#mimiwrites

It’s phenomenal, both lyrically and sonically.

I’m not fully familiar with the Virgin album yet, but whatever little interaction I’ve had with it I’ve loved.

The cover art is just perfect - the X-Ray being so uncomfortably intrusive, the zip a symbol of attempting to muster a modicum of modesty despite the stark scrutiny of something so personal and lastly, the IUD acting as a massive “fuck you” to the US’s political landscape and their diabolical legislative measures over a woman’s reproductive right.*

The reaction of unease it provokes mirrors the morality lacking so starkly within society, for it is equally as uneasy to discover just how many feel so entitled to dictate a decision so intimate to one’s individual circumstance.

“If I’d had virginity, I would have given that too.”

“Was I just young blood to get on tape?”

“I made you God ‘cause it was all that I knew how to do.”

“I don’t belong to anyone…”

So powerful, so relatable, so poetic even within her own self-deprecation.

And don’t even get me started on that crescendo at the end 😮‍💨 the trippy, synth-poppy, staccato 4 notes hammering repeatedlymaddeninglyecHOINGLYUNTIL-

“Am I ever gon’ love again?”

A gentle, despondent and vulnerable question … with no answer in sight.

Endless applause, Miss Ella 👏

…and by this I’m referring to the ambiguous final scene of the film, not the tragic disaster of the actual historical event.

I’ve just ticked off my periodic ritual of self-destruction, which entails rewatching the main highlights of this beloved film at some ungodly hour of night and weeping like a war widow.

When the credits roll, I’m always left with the same question - and no, it’s not “BUT COULDN’T HE HAVE FIT ON THAT GODDAMN BIT OF WOOD????” like everyone else, but about the last scene and the sentiment behind it.

I’ve done vigilant research - and by that I mean I’ve doom-scrolled through countless Reddit and Twitter mega-threads over the years, witnessed every online argument riddled with spelling errors and death threats, as well as liked every thoughtful YouTube comment under snippet scenes, yet still there is no definitive conclusion as to what it truly represents.

From what I understand, this was a deliberate move on Cameron’s part - by leaving it open to interpretation, it exacerbated fan theories, chatter and overall further engagement with the film; as much as I love and respect this artistic direction, the closure would be nice.

Is it just a dream sequence or a nod to the afterlife?

I’d be really interested to hear other theories anyone has, and in case one is wondering mine -

As much as I understand the logic and “reality” of the former, my hopeless romantic heart has sealed it to mean the latter 🤍

I truly believe that Rose set her physical affairs in order and then died in her sleep. Dropping the Heart of the Ocean back where it belonged was a symbolic gesture of tangibly giving her “physical” “heart” back to Jack - completing the parallel of how she physically left him in the same body of water.

The scene of her in bed as the camera slowly journeys through all the pictures of her life pays homage to the promise she made him all those years ago - of living life to the fullest and dying in her bed as an old lady.

And finally, the ethereal scene of the ship back in pristine condition, the passengers alive and well and her romantic reunion with Jack is a metaphor for the peace gained in the afterlife.

The fact that she’s wearing white is intentional. She fulfilled her vows in this life and returned to be with her love eternally. The last shot panning upwards and disappearing into nothing but a white screen signifies heaven.

Beautiful, poetic, and utterly heartbreaking.

An unbeatable masterpiece.

Top Books of 2025 (Jan-June)

Thank you @fluoresensitives for tagging me. I am the same, I usually do half and half wrap ups, instead of per quarter, simply because it gives me enough time to accumulate a good number of reads. Giving a short summary for each so people can look them up:

Some Desperate Glory (adult, sci-fi): a child soldier raised on an imperial military space station unlearns some hardcore fascist propaganda when she rescues an unlikely war prisoner from her unit. really well written military deradicalization arc for mc, and overall a solid sci-fi space odyssey novel.

The Calcutta Chromosome (adult, thriller, speculative fiction?): a magnus archives-esque story about computers, scientology cults, time travelling ancient gods and lots of mosquitoes. take three benadryls and walk the streets of north and central kolkata during the monsoon and you'll see this novel unfold vividly.

