—✮☆—Love Letter to Ørlā—✮☆—
Hey, Ørlā The Most Magical word isn’t Love It’s Friday P.S. Everything I’ll write in this Love Letter is so ridiculously off-limits, batshit crazy, & kamikaze that I can’t think of any Human girl, in her right mind, who wouldn’t instantaneously turn into murderous Uma Thurman [Kill Bill] — break my bones, break up with me, Javelin-chuck all my stuff out of her home further than Olympic Gold-Medalist Neeraj Chopra can, & open-fire at me with a Gangs of Wasseypur-style home-made gun as I run through the streets in my pretty silk boxers faster than Usain Bolt / Milkha Singh. ——— 2200 hours [10pm], Friday Night | Melbourne I’m 19 — I’m a pukka virgin [never.been.kissed], non-smoker, non-drinker, never-hooked-up-with-hookers, not tall, not good-looking, zero muscles, not cool-enough to make girls wet in their sweats. It’s Friday night — everyone young is partying & I’m sitting in a corner, against a wall of our low-brow Footscray home & playing le...