I thought we were off to a good start when we moved in together back in 2012. A terrace in Paddington was a teenage dream come true.
And it was good! For a while. Until I realised that part of Oxford St is a shell of it's former self and our flatmate was nice to me but a grumpy-arse biatch to my husband, which was awkward in a house that small.
But when we moved to Surry Hills you took my hand and we strolled down sun-dappled laneways, ate masala-spiced gelato and drank coconut water. We lived together in over-priced bliss. You told me it was okay to wear bright red lipstick on a Tuesday morning and I loved you for that. You inspired me to buy a bicycle and I defied death every day as I zoomed your manic streets and panted up your hills, you happily ushered me into loving homes to perform my one-woman show for cash and you brought me friends that are now, still, some of my closest.
But the thing is Sydney; you can be mean, so mean! Just when I would think we may have made a real connection, like we may have finally got under each other's skin, you have a way of tripping me up and kicking your golden sand in my face. Sometimes I wish you were friendlier.
But you know your power Sydney, YOU ARE SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL! It's intimidating, disarming even. It kept me by your side even when your exclusive audition rooms and casual racism had me pulling my hair out.
