I don’t know about anyone else, but it’s only March and I’m already out of juice for 2022. It feels like everything that was put off, set aside, or marked as ‘too hard’ over the last two years has been concentrated into this new and promising year, and I for one am worn thin—like I’ve been strained of my pulp; squeezed out.
There’s one who looks about the same age as me. He has a buzzcut, his fringe a straight edge. He smiles, but I don’t want to look like I am looking, so I tilt my water bottle up to hide my eyes.
For years, I have relished these items on the menu. Criticising the bamboo curtain? Sure. I can speak firsthand of its all-encompassing reign. Celebrating the culture? Certainly. I have it in abundance. I eat culture for breakfast, literally.
As a teenager in front of my bedroom mirror, I was the first Asian–Australian to play Roxie from Chicago, my rendition of her titular song visceral and heart-breaking all at once. You felt my pain, you felt my obsession.
