Turns out, working 2 days a week at a Cafe and flogging amateur artwork on Instagram isn’t lucrative, so to afford the Mount Lawley lifestyle, Holly lives with six other artistic parasites in a 3 bedroom home on the border of Mount Lawley (aka Inglewood). It is totally worth it though.
The cash saved on accommodation is pumped exclusively into her “unique” look which consists of colourful pop culture arm and chest tattoos, black hair styled with attitude, nose-ring and large framed retro glasses. Yeah, rocking more attitude than a judgmental bartender who just heard you mispronounce his favourite gin.
Holly used to go out with Dan, who DJ’s at abandoned house parties. Unfortunately, one of the three people that attended his last gig asked him if he would be interested to be the third backup DJ at a house party. Holly found out and went ballistic. Dan was such a fucking sell-out. He was no longer worthy to enjoy the pasty white wonderland that is her body. Rupert is her new man. Rupert produces piano-funk-fusion by only using the black keys. He’s legit.
Not that Dan gives a shit. He started seeing Holly’s bestie who is a performance artist who is currently filming herself give the finger to seek.com advertisements every day as a profound metaphor for cultural marxism and her inability to hold down a job because she refuses to wear shoes – the sinister tools of appendage based oppression. She’s legit.
It’s Sunday, so Holly sits at the Scotto and drinks a pint of cider while smoking her friend’s herbal cigarettes. Being broke, she nurses that pint of cider for 2 hours. She is waiting for her arty friends to rock up so they can all chip in for another communal pint of cider and discuss how they are totally living the struggle like all their favourite artists did. Yep, their lives are exactly the same, except for the talent part of course.
Holly shows one of her TAFE art & design friends her new tattoo. It’s of Marilyn Monroe with black hair and a tear-drop tattoo on her cheek, “it’s like, tattoo inception but also totally Banksy, but like, 1980’s Banksy, not that toy shit Banksy does now”. Her friend nods in agreeance, “it’s such a strong social message, fuck ScoMo hey”. Suddenly the groups stop taking turns sipping from the communal pint and chime in sync: “totally, fuck ScoMo, he doesn’t speak for us”. Jesus ScoMo, where is your weird clappy god now!?
After a busy Sunday spent talking about herself, Holly retires home to listen to some jazz fusion on an old record player. She upholds the first rule of jazz fusion club perfectly: pretend you love listening to jazz at all costs. Her scummy, dilapidated abode has the same ambience of an elevator that saturated in burning incense trying to mask the stench of dirty dishes and underachievement.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?