DD's umbrella (adult, litfic): two novellas about two queer couples in Seoul, Korea, navigating adulthood, economic crisis, personal losses and the nationwide grief following the 2014 sewol ferry tragedy. just beautifully written and endlessly heartbreaking, but ends with hope.

The Fall That Saved Us (adult, paranormal romance): a woman who fled her abusive, religious family of demon hunters and now lives a secluded life in the Midwest, realises one night that she is being haunted by a succubus. it's slow paced, sapphic, sensual, deals with religious and familial trauma and is genuinely poetic and lovely.

Mrs S. (adult, litfic): a young butch matron at a secluded girls' boarding school in England falls for the headmaster's wife. BANGING beautifully written, feverish and horny with lesbian desire, plus captures the nuances of life in a convent school that I really liked.

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness (adult, manga): recounts the author's journey with coming to terms with her lesbian identity, figuring out her adult life choices, and how alienating it is for queer working class adults in Japan. Really heartbreaking but also weirdly comforting if you are queer and live in Asia and feel like this.

Salt Slow (adult, magical realism): short story collection about bodily transformations, femininity, and all things grotesque, macabre and haunting. I want to be wrapped up in Julia Armfield's prose and put to bed, except it will probably be slimy and smelling of fish scales and salt water and I'll have nightmares.

When We Lost Our Heads (adult, historical): retells the lives of Marie Antoinette and Marquis de Sade by reimagining them as spoilt teenage girls growing up in 1800s Montreal during the American Industrial Revolution. I reviewed this for the Lesbrary, which you can read, but anyway, banging exploration of queer desire, sexuality, class privilege, identity politics, unions and labor movements + what a fun retelling concept!

Small Things Like These (historical, litfic): in 1980s Ireland, a coal merchant discovers the horrifying truths behind the convent operating in his sleepy little hamlet. probably the best book on this list: short, powerful, and somber story about the Irish Magdalene laundries, asking the reader what we owe to each other, but also to ourselves.

Do we have any students in the building with an essay deadline for their seminar on Thought-Provoking Narratives, by any chance? If so, I am deeply envious of you. Never thought I’d say those words but I guess managing to secure absurdly cheap, same-day theatre tickets to the West End’s performance of The Great Gatsby renders me a geek.

Witnessing Nick, Daisy and Jay come to life before my eyes regurgitated all the dormant feelings I’ve been harbouring since my late teens about this story like wind-rush.

The themes of misogyny, classism, passion, corruption, isolation, hope, dreams, betrayal and injustice rapidly flicker before my eyes one dance number at a time - like city lights twinkling under a night sky, only to be extinguished by the suffocating smoke-cloud of greying morality.

Tom ensures to use the very same hand to pat himself on the back for what hangs between his legs, for when he swings the bludgeon of the patriarchy to shatter Daisy’s spirit. The endless humiliation she is made to face from her husband’s indiscretions is sadly a mundane chorus line most - if not all - women were having to sing back then. Unfortunately, the women of today find that despite their lack of musical acumen, they can effortlessly harmonise with the same jarring melody a century later.

Nick’s reverence of Jay slowly dwindling into disappointment, disbelief and grief is an isolating and heartbreaking journey to face alone. The only consolation is his new-found sense of self respect. His commitment to his boundaries by way of terminating his engagement to Jordan is a pivotal point in his growth. His display of integrity is a social commentary on virtue proving itself a rarity in a world of sewage-rotting corruption.

Jay Gatsby’s fate is arguably the most painful of all. Fighting through literal and metaphorical trenches tooth and nail all for a dream that feels at grasping reach, only for that fleeting sensation of euphoria to be shot dead by the disappointment of reality is an undeniably bitter ending. From a house brimming with frivolity to a funeral with only one mourner in attendance drives home two very painful truths: 1) irrespective of abundance, nouveaux riche fundamentally will always be a white dress stained, and 2) even in death, rock-bottom always has a basement.

As temporal context is key for any body of work, let’s address the sentiment every English Literature professor has been bursting at the seams to raise: this story is a tragic love letter to the American working class.

