Well Fuck Me Sideways And Call Me Benjamin Button



Good morning 2012. I arise to the caustic screeches of my Mother; nasal cries of ‘routine’ and ‘structure’ storming up three flights of stairs. The concepts are foreign to me now, distant memories. I look in the mirror, noting my Year 6 leavers t-shirt and my Gilly Hicks shorts, sourced from the arse-end of my drawers. My childhood bedroom is looking distinctly pink. I’m more of a blue girl in my old age. Audrey Hepburn laughs at me from a laminated poster. “Get out of bed you slob.” “Fuck off Audrey!”


Makeup? Nope. Jeans? Ha. Monobrow? Big time.


Shitty challenges litter my instagram feed, tacky collages and nominations. It heralds back to an age of ASL Icebucket Challenges, only toilet paper keepy-uppies don’t have the same sex appeal. The ‘Until Tomorrow’ challenge is my sleep paralysis demon, and I wake sweating in the night to images of Antonia doing a peace sign in the club. Is it meant to be funny? I’m lost.


Zoella? Yes please. Charlieissocoollike? Fuck it, go on. Caspar Lee? Still no.


At the ripe old age of 21, I have taken to asking my Mother permission before leaving the house. The daily TEDX talk on the dangers of droplet transmission before I leave to buy my Twix at TescoMetro falls on flat ears. Three years at university, forgotten. I lack any capacity for independent thought; I do what my mother tells me and succumb to the nudge marketing of Netflix. An 8 hour show about a polyamorous redneck meth-addict tiger king? Fine, if you say so.


I’m not allowed to see my friends, Boris Johnson has made a comeback. Motherlode is being typed into the Sims as you read. Club Penguin is back, the gang is once more in the dojo, and my puffles have asphyxiated in cyberspace. Dissertation who? Me and my sister, who have forged an increasingly good relationship in the years I’ve been away from home, have metamorphosed into MMA fighters. The shared bathroom is reminiscent of scenes from the Gulf War.


My Nintendo brain training game is giving me some devastating news about my mental age. The personality I’ve been carefully cultivating for the last two decades has been irreparably damaged.

I’m fucking 12. Cheers, Corona.


By Sophie Peachey

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