The Tales of 11-year-old Alex: Digging up my Primary School Hotmail Account.

If you’re looking for a mediocre recount of my childhood, please look no further than this post, you guys. 

I went through my old Hotmail account today and started reading old messages that I used to send to my friends in primary school. There’s something really fascinating about the voice I had then and the voice I have now; they sort of collide. One particular email was a very angry recount of how my best friend and I got in a massive amount of trouble on a school excursion to the Opera House. Basically, it was ‘lunch time’ and the teacher thought it would be tremendously convenient if our group of 200 children simultaneously had lunch on the stairs. Apart from not pissing off the general public, we were given one rule: do not go past the sixth stair.

After raising my hand and questioning the ridiculous motives behind this, I personally concluded that ‘because I said so’ wasn’t really a valid reason as to why I couldn’t sit wherever the fuck I wanted. I would have been about 11 years old at the time and my sass levels were clearly overflowing. 

As you can probably guess, my best friend and I tried to push the boundaries. We did sit on the sixth stair, we did argue with the teacher and we did get in trouble. Yup, she even gave us a ‘yellow card’.

The yellow card was part of our ‘fun-coloured’ discipline system which the teachers regularly enforced as a way of keeping us in line. If you got three yellow cards, you received an in-school suspension and had to do your work all by yourself in the principal’s office and not see your friends for a week. I now had two. 

Doing what most people do when they have a problem about something, I went home and got straight on the internet to complain about it. My hotmail was in full spin and I even included a neat little diagram in my email to illustrate my point: 

| -----------|
| -------------|
we sat there
and we got a yellow card!!!! luckly mi other 1 just expired. i dont care.

I’m pretty sure that the dashes are supposed to represent stairs and the ‘X’ is supposed to represent me. My argument was that sitting on the sixth stair wasn’t exactly the same as ‘going past the sixth stair’ and, in my defence, I was absolutely right.

I then continued to send a few more emails, went on MSN, told a few more people, called my best friend for a second rant before retiring for the evening. 

And so, this is what life was like for 11-year-old Alex.

Just one yellow card after another. 

I’m travelling to Japan in July and I’m going to constantly blog about it so you can live vicariously through my travels.

Yes, that’s right, soon you all get to enjoy my incessant bloggary updates while I adventure into unknown territory, Instagram almost every noodle I encounter along the way and struggle enormously with language barriers. I’ve always been dangerously intrigued by Japan and ever since they made whaling illegal, I’ve literally been obsessed with the place. Literally…


 *breathes heavily*


My future is your history.

your walls have kissed me

and that’s where I found you beating

to the rhythm of my city

finishing what you started so quickly

it was the alcohol that made you giddy;

I had no impact

and in that

I fall straight back into

the same trap.

It’s a cold snap

and just like that

I am a piece of paper in your scrapbook

that you might get out later and show your friends

to remind them

of a time when

we used to pretend 

that we were bigger than all that we could comprehend

now we all sit around for days on end

cutting out the photographs

and drowning in the paragraphs

of our mind

to remind us of that time—

in that moment

when we both tried to make atonement

and you should know that


we may relive that time

and maybe

just maybe

I’ll finally reach that finish line

If you ever lay with me

I guarantee

I will turn us into a memory. 

If you could have one thing, what would it be?

“To keep loving her and to help her love me.“


I bend backwards at the thought of you.

I wish we still talked like we used to.

The way we used to stay up late and dial each other until the buttons on my phone wore thin from pressing my finger against the symbols that brought me to your voice.  

The way I could never trace your mouth with mine because I had no choice.

Your body was a closed curtain.

You liked boys and I liked you as a person.

And the heartbreaks you discovered caused my affection to worsen.

And I now realise this kind of love is a burden:

everything is slippery and nothing is certain.

But I want you to know that

it was me.

I planned your surprise party,

which you couldn’t attend

because in the end

you chose to be friends

with the people who hurt you.

And that’s when I penned you

into a song

So I could hear you sing when

your voice was gone.