My Column for Platform!

I’ve been asked to write a weekly column for cult lifestyle mag Platform. So as ever I’ll be writing about lots of really deep and important stuff like sex, drugs, life, TV shows, nothing, whatever, etc. BORING!

Read my personal intro plus my first official post below:


Hey Platform readers! I’m Karley, your new blogger or columnist or wasted rambler or whatever it is you call this shit. For a couple of years I’ve been writing a blog called Slutever, where I basically just write about all the losers, prostitutes, drug addicts and shamans that I live with down in our south London squat, and the ins and outs of their pathetic and beautiful lives. But like, don’t lump me in with those assholes. Think of me as a pillar of normalcy drowning in a sea of freaks.

You see, I grew up in a small town in upstate New York. It’s the sort of place where casual racism is the norm, Jesus is the main topic of conversation, and the general idea of “fun” is getting wasted on cough syrup and passing out in an apple orchard. Basically it was hella shit, so when I graduated high school I fucked off and ran away to London with no money and no real plan other than to get super wasted, make some friends with funny accents, and fuck loads of dudes with this so-called bizarre and mysterious added flap of skin on their dicks (commonly referred to as “foreskin”).

Five years later and my life hasn’t really progressed. I’m still living in a gross, abandoned building with no heating or hot water. I’m still poor. And I still have no great “plan.” Not to mention my boyfriend of four years recently broke up with me to become gay (that’s just a guess, but an educated one at that), and as of late my radical Christian parents have started pretending I don’t exist. Ugh, my life is in shambles.

So that’s me introducing myself. And if I’m being honest, I can’t really think of a reason why you should follow this whole column thing. I mean, I’ve got absolutely nothing to offer you. I’m just a degenerate, TV-obsessed sex addict with a penchant for gay porn and eating out of garbage bins. But, like, I guess I know a thing or two about life or whatever. Like for one—the best way to make a guy fall in love with you is to give them head on the first date. Two—jerking-off in the morning is more productive than doing it at night because it helps to get your brain thingys working. And three or four or whatever number we’re at now… is, uh… well, I can’t think of one at the moment but I’m sure something will come to me soon.

Tune in on Thursday for my first blog in which I’ll probably write about sex or drugs or life or something else equally as deep.




My flatmates are really fucking dumb. No, you don’t understand. I thought I was stupid, but these fuck-heads just take it to a whole other level. Here’s an update on what’s been going down in the land of the retarded—aka our south London squat “Squallyoaks”—as of late.

For a couple months now I’ve been living with a prostitute. At first she was just sort of crashing-out in our kitchen, but recently (after performing a sufficient amount of sexual favors for my horny male squatmates) she graduated to an actual bedroom. Moving up in the world. Last week she contracted cystitis—that vaj infection thing you get after being cock-pounded too hard. After suffering a few days of discomfort, Prostitute Googled her symptoms and found that an easy cure for her ailment was cranberry juice. Easy, right? I thought so. That was until she barged into my room this morning and shouted, “Ugh! How long does it take for this shit to work!? I’ve been rubbing cranberry juice on my cunt for three days now and it’s only gotten worse!” I wonder if there’s a link between rough sex and loss of brain cells…

This morning I caught my housemate Dominic blowing his nose on our cat. I walked into the kitchen and he was just running his druggy, wet nose along the poor animal’s back. When I asked him what he was doing, he shrugged and replied, “What’s the point in having this thing if I can’t wipe my snot on it?”

Last week my bat-shit squatmate Hannah got a new iPhone. This is like her fifth phone in two months, because every time she gets a new one it either gets stolen at some sketchy, psych-trance forest rave… or she mistakes it for a spider while on acid and smashes it… or it gets lost inside her giant vagina. Whatever. Who cares?

So yet again Hannah came home on Tuesday morning after a wasted night out with her phone in about a million pieces, and had to claim a new one on her insurance. But you see, Hannah’s a bit slow, so after she told the insurance company that her phone had been stolen on the 149 bus, she started freaking that the phone’s GPS navigating system would reveal that the phone was still, in fact, in her possession. I tried to convince her that the GPS wouldn’t work if phone was turned off, but she was still so paranoid (a side effect from all the acid, perhaps?) that she trekked all the way out to the edge of London, smashed the phone into even smaller pieces, dug a hole in the dirt, and buried it. Take that insurance company! You and your new-fangled magical phone machines will never catch me! Moron.

Is there a place you can go to exchange your friends for new, cooler, more functional ones? I can already feel them rubbing off on me.




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