It’s late in the evening, and I am sitting on my chaise-longue, draped in a white faux-fur blanket, in my off-brand Juicy-Velour track-suit, worried about my over-use of hyphens in sentences.

I have been trapped in a form of study-prison for two-years endlessly-writing pieces of coursework-after-coursework-after-coursework-after-coursework-after-coursework.

I’ll stop now. Even I can acknowledge how ridiculous and unfunny and monotonous and strained and plodding and repetitive and repetitive and repetitive it is.

My life these past few years has been formed out of a raw and wet clay, never able to dry without cracking. I tell myself that an ending is in sight, however, I am, at this moment, unable to tell you what that ending might look like and where exactly I shall arrive, and what purpose I shall find.

Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed and cannot sleep, I try to picture my life after I have walked this path, and what might linger for me at the end of it all. I have never pictured it being a person (a someone), nor do I imagine anything particularly significant or grandiose. I am hoping for a sense of happiness or being able to feel content and at peace. Yet, I also know that I am not the kind of woman who… It’s just not in my nature… I am restless and eager and nothing will ever be enough. After my studies, I will doubtlessly strive for the next qualification, the next achievement, the new sparkly item to steal with my beak and place delicately, with a quiet rage and secret haste, into my nest, before scouring the land with my beady eyes for my next new treasure.

I recognise, though, that I am very fortunate to have such a loving and supportive family – and friends – and that I also have a career in which I both love and thrive, with the flexibility to choose my own professional projects, with the respect and confidence  from my colleagues, who approach to me for advice.

But I do sometimes miss the previous versions of myself, lascivious nature, creativity, and my dear, old and retired, friend…

Knock knock knock

Who the fuck is knocking on my door at this hour? And why aren’t they ringing the doorbell – Are they an idiot, are they drunk? – Please don’t be wasted ex…

I pull my phone out from my pocket, expecting to find a notification from my doorbell camera, but nothing is there.

Fuck me. My anxieties have triggered a newfound state of psychosis. Maybe I should have some more wine – maybe I should have some less wine… decisions, decisions…

Knock knock knock

I slowly slump myself out of my faux-fur cocoon, goodbye warmth and safety. Time to accept my fate and face my ruinous mental-health downwards-spiral.

I drag myself out through the door of my lounge, into the cold and sage foyer. Foyer. I laugh. Can I call the two metres following the front door a foyer when it’s so small of a space? Surely there’s another name for this entryway: one for working-class folk. A foyer, in my mind, is a large and empty room wherein pretty boys wait for maidens to ready themselves before a chaperoned courting, or wherein candidates on the Apprentice patiently await being grilled and pulled apart for entertainment in the boardroom. There is no in-between. No waiting can take place in this finite area, just a mirror to quickly prim oneself before a swift exit: one final glance before embarking outside.

I do not glance in the mirror now. I have a spot and it has been making me furious for the past two nights. I know it’s all I shall see in my reflection, my eyes a focussed lens. Any attention or angst will only serve to feed the monster. It’s like how I always say…

(I know that the following paragraph will, most likely, sound silly and that the syntax and tense probably won’t be right; I’ve always struggled with both of these skills, even though I hold a Master’s Degree in Writing, with an additional qualification to Teach English as a Foreign Language. But: Fuck it. It’s only you reading this, and you know me well enough not to care about the appearance of a parcel, my poor wrapping skills, and presentation, especially when you already know that you will (at the very least) appreciate the contents – because you like me (Right? That’s why you’re here? Or at least one of you does – seeing as my Momma is my top subscriber). Contrarywise – maybe you hate me. HA HA HA. But you’re clearly obsessed with me, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this drivel.)

As I have always said: If anyone has anything bad to say about me, anything mean, anything bitchy, anything that would upset me, anything that they wouldn’t say to my face, then keep that fucking shit to yourself and to the grave. And if anyone hears anything mean about me, anything bitchy, anything that would upset me, or anything that that person wouldn’t say to my face, then don’t fucking tell me, keep that fucking shit to yourself and to the grave. I am thirty-two this year and see no reason, or need, to pay any mind to anything that has the intent of only causing me harm. I am more than open to taking on board anything constructive, or from people with good intentions, but nasty shit deserves JAIL. And I could care LESS. I WISH I could care LESS.

