Rosaline Honeycock
I have a penchant for collecting small clippings of prose and poetry; am partial to sitting in bed with a good book; love Florence + The Machine, and look dangerously sexy in a pair of red fuck-me pumps.
A phrase I’ve come to loathe more than mention of Korean Pop music, or its equally repulsive abbreviation, ‘K-pop’. Tired and utterly glutinous, like a leech, the phrase festers and creeps — a poor replacement for serious, thoughtful commentary, stubbornly latching itself to and infecting the vocabulary of the lazy and uninspired. Never too far from a tragic storyline or piece of music with dark undertones, the phrase rears its ugly head, equally descriptive and flaccid as a simple “good” or a sparing “great!”. Whenever those two inflammatory words crop up in conversation or literary reviews, I audibly sigh and begin the laborious effort of repressing memory of its use — a tortured attempt to quell my quiet, quiet disappointment.
