You will survive the most fucked up thing you can think of, or not really because you’ve seen movies in which the unimaginable is true, but life will suck and you’ll survive and expect a good turn. But instead you should expect a long line of suck, of not quite cope and creative surgery.
And there will be nothing to do, enjoy or understand. And the coping mechanisms on offer like alcohol and god and marijuana are a repetition argument you had in 2003 when everyone changed more than you could fathom and your indoctrination began to unravel.
If there was something you could sell, a CD, house or a heart, you would do it. You’d even provide the tupperware box to put it in.
They say your selection is less the older you get, and I agree in part – Christmas chocolate boxes are definitely smaller than when we were kids and Easter eggs shrink, fitting smaller hands than the hands they did fit.
But my selection’s not small now. At least, the offer’s are more than my uni first year, high school career, than propositions I got when I worked in the cinema.
You’d think the number of asks wouldn’t matter exactly, that quality would be the concern. But I count up the shall-we-fucks, the should-we, the stay-over-if-you-likes, the go-ons and why-nots and half-lipped kisses doing the convincing.
I like the collection, savour the things I could do if I chose them, not that I’ll choose them, but I enjoy knowing life could change simply with a misplaced finger, locating somebody’s back pocket, licking a neck in a supermarket queue or dropping my hand on a bus lap or a metro leg or reaching for a waiter’s crotch as he jots my order in his notebook. Any of these would make a killer story to tell my husband.