I missed my chance. My Reese Witherspoon moment, and everyone’s much less forgiving as I’m not her, or Julia Roberts, or even Leighton Meester.
I’d love a break cut, slack, a little pliable glue, cement, trouser fabric.
I wasn’t taught to calendar check, calorie count, can’t follow diaries with appointments in them, have no real sense of time passing other than by TV seasons and even then it’s only the haircuts changing, the sense of entitlement oozing.
And when I put make up on it doesn’t stay on the way it clings to the faces of movie stars, giving them the sort of thick skin Mum told me to have but I just never grew it. I wear leathers and cords and Goretex and plastic but my pores clog, grease the rest of my face up and it’s hard to put a good show on.
I want to be positive, believe luck is made not won, stumbled upon like curses or George Washington’s ghost or spirituality on cereal box packets or song lyrics.
Everything’s constructed from something – hair extensions and houses. And un-tie-able us and every fucked up, mis-routed prayer, wish, promise, for something better we couldn’t create if we wanted. Even though anything’s achieveable, swear to fucking god it is.