Also, I hate how people always seem to want to correct me on this turn of phrase. Because, surely, the following statement: ‘I couldn’t care less’, means I honestly give zero-fucks. Such as, for example, as per, ‘I couldn’t care less about all this gossip involving the Beckhams’. Zero-fucks, mate. Whereas this next statement: ‘I could care less’, obviously means ‘do not bring this up again because I would give anything to pay less attention, or regard, to the matter at hand’. Such as, for example, as per, ‘I could care less about fictitious, and vicious, rumours circulating about myself’.

Knock knock knock

Oh yeah, that’s why I’m stood in my ‘foyer’. Totally dissociated then, apologies, I hope that you didn’t leave.

I slowly reach out towards the latch and twist to unlock my front door: a beautiful duck-egg blue shade. I chose this colour after reading that the colour blue is inviting, honest and calm. One of these adjectives I would claim is one of my most defining characteristics. Do you know which one, can you tell, is it obvious, do I naturally project myself well, and with intention? Do you even know me well enough to make an educated guess? (Leave ur answer in the comments. Take a punt at it, for a lark).

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED, I say in my head as I swing back the door. No need to speak the words aloud when you’ll only be shouting to yourself, or at yourself – I know that there shall be no-one standing in the doorway. There was no notification on the doorbell camera app, and nothing plaguing me and or taunting me – other than my own insecurities, of course. I am always so ready to invite those in.

‘Hello, my dearest Eleanor. It’s been too long’. Barry. ‘You cut your fringe’.

‘Well, yes,’ I am flustered, and word-vomit spills, ‘I was feeling overwhelmed and a little stressed, but I think it looks cute.’ Barry looks displeased at this. ‘You see, I’m planning on getting, or, thinking about getting, a wolf-cut next week. Musing over is perhaps a better turn of phrase. And thought to myself, why not do a soft-launch of my new cut and style?’

Paws. [HA – Cuz badgers have paws]. Long pause. ‘Darling, you cut it far far too short.’

Barry barges past me, entering the house, passing through the foyer, and into the lounge.

I follow his trail: ‘What, so you’re making house-calls now?’

Barry saunters into the middle of the room and analyses his surroundings carefully, taking in every detail, every DVD title and book’s spine, every shade of every colour and single scratch in the skirting board. I assume that he must not have heard me, yet I won’t repeat myself. I’m so glad to see my friend again. I playfully cock my left eyebrow at him and a smile begins to grow.

‘I thought you said you gave up on all this shit; that all this woke, snowflake nonsense is a detriment to your duty, being unable, now, to comment on how a woman looks –  how anyone looks – nothing about a persons’ appearances, or body, or weight, nothing too shallow, nothing that could cause any upset, with no opinions, no viewpoints, no controversies, no harm, no foul…’

Barry turns back to face me and takes two large steps forward, then looks up towards me, focussing his attention to the area just above my eyes.

‘My beloved, have you developed a nervous tick? What in God’s name is your face doing?’

Fucksake. ‘It’s the Botox, Barry. I asked my doctor to freeze my face for me’.

‘Whatever for?’

‘TikTok said that people who have had Botox injected feel less empathy.’ He stares blankly. And the silence compels me to fill the void. ‘It’s down to nerve receptors, or facial movements, that correlate with your neurological pathways, or something. Like, as in, if you can’t physically express an emotion, then you can’t trigger the emotion either, or something to that effect. And it’s not only for empathy, it’s for any emotion at all. So, I thought, better safe than sorry. Let’s freeze the fuck out of my face and I’ll be completely sound from here on out’. Barry blinks. ‘I know, like, obviously I shouldn’t use TikTok as my main source of information, and I’m not sure yet how true it is, but it’s kind of nice that there’s a limit now on how much my face reflects my emotions. I’ve always been so expressive with my face, and I’ve always been too easy to read, so I –‘

– ‘You’ve never been easy to read,’ Barry interjects.

‘I’m literally the most upfront and transparent person to ever live, I’m constantly flying on the whim of every emotion. Constantly’.

‘That’s your interpretation, possibly,’ Barry says whilst taking a seat on the sofa. He then gestures for me to sit down beside him.

‘Eleanor, let me ask you this one simple question: if I instructed to draw me a picture, of the bowl of the fruit in my dining room, how accurate would your picture be?’

…’I mean, probably not very well at all, I can’t draw for shit…’

‘Sorry, I forgot how untalented you are… Let’s say that I asked you to write a poem instead?’

