You cock-blocked me. And now that you’re gone I can fuck anyone I choose, supposing they choose me back, which is often the case now it’s the apocalypse. Before, not so much. But I still don’t wish you gone. It’s that first day uni feeling except everyone here is super old, crossbow-trained and part of a zombie fight club.
Since you ended it, slept with my best friend, published secrets about me to gain status, I’ve accepted we’re not an aquarium meet, an accidental street bump which romantic comedy ends us at the same address.
If there are 7 stages, steps, tick boxes to log and work through, I’ve done it, and some I’ve completed more than once. I didn’t cling to concepts past, to versions you were clear were fictions, temporary incarnations. I moved on with a number of men, and I moved back through some who, inappropriate the first time, looked promising like a Spiderman reboot, but essentially, what extra is there? Where’s the worth?
And you might think Batman worked, but in fifty years somebody’s son, grandson’s going to remake or boot it and you’ll curse the Christian Bale choice, because hindsight makes us all look shit. And I wish I said granddaughter, that it could stand, turn in 2062, but who the fuck am I kidding?
If something doesn’t change, move against it, because nothing’s constant: even stone statues melt.
There are things I’ll never learn. How ideas come, like Star Wars or Star Trek or Indiana, world changing ones which make the writing of fiction harder. How to change style so that it’s not a stunted jump to uncomfortable collars, elastic and patent white, but an enjoyable slitted fit, a confident maker. What E equals. Who Snooki is. What it takes to fill you.
And I don’t see yet, but we are not the story I think we are. I’m the penultimate, necessary, gift receipted, and my own undoing. I’m that girl before Juliet.
I hoped that you’d get together but I hoped that too with Joey and Dawson and I’ve never recovered from that wrong choosing, even when I said I had, got determined to pick my own Pacey even though flaky men and downright liars aren’t my type, but some women are impressionable, impressed with bullshit stories and outdoor sex and boats and unbuttoned top buttons.
This is the 6 episode tease as the end unravels although, actually, the end started way back, when Mum birthed the last of us. Since then we’ve been treading water, ready to contaminate us all by 2018. Or, you know, a comet or something.
Things you won’t wish for like
Sleeping with men your mother did
Or friends’ exes
And incurable illnesses
And sex tapes
And restarts with Dan and Matt and Joe
Week 3 out of 5 or 4 out of 10
At which the dip is a death mask making
And any unclean paid for hotel room
Or Jury’s Inn
Eleventh choice at best
Once you’ve been slated on national TV by a self-imposed treasure, you know you’ll survive anything. And you’ll survive anything. Except, maybe, the final, because no-one survives that; the winners are multipack bags of generic flavour crisps, not infinite, but eaten by Gary Lineker in adverts which last less time than music videos.
Whose instructions would you follow and who’d be trustable and have you ever fired a gun yet?
If a boy betrayed you ten minutes from meeting him, would you give him his first second chance then, or make him sweat, like unfridged yoghurt multi-packs?
And if you learnt where your mother was, would you really leave that simply? Or would you sift soot until you found her?
When would you believe it?