What Kind Of Sandwich Would You Be If You Were A Sandwich?

I put the specials on the board in chalk because I’ll change them tomorrow. I don’t make rules as it’s intending to fail. And forgiveness? Fucked. There is no such.

Perhaps it’s the worst which defines us, those moments, weeks, months, we don’t think we’ll emerge from. Leaving the house is enough of an ambition, honestly, I get that.

Energy’s impossible, as are the right words, and the character it’s crucial to play to some people’s faces. Like, spending years trying to impress, improve on someone’s expression they don’t think I see through. But it’s the tiniest indents of skin making emotions up, so I’m well aware what Jack thinks, what Harry does. I’ve seen it in their eyes this whole time.

And there is no more. The coconut’s scraped and drained, sucked, and I won’t hold my tongue.

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Courtesy (LOL)

I text you purely in a professional capacity. Not that my opinion’s headline important just, sometimes, if I think a thing, I got to say it out loud, before it disperses. And your story felt like my heart was a beehive and honey was ready.

I realise in the not talking stage that we’re in, I shouldn’t exactly text you or call, even if my heart/head are a situation of constant “fuck it”. I should exercise the restraint Guides taught me, those church cheese suppers where I just drank water, ate crusts, for 24 hours, and this somehow proved to god and parents I’d got like total gumption.

You know what? I do. I’m steely. Except every person I know looks at me like paper with a misprint on it that they can’t fix, might as well shred and start over.

You don’t look at me like that. I don’t meet your gaze often for obvious reasons and even in the same postcode it’s a tricky prospect. I’m pretty wordless about it.

But your story. I liked it, so much.

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Lame Quit

One thing they instilled, mum and dad, was don’t quit. Like quitting is a bad thing. It can be. And church did this. You try. Trying is what people do. And if you don’t, you’re dead, basically. If you’re not slogging for something, regardless of want, you’re not alive. That’s hindsight fucked.

There are things I’m glad I never quit, though I was truly tempted, like, my teaching degree and Grey’s Anatomy and writing, generally. And there are plenty things I wish I quit sooner like Girl Guides and The Walking Dead and this one unnameable ex who thought I was a name-change away from being a fixer upper. But I’m not and was never.

A sense of duty pins me: doesn’t it everybody? Makes decisions tricky, because what if a little trying is all it’d shoe-shine take? I weigh it all up like I’m un-fault-able electronic scales but, truth is, I’m in the aftermath of an earthquake, and even if my mind is conducive and lucid, I’m surrounded by bricks. I better start picking those up.

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Didn’t Work

You might think the things I say are completely correlated to alcohol consumption but, you know what? I’d say them sober, or think, at least. My January thoughts, through June, have been book burned, totalitarian-ed, because they’re not norm-fitting, the way A-levels ask. And I should’ve learned better. If you were my tutor. That’s a thought I had earlier, actually, but I can’t write it to its conclusion. I’m too prim. But my brain will go there. Repeatedly.

I realise you tried to shut talk down purely from a proprietary standpoint. But I’m past that. You must know that I’m past that.

And that ridiculous stuff you wish I’d not said but I said anyway because a quart of cocktails does that. You pointed out, I  blogged  back in February. And nothing’s altered. I’m still fucked. Stuck. Rotating the same problems like I’m roasting the underside. But the ridiculous stuff I didn’t say out loud to you, trust, I thought it every time I looked. Really: every. Sorry.

I was never after a response of the same. It ain’t simple, babe. What it is, is, genuinely, I thought I’d never feel it. It’s clearly just a blip. TTYN. Or always. Who even knows which?

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Endless

I sent this Valentine, once, to this guy who didn’t know my middle or first name, who wasn’t going to. I used to think that a great loss but, you know what? It’s the tiniest ocean drop compared with the idea I’d never met you.

I wrote the lyrics to Iris like a song could say everything I couldn’t. He binned it after first break. My best handwriting next to a Mars wrapper.

If I did that for you, if we were in the same school year. LOL, I know, but for a second, music aside, your style, decade specific, and my hair, always Jennifer Aniston. People would talk, and they do, sure, but would you keep the envelope if I sent you something? Would you memorise each motif I write?

Because all of your words are better than literature: the stuff they made me study for four years. When mostly, you’re just talking shit. There’s nothing like it.

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Coincidence/Superstition/Serendipity

You say it’s all we have. Not us but, like, everyone. There’s no actual god, just these moments of total coincidence which make our feet rock and stomachs scrunch like cellophane wrap, which tie us. We’re tied like turkeys with string.

I’m cautiously superstitious, if a person can be, total doubter, holding on to the tiniest hint there’s sparkle in chaotic disorder. Because all I’ve got is chaos, when you think about it. I’ve been trying to memory foam sink in it, but it isn’t working. The turmoil doesn’t get easy. It’s steady like water pressure: occasional tweaks make it work better.

This lady read my mind earlier. From small sentences, knew where I wanted to be, what I might do, that I was in ____. And I wanted to believe Serendipity badly. The movie. That crossed paths meant something. But I could never take it seriously. And star signs, drilled like religion, practically the brain blemishes, identifiable as fucked-up-ness. Who cares what compatible is?

If coincidences really mean something, what about dreams? Books don’t know, and the internet’s a misinformation plethora, But I want to know what my dreams mean. Because last night it was everyday, and everyone overreacted, but it was us and it was okay. And you held my hand momentarily. You took it. And I want you to keep on doing that. Would you do that again, please?

