Come Get Y’all Juice-inta

Hold On Tight, Spider Monkey

“You better hold on tight, spider monkey,” Edward Cullen wryly quips moments before whisking a swooning Bella Swan through lush forest canopy in a thrilling show of seduction. The oft satirized epigram in fact marks a watershed moment in the young lovers’ relationship, as well as reconciling the central themes of what is now widely regarded as a keystone of 21^st century literature.

In this essay, I will be dissecting the phrases, “hold on tight” and “spider monkey,” in order to demonstrate that this bon mot helped define the literary and cinematic topography of the late 2000s, while capturing the hearts and setting ablaze the loins of a generation. What is Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight if not the finest example of the modern vampire genre? Allow me to guide you through the opus that shaped the identities of adolescents worldwide.

I invite you to imagine, if you will, the events leading up to this pivotal scene. Our young couple has daringly made public their controversial relationship, and braved the universally relatable ordeal of meeting the parents. Having passed these milestones, Edward seeks to celebrate in the way he best knows, in a theatrical and gravity-defying display of impossible speed and strength.

Spider monkeys are native to the tropical rainforests of Central and South America. It is perhaps the jarring disparity between the deep temperate rainforest setting of Forks, a lumber-producing region, and the incongruous appearance of the “spider monkey,” which defies logic to have strayed so far from its tropical rainforest home, that elicits such mirth from the audience. There are few films with as recognizable a colour board as Twilight, and arguably fewer still as redolent of the pubescent anguish of first love, so masterfully has the film exploited the emotive power of colour. Bella’s realm is drenched in a muted earthy palette of slate blues, pine greens, and umber browns, evoking alternating sinister and melancholy moods, even as Edward turns to Bella with an uncharacteristically playful gleam in his now warm amber eyes.

This affectionate sentiment is later echoed during the Cullens’ baseball outing, where Rosalie expresses her pride in Emmet by fondly declaring him as “my monkey man,” after a particularly skillful ascent up a tree to retrieve a baseball. At the same time, a return to an ancient animalistic world is signalled, where the cannibalistic “cold ones” and werewolves are greater than just legend. Here in this arena, age-old battles are waged between wolves and demons, lions and lambs, humans and their humanity. If Edward is unable to suppress his thirst for Bella’s blood, then he is little more than a primate. Twilight sees Edward crippled by his warring desire for Bella as a lover and as prey, his conscience burdened by his rigidly dichotomous philosophy of piety. It is, at its heart, a tale of good and evil, virtue and sin.

We now examine the implications behind “you better hold on tight.” Both a warning and a plea, Edward’s pithy command conveys a feeling of whimsy with an undertone of foreboding. The menace of his words offset by his endearment, “spider monkey,” offers a glimpse into his ever-escalating internal conflict. Bella is instructed to hold on tight – but onto what, exactly? Edward’s body, in a literal sense? His presence? Her own flimsy humanity? Is this an omen of Edward’s departure in the next installment, New Moon? Is it a projection of his wishes for Bella’s soul and its growing pollution as she spends more time with him? Or is it, perhaps, symbolic of his suffocation and torment, as their blossoming relationship heralds the promise of his being loved, while he faces the mortifying ordeal of being known?

Despite his immense age, power, and knowledge, Edward has never truly fully experienced the pains of adolescence, trapped eternally at 17. For a century, the Cullens have existed peacefully in in the same way, with their cyclical nomadism and self-isolation. In this way, Edward is simultaneously encumbered by Bella’s physical weight and her arms gripping his torso, as well as the yoke of his existential despair when she enters and disrupts his life. Twilight, a bildungsroman of sorts, depicts the struggle of the individual in coming to terms with what one believes to be fact, and the unknowability and unpredictability of life.

Alternatively, we may also interpret it as an expression of Bella’s lack of agency, despite her emerging freedom and independence as a young person. Within their relationship, Edward is the initiator – the masochistic lion – and Bella, the docile and pliable lamb. These biblical references allude to Meyer’s own Christian values, as well as pervasive societal norms, where gender roles traditionally impart a nurturing role to the feminine persona, whereas masculinity is associated with decision, action, and control.

Bella is disempowered, at the mercy of the supernatural forces in Forks, at least until she consumes the forbidden fruit – that is, she perverts herself by obtaining immortality. Edward’s statement speaks to their rising comprehension of the inevitable: that in order to become part of his world, Bella can no longer “hold on tight” to her humanity, and must relinquish her soul.