The green light from the lighthouse, just out of reach across the water, with its jewelled iris winking promise of a better tomorrow was the dangling carrot to Jay’s starving rabbit. It’s the same way the mirage of the American Dream was the North Star that guided an entire nation out of the Great Depression. An intangible fantasy sold to a whole society by the predators at the top of the capitalist food chain, convincing the unknowing prey of everything they could have, extending it within a hair-width’s reach, only to cruelly lift the cloak of reality at the last nanosecond.

Now, we too all have faith in one way or another - beliefs we claim as our own unwavering truths. Some in religion, others in the zodiacs. Mine lies in the original etchings women carved themselves before they were sanded invisible and slashed over. Whilst history likes to loudly claim F. S. the artist of this masterpiece, Zelda Fitzgerald’s diary would like to call bullshi- um sorry, objection.

“…that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” being a verbatim quote lifted directly from Zelda’s journal after the birth of their daughter was all the proof I needed in order to slam the gavel of judgement down in decisive conclusion. Whether Zelda was a heavy influence or merely a figurative muse for The Great Gatsby is irrelevant to me, personally. I shall endlessly credit her either way.

In true Eliza Hamilton fashion, here’s wishing her spirit broke through the afterlife’s fourth wall to see the standing ovation her essence received tonight.

Witnessing the Great Gatsby himself both rise and fall for the sake of his love is a relatable double-edged sword; the very reason for one’s next breath being the very culprit of their ultimate downfall is the vindictive work of irony. Disappointment and fear of failure inevitably hinders the endeavour of success, but in spite of it all, I am a firm believer of this being a tale of hope.

Be it delusion, denial or damnation, I confidently pledge that if our late protagonist was asked, “would you do it all again knowing how it all ended for you?”, he would say, “absofuckinglutely.” Because of course he would. After all, the real question here isn’t, “what is the point of hope?”, it’s, “what are we without it?”

This has been brewing in its formation in my mind for a while now, drawing inspiration from the brilliance of a similar post by the fantastic @misssmeat

Despite hers being humorous and a reflective must-read, I will be responsible and provide a disclaimer for its NSFW nature.

Mine is less graphic, yet - I imagine - no less cathartic.

-

To V,

Where to start? Wanting to say many things to you is ironic since I was the one to insist we never speak again.

You were my first romantic experience as an adult. Embarrassing to admit I knew better and still bound myself to you for those couple of years.

Having that lesson of, “just because you can doesn’t mean you should” slapping me in the face repeatedly, whilst I turned a blind eye to both of our lawlessness still makes me wince a little.

I wasn’t “mature for my age”. It was neither appropriate nor right, and yet I cannot deny that you cared for and wanted well for me.

I hope you know I wish well for you too, and whilst I’m happy for what I learned from you, if time granted me a second chance to “do the right thing”, I absolutely would.

May you find the fulfilment you so wrongfully convinced yourself you found in me, in yourself and your own.

To C,

Ahh, the perfect rebound… until you ghosted me 😂 I hope you know I still think of your endless compliments whenever I see that picture of myself in the green top with my hair blowing in the breeze in Ibiza’s golden hour.

You were cute, a fun time and what I needed. I shouldn’t have pushed for more; especially when I damn well knew I was trying to recreate something I wasn’t going to find again.

“Let’s read a book together.” - still one of the hottest things a man has ever said to me. Bravo 👏🏽

Hope you got that qualification you “needed to study for” and that you finished The Book Thief.

To M,

I hope you’re happy. You were sweet, kind, good-hearted, kind-natured and caring. That’s what made your carnal side so hot. That’s what made your fuck ups so frustrating.

You lacked confidence in yourself and made it everyone else’s problem. I molly-coddled you too much, that was my undoing.

You deserve to feel worthy in yourself and find someone who can reflect it back into your own eyes everyday. I hope you find her soon, if you haven’t already.

To H,

We could have had it all…

That one brief night with you still lingers in my memories even now, all these years later. You outsmarted me first with your Murakami reference I’m still kicking myself for not getting and then you silenced me with your bold, unwavering wit.

“Am I wrong?”

“uhm, no”

😮‍💨

Not to mention you were 6’5…

😵‍💫

Whomever is looking up at you currently, she’s a lucky lucky girl.

