The cure for loneliness is to leave the house.

Even when you’re on your period and bleeding through a super max ++ tampon and into your overnight extra long extra wings super absorbent pad.

Even when you’d rather stay in and watch what happens when Buffy and her G.I. Joe boyfriend Riley’s college sexcapades turn a frat house into a death trap haunted by the spirits of 1950s children.

Even when the full moon is in Sagittarius, whatever that means.

Feeling lonely? Blah? Uninspired? Get off the couch. Step away from the screen, whichever one that may be. Go somewhere. Go outside. Do something. Anything. Just leave the damn house.

So I left the damn house.

I didn’t bother to change out of my leggings and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. t-shirt. But I threw on black cat eye sunglasses, which voided the legally binding contract I made with myself to make an effort on how I show up in public.

I took the District Line and got off at South Kensington station. As I walked up the steps to exit the platform, I passed by an older woman wearing cropped khakis and a backpack who said in the most familiar and heart-warming language in the world “C’pass que c’est pas par là qui faut descendre.”

That encounter instantly put me in an excellent mood.

Y font toute à l’envers en Angleterre madame is what I felt like saying. But she was already too far down the steps for me to intervene, and it really wasn’t that big of a deal that she was keeping right instead of keeping left. This city can feel so disorienting at first.

Instead, I smiled and started recording voice notes to remember my surroundings. I continued towards the underground tunnels that lead to the local museums. The tunnel walls were plastered with ads and posters promoting West End shows. I stopped in front of a poster of the lower abdomen of a man holding a green clipper, privates concealed under a towel. FOR WHEN IT REALLY MATTERS. GILLETTE INTIMATE. I took a pic. My clipper is on its way out.

I walked by a silver-haired man playing a concert flute and a group of small children wearing fluorescent vests, probably on their way to the Natural History Museum to see dinosaur fossils.

But dinosaurs weren’t part of the agenda for me. I took the exit for the Victoria and Albert Museum, where I made my way through a brightly lit hall filled with marble sculptures, then down a flight a stairs towards the Fragile Beauty exhibit, where I spent the next hour admiring Sir Elton John and David Furnish’s private photography collection.

The exhibition is said to reflect the couple’s obsessions: the seductive power of the male form, reportage, and stars. Not the ones in the sky, but the ones on the stage and on the screen. My kind of art.

The cure for loneliness? Notice the world around you. Seek those who have the same obsessions as you do. Thank you Elton John.

Obsessions of the week

• I can’t stop thinking about Sir Elton John and David Furish’s Fragile Beauty exhibit at the V&A Museum. They have such an impressive collection. I haven’t had the chance to let it all sink in and reflect on what the exhibit means to me, but I know I loved it and want to go back. There’s a framed print of Miss Piggy in a silk and feather robe. When a puppet is better dressed than you are, it’s time to reevaluate your style choices.

• I’ve been listening to a Spotify playlist called “Canadian ‘90s Hits” all week and it’s so good. I’d forgotten about songs like “Poets” by The Tragically Hip, “Superman’s Dead” by Our Lady Peace and “When You’re Gone” by Bryan Adams and Melanie C.

• I feel like if I mention Buffy again you will all unsubscribe.

See you next week!