A searing insight into the complexities of mortality, love, and identity in the setting of a small town, Edward’s offhandedly uttered words to his one true spider monkey carry an impact far beyond our initial perception. It speaks to the ageless struggle of existence and the futility of our flailing attempts to resist. Ultimately, one thing remains clear and inescapable: reject humanity, return to monke.

Tenet: a review, in a roundabout sort of way

(RPattz pic for bait)

If there’s two things I’ve learned as a consumer in the 21^st century, it’s that we love visual spectacle, and we love us a good yarn. Movies provide both aplenty. The cinematic experience is redolent of a warm feeling, much like that of a story told over an open fire. One is hypnotized to an almost regressive, primitive state by the dancing flames and the lulling sound of a voice. The cinema (no, not the telly or Netflix or Stan or Hulu) is surely the modern-day equivalent of this phenomenon.

There is nothing quite like being plied with overpriced snacks, before parting with yet more of our hard-earned coin in order to access a dark room and sit in silence for over an hour. But we have an ardent love for it, as did our grandparents, and as did theirs. It’s a custom harking back to the 19^th century that is steeped in nostalgia and tradition, in its essence a deep respect for a story well told.

Cinema reverberates with ritualism. Sure, the convenience and dazzling choice offered by streaming subscriptions serve their purpose. But they have their firm place – which is wallowing in bed covered with grime accumulated over days of not showering, whilst thinking about what a piece of shit you are for bingeing The Queen’s Gambit again instead of doing that thing you were supposed to do. This is the lazy, instant gratification option – and make no mistake – I love the lazy, instant gratification option. Going to the movies, however, taps into a different kind of happiness. It is an act of self-care.

It is in every way a small luxury, monetary-wise and effort-wise. Your reward? The buttery air curling into your nostrils, the beckoning glow of the aisle lights, the familiar sight of the daggy carpeting, all signaling that you are participating in a ritual granting you imminent access to a better world. The brief exchange with the salesperson (“Centre back row?” “Yes, please!”), the customary tearing of your ticket by an attendant, the prophylactic pre-movie toilet run – yet more scenes in the pantomime, affording pomp and circumstance to this everyday occasion.

A silent exchange ensues between you and the cinema. “Welcome,” it seems to say as you sink into your seat (J15, the salesperson did good by you). The screen signals for phones to be turned off. The audience knows what to do. A reverent hush settles and you wait to be taken elsewhere. Total transcendence awaits.

For cinema is transportive. For a blissful 90 minutes, you are held captive by something much bigger than you, your senses ensnared by the inexplicable magic spun by speakers and screen working in tandem. You’re both here in the moment, grounded by your senses; and very far away in your imagination.

It is also one of the most accessible forms of art. More ritualistic than television, less exclusive than theatre, cinema panders to the everyday consumer of pop culture. There’s truly something for everyone. Me, I lean towards character-driven stories with a rich sensory landscape. Aesthetic pathos – that’s my game. (Assthos, you heard it here first.) I’m a real sucker for lush cinematography, meticulous set and costume design, and shimmering soundtracks which give texture to a story, becoming a narrative device or storytelling voice in their own right.

This is why Christopher Nolan’s Tenet was such an egregious disappointment. It was supposed to “save cinema in 2020” or something. It was supposed to be this huge blockbuster which encouraged mass return to cinema and overcome public paranoia in a COVID world. For those who haven’t yet seen it, Tenet has roundly received criticism for its garbled sound mixing, a fact of which Nolan is extremely conscious.

Nolan, whose works Dunkirk, Interstellar, and The Dark Knight Rises are reputed for inaudible sound mixing, countered that moviegoers have become overly “conservative” when it comes to sound. He seems to mulishly believe that the film’s dialogue – which oscillates between explosively deafening, and so obscured that one must lipread for the majority of the its duration – will encourage greater engagement from the audience.

The movies, for me, are an enriching and life-affirming experience. Watching Tenet, I instead had the peculiar sensation of something being taken away from me. Here I was, watching vibrant scene after scene unfold, all the while panicking as the plot wandered away from me, searching for a shred of understanding. A crumb of comprehension. Instead, I was denied all enjoyment. I lost the plot.

