outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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A photographer from a national newspaper is coming today to take photos of the husband for an article. The husband is insisting that I participate, which is galling to say the least. Please keep me in the shadows, where I belong, among the happily feral and blithely abject.

I have to wear something nice; the husband requests “minimal lipstick” (not that I wear any) and my hair up (it is usually plaited into pigtails, or beaten and pushed under a beanie, or unbrushed and half-wild, inclined toward all directions). Nice means anything but my customary attire, more suited to rough sea conditions (and because it is so rainy and windy, it really does feel we are at sea at times): marinières, wooly jumpers, thick black jeans, beanies in yellow or orange, stompy chelsea boots, a loose long olive-green coat or navy-blue duffle coat. “You can’t tell it’s winter in photographs,” sez the husband. V thinks the whole affair is "hilarious". Ooof.


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