Berlin

by Bea Setton

I was ruining my life a little every day, and although I see now that these things were redeemable, I’ve always found starting on a clean page more inviting than amending an imperfect first attempt.

What most people don’t know is that philosophers (who are mostly men) are dirty maniacs.

I was so unpleasantly, inescapably present.

His kisses were horrible. I have dreamt of them since.

the predominant state of my early twenties was loneliness, how it all often felt like a fake life, how I couldn’t escape the feeling that my real, good life was happening somewhere else, and how frightened I was that I might never find out where, and that I’d miss the whole thing loitering off stage.

In a way, my subconscious is probably like some sort of stressed-out US border control agent, except whereas her tools are guns, tasers, batons and sniffer dogs, I’ve only got running, calorie restriction and cleaning products.

I tended to have luck with tangerines and oranges – I somehow always got pipless ones.

I resented babies. I wanted to be them,