The scintillating action scenes and monstrous explosions, stripped of all context, landed no impact on me. To be presented with this visual spectacle and to then lack the means to savour it was like being given a fine meal and no cutlery, before having my mouth removed. Frustrating, taunting, and ultimately leaving me hungry.

The saving grace was probably Rob Pattinson’s appearance, angel-blest be his divine face. His heavenly smile transcends the spoken word and conveys what no dialogue could. The paragon of male beauty, if you go by Ancient Greek standards that is (sources: Daily Mail and other such trustworthy news sites).

So would I recommend Tenet?? Well yeah I guess?? But only if subtitles are available via, say, Netflix. Ha!! The big dog streaming corporations triumph again!! Alas, laziness and instant gratification reign supreme in the end. ☹

We live in a society…

…or does it live in us?🤔 2am toilet thoughts inspired by Jia Tolentino (Writer at The New Yorker. For a challenging but interesting read, I recommend her book Trick Mirror.)

At the tender age of 22, I, now a Blogger^TM, write to you having morphed into a dinosaur! Haw haw haw. (This is a joke about how blogging, once at the very forefront of the social media frontier, has become an outdated, irrelevant pastime.) Fully aware of this reality – and of the fact that I could only hope to reach an audience of maybe 5 close friends – I decided to supplement my social media presence with (very belatedly) an Instagram account earlier this year.

Instagram is very easy to use, and I was able to get amongst it pretty quickly. “God, Nameless Over-sharer, no one cares,” I thought to myself one day, skipping the 15 stories of one particularly enthusiastic individual. Then it hit me, like a bag of rocks. What if…no one cared…about my stories? What if …what if I was Nameless Over-sharer to someone else? Alas, I had found myself becoming exactly the type of irritating, overly present wanker I’d vowed never to become, subjecting my small but doubtlessly weary audience of followers to an almost daily assortment of inane and unsolicited Instagram stories.

This revelation triggered a very unwelcome incursion into the recesses of my mind. (Ah careful, it’s very dusty in there. Mind your head, there’s overhanging wires!! This noggin is in the midst of a reno.) I wanted to re-examine the way in which I, and many others, navigate an online world.

Our friends provide, aside from the obvious companionship, a reflection to the self. They are our mirrors – through discourse with them, we can better understand ourselves. They are tools through which we can understand our own narratives, prisms through which we recognise our own patterns of behaviour. In short, our friends enable us to regard ourselves in relation to others. This, in turn, allows us to assign value to ourselves socially, allows us to gauge how likeable, funny, or desirable we are. Without my friends, how would I become cognisant that my booty is in fact “poppin” or that my waist, similarly, is “snatched”? (For evidence of said booty and waist, chuck me a follow at @juiceinta.)

In a world where we have discovered and perfected ways to exploit and profit from every last mineral or oil reserve in the admirable name of capitalism, we turn to one final untapped resource. We monetize the self. Our relationships with others can be used not only to understand ourselves, but to gain social capital. (Jacinta has wares if you have coin.)

To wit, not only is the construction of the self inextricable from the influence of those around us, but we depend on it. Indeed, we do not exist in a vacuum – beginning in infancy, we draw on those around us and in turn exert our influence on them. It is within a constantly shifting and complex world that our self-perception is forged. The self is not, and cannot be, constant. Rather, it emerges in parallel with an act we put on for the benefit of others, one that is ever evolving.

The sociologist Erving Goffman wrote in 1959 that a person must necessarily put on a performance when interacting with others. His dramaturgical approach to social interaction holds that our sense of self is a dramatic effect emerging from the scene being presented. That is, our sense of self changes in relation to each different situation. In order to fulfil our many roles – as student, sister, mentor, friend, lover, colleague – which are often conflicting and irreconcilable, we reach into our dress up box and don the version of ourselves most befitting the context or interaction.

It should stand to reason that in the absence of an audience, we stop performing and therefore become our most authentic selves. This would be true if it were not for the presence of the Internet, which brings the audience into our homes and wipes out all semblance of solitude. We now feel compelled to broadcast to a legion of followers or friends whom we (rather presumptuously) assume are thirsting after updates regarding our every movement.