‘Okay,’ I say, to appease Barry. ‘This is obviously a segway into a metaphor, and – I must say – I already do not have high hopes for the pay-off. It feels pretentious and boring, especially in comparison to your past appearances. Whatever happened to your idiosyncratic style, voice and manner of speaking?’

‘Rude. I’ll cut straight to it then, shall I? You most certainly could write a poem – a derivative poem – but a poem nonetheless… but then afterwards, when I show you a picture of the fruit bowl: you’ll be looking at a small bowl of tomatoes.’

I blink, then blink again. Is it just me who’s struggling to interpret, or comprehend, this ridiculous badger? ’Right, well, that was way worse than I thought it would be’.

I can feel Barry’s frustration radiating through his coat, scolding me silently.

‘What I’m trying to say, is that your poem would be disastrous. As well as inaccurate. And, quite frankly: unsatisfactory. And you’d feel a fool then, wouldn’t you?’

‘A beautiful little fool?’

‘The point is this: It is impossible for one to delineate the unknown’.

Sounds intelligent to me, and deep. Very good. But what the fuck does it have to do with my (formerly) expressive face?

‘Dear girl: Without an author, there can be no reader.’ 

I nod, absent-mindedly.

Barry sighs, ‘You lack the ability to read your own emotions, unable to write them all over your face, unable to be transparent, unable to be described as an open-book or easy-to-read’.

‘Get the fuck out of my house.’

Barry pats my knee, in a patronising manner, and then locks his eyes onto something in front of him. His eyes begin to drag his head around the room, scanning his surroundings. ‘This is a tomb of your own making, stuffed with treasures that are nothing more than trivial pop-culture references, meaningless merchandise, and empty frivolities. How can one call this their living room when it is so lifeless.’

I take a quick glance around my lounge, before positioning myself to face Barry.

‘That’s untrue, Barry. Look, I have a shelf over on the left for all of my work and uni folders,’ I say whilst pointing to my left.

‘Oh, here, on the second-shelf?’ Barry says, as he follows my pointed finger, ‘Underneath the top shelf, which is filled with expensive skin-care and beauty products?’

I roll my eyes.  ‘And see here?’ I point to the cabinet on the right. ‘This is a framed poster from my friend’s directorial debut’. [Click here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-o_ikUwxgMY to view for yourself].

‘You mean this framed poster?’ Barry says, following my point, ‘the poster that’s hidden behind your movie-accurate burger-phone from your all-time favourite movie: ‘Juno’?’

‘Well, right, okay… but ‘Juno’ is a classic and gets better with age. And no-one in that movie has been accused of anything creepy or gross or illegal – not yet, anyway. And if filmbros want to judge me for being basic, then they should know that it’s actually only my third favourite film, after the two-way tie between Cronenberg’s ‘The Fly’ and the original ‘Carrie’.’

‘…What’s your fourth favourite film?’

‘Clueless. Obviously. But that’s beside the point. Why are you even here? I haven’t seen you for almost six years. Whatever happened to finding stability and hope? And Hugo?’

Barry turns to face me once more, ‘I’m going to level with you, Eleanor: you haven’t had rachet-ass-hair in a long long time, and it’s been very humid and very wet this week, and your fringe is far too short and crusty and crispy, and you look like you cut it whilst having a breakdown, and – let me guess – that’s exactly what happened. Also, if you haven’t noticed, no-one gives a fuck about woke-culture in 2026. Trump is back as president, and then there’s the betrayal from Nicki Minaj, Taylor’s album flopped, and what the fuck happened to Yellowjackets?’

‘It hurts me deeply.’

‘Which part in particular?’

‘You know which part.’ I take a deep breath and then say, ‘Barry, this is the longest one yet.’

‘Piece of writing?’ he asks.

‘Us, meeting, talking.’

‘A long time has passed, Eleanor… And, to answer your earlier question. The thing with Hugo and I…’

Barry pulls out an Apollo bar, from seemingly nowhere, and sadly takes a large bit, before offering the rest to me. I shake my head, and he greedily pulls back his arm and scoffs the rest. A tear falls down his face as he struggles to chew and swallow, forcing it down, choking slightly.

Watching Barry struggling suddenly triggers a memory for me.

‘Oh my god, Barry! Since I saw you last… I had fucking surgery… Yeah. They removed my tonsils, and I had to completely re-learn how to swallow. Also. And then. Then… My fucking appendix exploded, and they had to whip it out. How crazy is that? D’you wanna see the scar?’ I begin to untuck my t-shirt, to reveal my stomach.

