Since you left I haven’t put a washing load in but I should. The basket’s pretty full. I’ve eaten out. Microwave meal cooked. Seen three films. Two of them documentaries. Read about the British contestants, your sometime counterparts, and who’s too ill to perform. I’m considering strongly worded letters suggesting you take places even if you couldn’t fit their costumes.
I imagine your days are pretty similar, glued to Twitter feeds of former-fellow contestants, to find who has orange hair now, flourescent yellow, who’s a tabloid-maker, Simon-fucker, who thinks their winning’s a foregone conclusion.
I bought every inch of you, even the unseen inches I’ll never get to see now and wouldn’t, anyway, even if you’d made the 12, because how often do performers strip these days on talent shows? Not often enough, I tell you.