To B,

After all that time I spent getting to know you, your dreams, passions, fantasies, desires, fears and hopes for the future… how you turned out to be a right-winged anti-vaxxer, I’ll never understand 🥴

To S,

I don’t know many other men who would stay up for hours talking to a stranger they barely knew just to wish her a happy birthday. Very sweet.

You were wickedly sexy. Recalling some of your words would bring a smile to my lips and a gentle thrust to my hips.

I wish you had the decency to tell me you were married before you made me see stars during one of your important meetings in your fancy law firm.

Consider that smile morphed into a firm, disgraced line.

Jennifer, you do deserve better, I’m so sorry. Hope you’re thriving, queen ❤️‍🩹

To K,

“Liking” me for years from a distance, taking nearly a decade to ask me out and still fumbling me is a monumental L.

I’m glad nothing truly transpired between us - I was never really interested and I thought you deserved better than a half-assed investment, until I found out that you truly didn’t.

Thank god for my girls, their incredible memories and the power of Google.

To R (if that was even your real name),

Rot, bitch.

You were the walking poster-child for narcissism. Faking your sister’s existence, cancer and then death, in order to get close to me and dress it up as being “emotionally vulnerable” instead of “psychotically manipulative” like it was, was genuine insanity.

The fact that you tried to hit me up again a year later, was even more audaciously ludicrous.

I owe my entire life’s gratitude to, “new phone, who dis?”

Hope that dent to your ego knocked you down straight to hell.

To W,

A milestone of an experience.

You seemed unobtainable because I put you on a pedestal you never even asked for. I spent so long being intimidated by you, only to get to know you and realise how alike we were.

You were cool, passionate and self-aware; more easy-going and approachable than I’d ever have been able to fathom.

Your praise still makes me happy.

I’ll see you on the battlefield, fellow ambitious revolutionary! 🤺

To D,

You were the most platonic of them all and what a pleasure it was.

A spontaneous 6-hour long conversation turned into an atypical friendship.

I’m glad brighter days are before you now.

I will get round to reading your essay and listening to that playlist you made me one day.

In the meantime, give your dog a kiss from me 🐾

To A,

Your disliking of Mean Girls should have been 🚩 number 1.

You lurked in the grey, that was your superpower.

Your sense of nuance, empathy and grace was immeasurable. Your ability to wound without blinking an eye was equally staggering.

Other than the movie recs, I am contrite about it all.

Everytime a R.E.M song comes on my shuffle, I scoff.

It all got so sinister and the lack of closure of all the grim details just made for a relief. Be gone.

…and last but not least (ignoring the title), the person that kick-started my endless emotional damnation…

To M,

I don’t think I’d be embarrassed if you ever came to find out just how many years I spent listening to I Almost Do - Taylor Swift, crying about us.

I’d never expressed myself emotionally or sexually to another before you. I’ve not been that starkly vulnerable since.

That phone call you failed to answer was one of the most painful experiences of my life, but I’m thankful for it. It was the wake-up call I needed.

We were never going to work. It was never supposed to even be real. But it was. At least, for me and what I knew of love then.

Your text coming through after months of silence was the best 18th birthday present I received. I sometimes find myself wishing I could remember what it said.

I think you’re long over me - it wouldn’t have been as difficult for you; I was always the one more invested - we both knew that.

I’m happy, glad, relieved and proud to say I’m over it too. Growing up meant realising we weren’t equal, healthy or right for each other.

I picture you married now. Kids maybe.

It doesn’t really hurt much to think of you like that anymore - it just is what it likely is.

I’m willing to bet you think about me, though. Once in a while. A fleeting flutter of unexpected nostalgia. Just like I do of you.

I still try to catch a glimpse of you whenever I drive past. I don’t even know if you still live there.

I don’t really know anything about you anymore.

I remember you though. And my promise.

Tree. Love. 57. Or was it 56?

I don’t think I actually will fulfill it. But remember it, I will.

I don’t know how to end this one. Apt really, seeing as though we didn’t have an ending ourselves. We were never great at goodbyes. We just let the air go cold and stale.

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

Maybe in another life we can reconnect as friends and keep it that way.

Somewhere in Luino.

-

For the last year of my twenties, this is me unburdening myself from the jumbled chaos I’ve kept myself trapped within amongst the ghosts of all these memories.