You know that you’re third. You’re three and you’re okay with that. You’ve never won a woman in any show that you’ve been in, so being close, getting close, being under’s an improvement, scaling up, sort of promotion, almost okay, next step for you. And god knows you’ve been working. Every god you can think of.

Guard down is not a way to be when the competition’s this fierce: up against husbands and elders and women. Pretend that you didn’t once almost date Angelina Jolie. Because I bet you had the chance and you blew it.



I wrote my speech in March, you got engaged in April; some things you just know.

When we met, she studied each of my bones to its base. My bone bases. And the skin on top like make-shift masking tape, Sellotape sticking together what’s crucial, like a vein or sweet wrapper or last week’s Heat with Katie Holmes on the cover describing what can’t be possibly true.

I wondered about the soles of her feet and any other edge and whether she had the kinds of corners which erode like cliffs or if she wasn’t an indestructible icon like a smiley face or a wink, existing online, not a reflection, but a reality separate that we can’t alter, except in code, maybe, but one day it’ll be running us.

She kissed my ear, missing my mouth and my cheek bone, cross marked with blusher, whispered, “Thank you for doing this,” but there’s no actual purpose so to do or not do is option-less, and we’re close to eliminating death and sex is a relic we house in museums, or will in 2015.

Every artefact of you is in a Shoebox Appeal I send to another country, and I have to include a toothbrush, because them’s the rules, so I take your used one out to keep the DNA and one day there will be as many of you as I want and there won’t be choice and the selection won’t be love because that’s a David Blaine, Derren Brown, Hugh Jackman in that film with Scarlett Johannson fallacy (an illusion) and once we accept that there’s nothing then, well, nothing.