Queen of Fucking Everything




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I went ripping through my aunt’s sunroom—denim jacket in hand, Doc Marten’s on feet, eight-month old piercing coming out my septum—and tried to pull my grandmother into a hug. I hadn’t seen her in over a year and she looked a lot frailer than she had before, a lot frailer than I realised she could look.

She held me at arm’s length—“Always with the boots and jackets and now a damn bull ring too, eh?”

I grinned and hugged her.

We sat and talked alone before I had to go inside the house and give my love to all the cousins and aunts running around. She told me about the bird she was watching, lighting dart after dart, lilting Irish accent tugging at my heart strings, all the while staring at my septum piercing.

“You don’t like it much, eh?” I asked.

“God no! Don’t know why you had to ruin a pretty face,” she scowled at me as she smoked.

“Good thing I didn’t do it for you then eh, grandma,” I joked.

She slammed her coffee mug onto the table next to her, nearly knocking over a precariously positioned ashtray and yelled, “That’s right! You don’t ever do anything for anyone but you!”

My grandmother was one of the most compassionate and loving humans I have had the honour of knowing. She could drink like a fish, make any dead plant come to life, and could bake something mouth-watering out of dust in an empty cupboard. She had eight kids, one husband, two cats, and cared for countless strays—cats, humans, or otherwise. My grandmother was an independent and magical woman who lived into her seventies but somehow really only lived a couple of decades truly for herself. She once told me that she smoked her whole life no matter what anyone said and she could do whatever the fuck she wanted and it was none of my damn business thank you very much.

When she yelled that advice at me, she meant it. She had done far too many things in her life dictated by what other people demanded of her. But she was always very clear that I was not to, that I had to live with conviction and make a life for myself that was shaped by me and no one else. I would live the way I wanted to, look the way I wanted to, love the way I wanted to.

I know my hair looks loveliest freshly cleaned and let down in all its curly glory—just about every dude I’ve ever dated has confirmed this. But I like it twisted up in weird ways, making me feel like an alien with a neck nape to envy.

I know that berry reds make my lips look full and kissable and probably makes more dicks hard than bright purple. But purple is my favourite colour.

There are countless magazine articles telling me which parts of my body to accentuate (my thin waist and bomb tits) and which ones to hide (my “problematic” thighs, ass, and chubby arms). I’m not convinced any part of my body can be considered “problematic” but these white-washed patriarchal magazines aimed at appeasing the male gaze defs are.

I on and off struggle with self esteem. I do not fit mainstream ideals of beauty and often that is okay by me but other times that leaves me with an empty pit in my stomach howling for approval from people I’d rather kick in the eye.

But every time I tie my hair into alien-knots, cover my face in glitter and gems, wear lipsticks in purple shades I am sure match my aura, I feel my self esteem grow. When I am really, truly being me and not whoever it is you might want me to be, I am stronger, I am cooler, I am Queen of Fucking Everything.

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Stay rad sweater, Urban Outfitters

Collared shirt, a friend’s castaway

Skirt, Marshall’s

Lipstick, Mac (heroine)
Follow this queen on Twitter and Instagram! And follow the magical man behind these shots, Fraser Tripp for more gorgeous photographs!

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