How does social media define you?

giordano 2

“A Millennial Diet”

word by Leah Mol

colour by Giordano Poloni

She came straight home after school and sat in the basement office where the computer was. She always had a couple hours before her parents got home. She didn’t want them to hear her printing everything off, because they’d just be upset about the ink—ink was expensive. She couldn’t expect them to understand why she needed more and more and more. Since they never heard the printing, they couldn’t understand where it was all going.

But still they bought more ink. Every couple weeks when the printer ran out, there would be questions. She’d say she was printing her homework, articles or stories to read for a class, pictures for presentations.

She hid the printing the way she hid her stomachaches, because she knew they’d take her to the doctor again. It wasn’t so bad, anyway. She just had to stay away from Facebook and Twitter for a while and things would be okay. The real problem was Instagram, but she just wasn’t willing to give that up, no matter how bad the cramps got. There were too many pictures to post. And once they were online everyone had something to say.

She wouldn’t have known what to tell her parents about the printing even if she could be honest. She knew only that when her stomach was full, she was better. Once everything was printed off and inside her, she could stop checking to see if anything new had been printed. She could finally stop thinking about all the things other people were thinking.

She loaded Instagram on her laptop and scrolled through the recent activity. Beatrice, a girl from school, had posted a photo of the two of them, so she printed it out. There were four comments about the photo, so she printed those as well. One of her photos had new likes and new comments, so she printed it all. Later, she sat in front of the computer, looking through old photos, old comments, old Facebook messages and Twitter posts, tearing each printed sheet into strips, rolling them around in her mouth until they were soft, chewing and swallowing until the whole mess was inside. As she slept her stomach ached and turned, filled with all the most important things, filled with everything anyone had ever said about her.*

word by Leah Mol

colour by Giordano Poloni

sleeping over


A prickling sensation creeps from the bottoms of her feet up the backs of her calves and thighs. The silkiness of the satin sheets underneath fades to cold cement ground. His left leg is sprawled just below her knees, occasionally twitching with the rhythmic echoes of his snore-embedded breaths. She doesn’t move it. Her legs can do the sleeping tonight. They can have the pins and needles. Since she too, with eyes wide open, is on pins and needles.

          When will he be gone?

Just like all the other ones.

That’s all she can think about.

College girls always joke about fears of waking up with a stranger in bed Saturday morning.

Her biggest fear on the other hand,

Is waking up without the stranger Saturday morning.

        “Don’t leave me tonight, okay?”


Honestly, it’s not because she cares about them (at least she tries not to). It’s not the who, but the what, that breaks her every time. It’s the reminder that to these thirsty bodies, she’s esteemed for nothing more than the vacant space inside her (and every other female). She’s a Marlboro. Lit up. Inhaled. Exhaled. Until the last bit of romanticism and hope is sucked out and released; foul and toxic secondhand smoke that pleads to be appreciated one last time before evaporating and losing all evidence of existence. Then disposed of. If she’s lucky, she burns out before they’re done (at least she’s left with some dignity). If she’s not, they’re done before she burns out. And she gets stepped on. With a little extra pressure in the toe box, just in case she’s not out with the first step.

Nothing more than a butt.

That’s what she is to them.

Why does she still do it?

Some presume she’s masochistic.

Some think she’s outright stupid.

However the rare few, like the one sleeping beside her right now, knows otherwise. He knows that behind her indifferent eyes, hidden emotions and sarcastic comebacks:

She’s been hurt, deceived, and mistreated.

She’s tired of clubs, parties and alcohol.

She hates empty words, hookups and promises.

She sleeps with both eyes open, because she’s reluctant to yet again lose this game that she thinks she finally knows the rules to.

She’s still hopeful.

What she doesn’t know, is that she has finally found someone, who feels the exact same.

Someone who is determined to dismantle her walls.

Someone who plans to patch her wounds with his own skin.

Someone who sees her not as a cigarette, but as a cup of coffee.

The Americano with a spoonful of sugar that he can’t start a morning without.

word by Eleanor Tsang

colour Pixel Pancho



Hey mate. Howyagoin?

Good mate. Fark mate—you look like shit.

Haven’t slept mate. I was up all night with that farkin chick that was hangin off me at the party—you know that one with her tits out?

Aw—shit yeah. She was farked mate!

So farked. And when I said I was goin home she started farkin crying! I mean—fark!

Fark mate!

Yeah. Fark. I couldn’t farkin be bothered with it. And then she farkin spewed everywhere—

No way! Gross!

So gross. In her hair and shit. And she reeked! So I took her upstairs—

Didya root her?


Yeah—not worth it mate.

Wasn’t keen. She was cryin and yellin out after me but fark, I hardly know the girl. I went home then but it was like 5 in the farkin morning.


Yeah. And she had this stupid heart-shaped tattoo on her neck. I hate that shit. Tattoos n’shit—they make girls look so cheap.

But not always hey—like my sister’s got a rainbow on her back and it’s kind of nice, y’know? Colourful n’shit.

Oh yeah, some are nice, yeah.


Troy’s mums got one on her arm. She got it when she was young but she told me she’s proud of it though—and she said there’s no point hiding who you once were.

True man.

Yeah. That was actually kind of inspiring to hear her say man.

Yeah, it is pretty inspiring ay.

Yeah, like it makes me feel like maybe it’s okay to make mistakes… Or that maybe there are no mistakes—y’know?


 …wannanother beer mate?

Yeah mate!

word by Laura Helen McPhee Browne

colour by KOSO