warthog. One image struck a chord in particular; a portrait of a forlorn 30s debutante, gazing anxiously at her reflection in a cracked mirror, while no doubt weighing up the pros and cons of 1ML chin filler and which ¾ angle selfie to post in her weekly IG dump.

What I watched

I think I must have watched Chloe Fineman’s botched selfies video about a hundred times. One of the most relatable things I’ve seen in a long time, in it she satirises the culture of women who like bears goc into hiding while recovering from having their face soaked in salmon gravy or their outer layer skin blasted off by carbon monoxide, while sending a series of frenzied selfies to their friends. Which is something i do on the regs. Like Chloe, my phone is absolutely flooded with aggressively close-up and heavily annotated images of my face from a myriad of angles, both pre- and post-treatments. Actually, it’s 3 angles, left, right, and front on - 3 totally different people adhering to 3 totally different standards of beauty, 2 of which i dont really identify with. Unlike Chloe, I’d rather eat wasps than share them on Instagram. I might make an exception for Substack.

What I bought

Maybe it’s because I’m halfway through obliterating all my remaining body hair - forget the year of the horse, 2026 is all about the siamese cat - but there was something about this hirsute top from Emporio Armani that caught my eye mid scroll. It’s giving Meret Oppenheimer meets Venus in furs. A merkin but for the breasts. I’m interested in the tension between a hairless body clothed in a layer of fur. It feels perverse. Like the juxtaposition between butter-soft leather and a rough dog’s tongue.

What I read

I read about a mother who photoshopped cockroaches onto a picture of her son while sleeping so that he would take washing himself more seriously. No notes.

What I did

This week was my MOT week, where i went and got both mouths serviced. From vagina to dentata, I had the dentist on Wednesday, where I made him lie to Reuben about being friends with the tooth fairy, and then had a smear on Thursday, to which Reuben obviously did not come.

What I had done

On Thursday, I went to an acupuncturist who looked like a character out of Midsummer Murders but also a modern day Merlin. After checking my pulse, he told me that my brain was disconnected to my kidneys and adrenals and said that i spent too much time in my head with my thoughts. And that people who only listen to their thoughts have a tendency to go mad. To which I replied: “I am mad.” I also told him that sometimes i feel dead from the neck down, and he asked me about my birth, and i told him i had the cord wrapped around my neck, which he thought was interesting and now i think is interesting too. Then he put needles in my feet, pelvis and tummy, and waved an albino looking cigar all over my body, to heat up various pressure and energy points. I think he might be onto something.

Best meal

After 4 weeks of surviving off husks and bee pollen, I finally drew a close to my Spartan parasite cleanse by feasting on steak frites at the Nomad, where my friend was staying, which I washed down with a bottle of Chablis. It’s good to be back. Although the vegetables tasted like they had been sitting in a grill since the Etruscan era, which wasn’t pleasant.

Quote of the week

“Stressed in a way where my body has decided to not let me shit for a week in case i need to pull strength and perseverance from an unlikely source” Ivy Wolk

Random thoughts of the week

• Why would you put an identical hand moisturiser next to the soap? It’s so fucking confusing, I’m sick of washing my hands with moisturiser

• Can we also ban loose tea leaves? I worship at the altar of convenience