‘No-one cares.’

I drop my grip on my shirt.

‘Now, as I was saying about Hugo. Do you remember what you said to me, when we last met?’

I smooth down my shirt, ‘Of course, I basically just plagiarised Wuthering Heights – whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same – I’ve always loved it, even though I am currently paraphrasing and have probably misremembered it’.

‘Fuck WH. It’s so sad, cold, distant, haunted, full of ghosts, lacking in empathy and true connectivity and connection. Longing and pining means nothing if the outcome is denial, rejection, death, hubris, doomed from the start, destructive, jealous, hate-fuelled, full of revenge and ruin and vengeance, bitterness, pain, and tragedy.’

‘Oh.’

‘No, so, Hugo and I are on good terms. I’m meeting with him tomorrow for a spot of tea. And Fred. And Daisy. How’s Bert?’

‘What’s the point of any of this, Barry, why are you even here?’

‘Eleanor, I am here to tell you that there is no point. There is no meaning. There is no purpose. There is no ending. No goodbyes. Nothing is set in stone. No door is closed. Nothing is finite. I wish that you would stop searching, and stop seeking, for something greater than yourself. In this life: you only have yourself. You are your own constant [this will only resonate if you also understand the concept of an Apollo bar]. The only thing, or person, that you can rely on is yourself; and you will always have, and be, yourself. All of your tat, merchandise, favourite films, remembered quotes, painted front doors, spots on your cheek, badly cut fringe, comfy clothes, Botox, expensive skincare products – all of it – will eventually fade, or run empty, or become misremembered, or will mean something different to you. None of it is certain to last. But you will last. Until you die, of course, but then you’ll be dead. And, either; a new adventure will begin, or not. And your memory will live on… Until the last person remembers you for the last time, or until a great-great-great-great grandchild of Madeleine’s researches their family tree, and stumbles upon a picture of you whilst they’re piecing together their family tree… And do you know what they’ll say?’

‘No’.

I feel choked up and strange; like this is everything that I have needed to hear for a long time. Maybe this is what I’ve been searching for. Maybe life is about choosing your own meaning, your own interpretation. You can paint anything that you want in the dark, create any poem on anything at all, without requiring a photograph or visual prompt. You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to feel anxiety about wanting and wishing to care less, because maybe the only opinion and the only judgement you should be worrying about is how you view yourself; and how you feel, and your own values, your own version of beauty. Fuck the spot. Look into the mirror and accept yourself as you are. Let your face express how you feel, without being able to label it. And why should you label a feeling? An expression? And why worry about how people read you? Your real friends don’t care about your wrapping or presentation, because beauty and love is found on the inside. More than that: being content with yourself is all that matters. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same – How about bridging the gap between your own head and your own heart? Your physicality and your emotions? No more yearning for a soulmate, or seeking another other half to your own puzzle. Paint the door orange next time – your favourite colour – fuck being inviting and honest and calm – who cares if psychologists say that orange invokes madness?? The tat and random-ass shit around your house, your nest, your treasures, makes you feel happy and safe. So why should it matter if it’s not to everyone elses’ taste? It’s yours, it’s you. Go ahead and call it a foyer, regardless of class and size; everyone knows what the fuck area in a home that you’re referring to. We are all made up of experiences and moments and scraps of fabric and photos and memories and experiences. And my life-mosaic is growing every minute, every day, every year. Yeah, right now my life is all work, no play (makes Jack a dull boy), but it will become a part of my tapestry, that will always be there. My skincare shelf will obviously empty at some point, but it’s an important part of my routine, in my life. It’s a form of purpose in that respect. And all my silly stupid shit brings me joy. Even my burger-phone. I will no longer pay any mind to my negative insecurities and anxieties. As I said earlier: if anyone hears anything mean about me, anything bitchy, anything that would upset me, or anything that that person wouldn’t say to my face (or aloud), then don’t fucking tell me, keep that shit to yourself and to the grave. And that applies to my own mind as well.

Barry clears his throat, ‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Sorry, I got lost in a thought for a second. Could you please repeat the question?’

‘Certainly, I would never deny your request, my dear old friend. As I said before: Eventually, when a distant relative sees a picture of you; do you know what they’ll say?’

I can feel my cheeks flush in anticipation, ‘What will they say?’

‘She cut her fringe too short.’