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Wax Wane

If you’re dead wood, what am I? Deader? Or algae growing on wood, ready for a scrape, or shade, power washer.

I instruct you how to block someone even though you’re versed in blocking me, just, maybe not when I’ve already blocked you. Strange how a thread disappears, a confusing edit making a 52 message string almost incomprehensible; people balking at nothing.

But we don’t balk, really. We’re blitzed and escalation sits bemused on our eyeballs. And really, I didn’t digest a thing which happened the last 6 months, or before, and I don’t see how I’m going to. Because the future is this unthinkable thing, you know? This unpredictable, potentially awful, ungrabbable, unimaginable, not-Disney-movie, piece of shit to plan for.

So if the choice is mine, like, seriously, and I get to pick anything I think will make me happy, then, what should I? How much longer can this wax and wane fester, like yesterday’s guac? And what’s with the wait?

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What Exactly Are We Teaching Our Daughters? On Being Lectured About Feminism And Called A Thick Bitch Ditzy Girlie Stupid Twat Simultaneously

If I have girls, and I hope that I do, I’m going to try really hard not to give them a list of things they shouldn’t do because, genuinely, life is better without constraints, a lot of the time. But I’ll need them to know what feminism is, because no-one does now, or knowledge is selective and thin, and celebrities think it’s best to denounce the word like it shouldn’t exist and FB friends, mutual and actual ones, are always ready to educate. Be wary of that, though not wary in general. Sometimes, you have to trust your heart to the person holding it. Remember, even certificates can’t guarantee quality. And a profile picture doesn’t identify trolls, easily. So watch who you take lessons from, who’s giving them.

Firstly, importantly, I’ll tell these girls, my girls, not to call people thick bitches on Twitter, or online anywhere, because that shit spreads. And what does it say about you, that you have to resort to verbal slurs, instantaneously, extremely publicly, when rapport heads south? Secondly, to these insults, don’t label other women in attempts to degrade them, especially if you don’t know them, personally. This is important, because often women are undercut, passive aggressively, like it’s normality, so don’t remind them of the way they’re made to feel anyway by the media and members of the public. Using words like ditzy and girly and twat is just unnecessary, if you’re really trying to establish an academic point about femininity, feminism, the vote or women’s rights. Directing an insult in lieu of a conversation, unless it’s a joke one, destroys the scaffolds we’re building for our daughters so they won’t be oppressed by the moulds this world sets for them: of being ditzy, girly, stupid, twats. Labels are about as useful as Rotten Tomatoes percentage ratings: it’s a small slew of opinions.

Lastly, learn sarcasm. All too often, feminism’s so unpalatably serious, when it shouldn’t be. Sometimes a joke is the only way to make sense of something. Tread lightly online, I’ll tell my children, because you can’t completely tell tone on FB, and you might accidentally patronise somebody’s friend, assume you know most and, even if you do, say you’re the expert on what a feminist is, it’s impolite, surely, to laud this on somebody’s status, in a group conversation, and in no way upholds the feminism tenets of equality and solidarity. Don’t knock a person down if you can avoid it. Have a sense of humour about everything, even the most deplorable of things, because life will fuck you either way. And to laugh isn’t to make light, at all. Actually, it’s the only way, often, to give voice to the unpopular issues. To the subjects famous people offload like sandbags, because it’s bad business to say you care what a feminist is.

But daughters, above all, how many of you there are, be gracious. Learn what grace is. And don’t take shit. Know that there are smarter words than bitch.

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Be True

I’m going to raise rambunctious kids, all gum and gumption, spit; spirit like a Coke can exploding. Fizz but not much liquid, ultimately. Because mess is always less than you prepare for, and worry, thermal thick, defines days deeper than watches, and hearts can’t handle uncertainty. Mine can’t, anyway. Cliffhangers get to me. I don’t want to skip every exchange that makes this great like stage plays or Shakespeare or limited release movies which only play cities because small towns haven’t got time for, or all they’ve got is hours and it’s harder to schedule when silence lets your head breathe.

What I’d give to wake up without headaches, questions, regret, concern, my heart on a butcher’s shop polystyrene tray waiting to be bought because someone forgot to stick the sold sticker tight, so it sold twice. And nerve pain. I’d give my leftover dimes and Hello Kitty jewellery box filled with last year’s Topshop rings to find the sort of peace those 8 people in yoga class have, when all I can think of is dinner, ex-boyfriends, cinema times, puckered thighs and the lyrics of all Katy Perry songs.

If I raise kids, when we have them, and if, I’ll only have advice like, “Don’t date a guy ’til you’ve seen all 6 seasons of Sex and the City; skip the movies,” or, “Don’t do what I did, whatever that is,” and, “Let love make a fool of you.” And that last one, I’d say twenty times, even if it’s a lie and I didn’t do it, enough.

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Alert Went From Orange To Red

I’d like to believe the best in people. That there’s best in people, and some of us aren’t the stiff skin we seem and, underneath, our organs are swimming with meaningful feeling which we’ll bestow on another human being should we meet one.

Who am I kidding? I’ve believed the best in people, saw what they could be, not what they were. It was a cliff drop. There’s no way back from. And I’d do it again in an instant. Because it’s better than painkillers. Or I just need stronger ones.

I dreamt about you last night. But I won’t write about that. I won’t write it. And you know why? And you’ll never.

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