In these strange apocalyptic times, the lingering presence of the Internet makes itself known more than ever. While stuck at home the other day, I decided to bake cookies. They were incredibly deformed because I hadn’t chilled the dough in the fridge. (But still very tasty – see Bon Appetit’s Best Ever Chocolate Chip Cookies: https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/bas-best-chocolate-chip-cookies. I wasn’t paid to say this……or was I? (No, I wasn’t. I don’t reach a wide enough readership for this to be a profitable sponsorship.))

In any case, I thought: what the heck. I’ll post these misshapen discs to my Instagram story anyway. Not having had face-to-face interaction with a living soul outside of my family for a week, I desperately needed to be seen, and to remain relevant. I was a Dickensian waif, and it was validation that would warm my feet at night. “Prithee, kind sirs and madams, please may I have a crumb of attention?” was my unspoken plea to my friends.

Allow me to familiarise you with the concept of a panopticon. A panopticon is a theoretical concept devised by the 18^th century philosopher Jeremy Bentham, wherein a central watchtower is encircled by prison cells. From this tower, a single guard may observe each inmate, but each inmate doesn’t know whether they are being watched or not. When this threat is unknown, they begin to behave as if surveillance is constant, and self-regulation begins to take hold. In this way, the behaviour of each prisoner can be altered with minimal input from the manager or staff.

And so it is with the omnipresence of the Internet. Perversely, many of us crave this constant scrutiny, even as it drives us to anxiety. Even as we believe ourselves alone at home, we knowingly invite – nay, impose ourselves on – an audience, and perform constantly, so that our showmanship becomes inextricable from our reality. The more attention we invest in our painfully constant self-consciousness, the less capacity we have for productive work. Could this be…the work of the FBI? The heavy and oppressive boot of a supreme overlord, so as to keep the masses downtrodden??? ~~The thot plickens~~ The plot thickens…

And now, a flashback to last week: “Might this be… the biggest and splashiest cargo I’ve unloaded yet?” I mused from atop my toilet seat, fancying myself a freight ship. “Best to tell my 5 only friends about it, just to be safe,” I concluded upon my porcelain throne. Press send.

(DISCLAIMER: I love the internet – it has brought me cute animal videos, memes, and online shopping. Please don’t take it away from me)

Babka: a whirlwind romance

Good grief. I am writing from inside a coffin because I have DIED (but have been reanimated to post this). Today I tried my hand at babka, which is a traditional Jewish/Eastern European braided brioche loaf filled with chocolate.

My 2 fat sons, soon to be banished to the oven

Now I’m quite picky with sweets and baked goods because I’m more of a savoury person, but I can genuinely say that I got emotional over this. It’s fluffy yet rich, zesty yet earthy, buttery yet light. Which is to say, I will never stop boasting about it – sorry in advance to my IRL friends. But dang nabbit if this isn’t the most erotic thing I’ve ever made, or smelled, or eaten. Pre-babka I was but a girl, and now I am a woman.

I used this recipe: https://prettysimplesweet.com/chocolate-babka/ adapted from Jerusalem: A Cookbook by old mate Yotam Ottolenghi. This version makes use of lemon zest, which ingeniously cuts through the fattiness of the butter and gives it a zing. Zoo wee mama! That’s got some serious bite! Very spicy!

Being a total amateur, I own neither a stand mixer nor a dough hook. Instead I slapped and despaired away at this dough for nigh on 2 hours. Don’t let that put you off though, I work incredibly slowly. For anyone who is not me, it should take about an hour tops to prepare the dough. It does have to be left overnight to develop though, so it’s certainly a time-consuming process. Completely worth it. So, so worth it.

Here’s how to knead brioche dough by hand: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=796ZupzMvoI. (You’ll notice that the youtube link calls for milk, while the babka recipe doesn’t. Just mix the flour, yeast, eggs, and water together I guess? Then add the sugar, salt, and butter. At least that’s what I did.)

Also, I believe butter can be substituted for oil, but read the comments in the original link to be sure. Unfortunately, flour and eggs are essential for this recipe

If you clicked to ogle carbs, you have my permission to stop reading here. I am about to descend into fanciful, indulgent, and downright stupid prose.

Food like this always makes me feel nostalgic, even though it was my very first time making (or indeed eating) babka, and more importantly, even though I don’t have a single drop of European blood in me. They say that of all the senses, smell is the strongest conjurer of memories, but I didn’t grow up around buttery food so what this smell evokes for me, I couldn’t say. I think it’s just this style of rustic comfort food which has an unexplainable universal appeal.

