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CTRL K 01

Finally writing one of these like Gran said I should.

I'm Kimmy - London transplant with purple hair, decks, and a head full of noise I’m slowly learning to tune. I’ve been waiting for Rhiannon to land so we could hit the neon together. She hasn’t shown. I’m trying to take the hint. Some people are moments, not foundations. So I’m choosing me

I joined CTRL K and hauled home a second-hand twin turntable. First show was shit 'cause I forgot to bring the decks. Lesson learned: pack the gear before the weed.

The skate park has since became church. I hit an ollie, then a frontside 180, and it felt like the city clapped. Something clicked?



I’m meeting good people. Autumn, Emma, Dean, Ambrose, others. Less good are the constant passes. One guy from LA got crude after I said I’m saving my virginity, he understood then asked if he could have the backdoor instead then! I set a boundary and moved on. I decide my body and my timeline.

I sold Gran's old credit vouchers, moved into a flat, invested in the band, and somehow I’m rich. Still eating cheap noodles because it makes me laugh. Adopted a cat called peach fuzz. She judges my mixes from the sofa.

ADHD means my brain is fireworks. I’m aiming the sparks: fifteen minutes of focused practice, short break, repeat. Beat matching, looping, voice warmups. When the kick sits right, the static in my head becomes a map.

Gran’s diary keeps me brave. She sang on real stages and chased real danger. I’m tracing her route, not to copy it, but to write my own. I even bought a zombie tracker and a shotgun, because who knows in this world. Small doesn’t mean helpless.

If Rhiannon turns up, brilliant. If not, I’m still rolling. Tonight it’s black coffee, a working title called Neon Reverie, and a setlist to fix. Tomorrow, skate park then studio. I want adventures. For now I jam, tune the turntables, and practice choosing the one thing in front of me until it sounds like me.