While I was labouring away, I had visions of myself in another life as a Russian grandmother with a love of home cooking. (Babushka Makes Babka! Make that into a TV cooking show. I’m an ideas (wo)man.) Here’s some of my Yiddish alter ego’s inner monologue:

I knead the dough, though my arthritic thumbs ache. For a moment, I stop to peer at my knobbly joints, sighing. But I persist for my family; my hungry granddaughter, my hardworking daughter and her husband. “Ah Bubbe!! You are a baleboste!!” they will exclaim with gratitude. “Eat your fill, my bubbeleh,” I will reply. Galvanised by the thought of my beloveds’ appreciative cries, I tighten my shawl around my shoulders and dust flour off my tichel. Back to work it is. Industriously and rhythmically, I continue slapping the rich dough on the countertop.

And that, my friends, is my very limited and entirely speculative interpretation of life in pre-war Eastern Europe (informed by a grade 5 assignment about Eastern European immigration during WWI). I apologise to everyone who actually read that.

Anyhoo I couldn’t be more chuffed. My tastebuds are singing and my stomach is vibin’. Tl;dr – make babka. Eat babka. Achieve self-actualisation and subsequently, world domination.

Goodnight pupper

Let me start by apologising to every poor sod who has ever displayed a polite interest in my pet greyhound (to which I have invariably responded by whipping out photo after photo of her)………pranked! NOT sorry. You should be thanking me. She was a blessing and needed to be shared.

Ruby was our constant companion for almost 9 sweet years before we had to say goodbye to her just a few days before Christmas 2019. She came to us at the tender age of 4, as an ex-racer. Dark Strategy was her racing name. In her youth, she was elegant and strong, but also a bit of an idiot. She was stubborn, goofy, and greedy to a fault. She really didn’t give a hoot about pleasing us, she just did what she did and if people loved her for it then all the better.

Hoovering up vom, turds, various dead animals, and grass were among her favourite past-times. This habit of wolfing up anything that smelled remotely edible and her naturally slender frame led to many pitying glances from passersby during walks. “Poor thing looks so skinny!” they tutted accusingly, as if we were starving her. How about you mind your own beeswax, Karen.

Ruby did not age gracefully. Advanced gum disease meant that we had to get all her teeth pulled out. This did not slow her gastronomic pursuits, but her toothlessness did result in her tongue permanently hanging out in a sort of derpy side blep. Her saliva drainage was affected so she also developed a jiggly sort of chin sac. Her silky black fur was gradually replaced by silver too. (Putting the ‘grey’ in greyhound. Ha ha! I do make myself chuckle.) But this all only made her more beautiful to us.

Less beautiful was her stench. Before her tooth extraction, she had incredibly foul breath, a lingering odour she bestowed on her toys and our hands. After the extraction, her breath was fine but what followed were eye-wateringly gassy farts which could empty a room. It seemed that as one end cleared up, the other began to act up.

By the age of 10, arthritis had begun to slow her steps. Despite this, she still heaved herself up to welcome me home every day and sniff me thoroughly. She craved company and, disregarding her aching joints, would follow us around only to be lulled asleep by the background noise of the telly or computer keyboards. Her last years were a nomadic existence between the study and the living room.

These moments of companionship are what I will miss the most. I feel a painful twinge whenever I think hear the phantom jingle of her tag, or the clip-clipping of her claws on tiles. The whisper of her, without her actual presence. That’s what really hurts.

Ruby was also an excellent muse, by virtue of having an absolutely bangin bod (as all greyhounds do). She inspired paintings, drawings, and even embroidery in her image. On one occasion, year 10 me submitted a poem about her for a writing competition. Since this blog doesn’t have much of a readership, I feel fairly safe in enclosing an excerpt of this outrageously shitty verse: “She hunkers down and/gazes at me. Twin amber orbs regard me hopefully/imploringly.” Slide into my DMs for the rest – that is, if I haven’t destroyed all evidence of it by then.

Here’s a nice tune that seems appropriate for the occasion https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=le34ygtODfI

Anyway…see you up there, my long faced friend. Neither gone nor forgotten.

Foray into Film

Roughly 2 years ago, I got my mitts on a secondhand film camera during a stroke of artistic inspiration. “Finally!” thought I, “my lifelong transition into a bona fide Art Hoe™ is to be complete.”

Alas, it was not to be. Upon taking my first roll to get developed, I discovered that nothing had developed because the camera no worky. What an absolute bummer, and after all that time, effort, and expense.

So instead I picked up 2 disposable film cameras because surely there’s like no way I could balls this up? Wrong AGAIN. Because the aperture is so tiny and lets in such little light, you need to use flash every time you take a photo and I kept forgetting to tell people about that when I wanted a pic of myself…so again, some of those photos never developed. GRRRR

Look at all those missing exposures. Just LOOK at them. I could’ve wept

But anyway out of what did develop, here’s some of my faves

These were all taken in Hokkaido except for the one of my dog. After they were developed and I’d shown them to my parents, dad dug out his old (working!) film camera for me to keep!!

Stay tuned for more pics – this time, with a more sophisticated machine. Anyway I expect the first roll or so to be a bit of a dud whilst I learn how to give this camera the respect it deserves. 😎 Here begins a lifelong money drain…

Land of the Rising Sun

Hokkaido 29.11 – 14.12

Japan! An archipelago nation made up of 5 main islands. Having visited Honshu before, my family and I embarked on a road trip across Hokkaido, which is further north and, at this time of year, a paradise of snow, dairy products, and seafood.

Our itinerary was as follows: Noboribetsu -> Lake Toya -> Hakodate -> Otaru -> Asahikawa -> Daisetsuzan -> Biei -> Furano -> Sapporo

As a southern hemisphere baby unaccustomed to the snow, I must tell you that I found it N I P P Y. In Melbourne 5˚ weather you will probably find me in 3-4 layers. During the -10˚ drops we experienced, you can bet I way overcompensated and wore like 5 layers on top, occasionally 3 layers of bottoms. I couldn’t even afford to wash my thermals since I needed to wear them. Needless to say, I was smelling rather ripe by the end of it all.

(Oh god why is this pic so big. I am not tech savvy enough to figure out this formatting)

These chilly conditions made it perfect for onsen dipping though. They’re traditional bathing pools, often sourced by natural volcanic hot springs. Hokkaido is blessed with heaps of these. You also go in naked, which means they’re gender segregated (otherwise I would’ve taken photos because the atmosphere is beautiful). The outdoor ones were my favourite – it was a pretty magical experience to have snow dusting my head and shoulders, while the rest of me was blissfully submerged in steaming water.

My bum has been blessed by Japanese toilets before but each time, I’m struck anew by how craymazing they are. Imagine, if you will, your butt meeting a toasty warm seat after a long day of walking and sweating…well…that shit hit different. Absolute bliss. Nothing speaks to the innovative spirit of the Japanese so much as a heated toilet seat.

Bidets, on the other hand, take a bit more getting used to. Too much pressure, and you will have painus in your a*us. Too little, and it tickles. Truly an acquired feel.

Of course the food was fantastic. Being a bit of a fiend for seafood, I made sure to try anything I could find – king crab, surf clams, sea urchin, scallops as big as your palm, all kinds of raw fish. SUPER fresh. And the ice cream and cheesecake… aw man. So fluffy. I’ve also developed a bit of a taste for Sapporo beer – it’s crisper and lighter than beer has any right to be.

Having never tried alpine skiing before, I was anxious to tick that off my bucket list. Hokkaido attracts skiing aficionados both amateur and pro, and even as a complete newbie I could see why. The fresh powder snow was clean and dry, atop a beautiful backdrop to boot. The actual skiing was more difficult but after perusing Wikihow to learn the basics, even I was able to get the hang of it after a couple hours.

(Me, dwarfed by my skis. This pic was taken after I hit the slopes for the first time. Super gnar, ha ha)

About Me

Hello, I’m Jacinta – welcome to my blog!!

^Dis me

What this blog is not: a juice cleanse/fitness journey, contrary to what the title may suggest (I just like vines. So sue me.) Nay, it’ll be about arts and crafts, photography, fashion, nature, travel… and so on and so forth. Miscellaneous stuff.

Why have I started this blog? Gee I dunno. To blow off creative steam, mainly. I’m a medical student and frankly, I’m sick of just studying when I get home.

If this doesn’t get any traffic I suppose it’ll just be a journal, which is a bit sad but that’s ok I guess.