And now it’s over.
Your throat swells; you cry more than when Ben chose Jane, or Matt chose no-one in particular just somebody who wasn’t you and did it specifically on New Year’s Eve when you had to sleep at his house because some things must absolutely finish before you ring a new year in. Most people give up smoking or crack. But I’ve been the necessary drop, disposable time segment, and I could never figure that habit out, of starting January with less than I started, because pre-Easter was give-up time, Lent time, and I visited each Station of the Cross like a gallery stop seeing Van Gogh or Holzer. Sundays were a day off, and if you count that up, you could easily have a week in a year-time of the thing you quit. Me.
This, the best feeling in the world, is capturable on TV, luckily, or we’d forget it like the specificity of every proposal, linger, finger, fuck or purchase. Checking bank statements is a past dwelling waste-time, and this might be the only existentialist quest there is.
If every decision is fatalist and we’re extending towards a short play heaven scenario then firing Cheryl Cole was a dick move intent on skewering publicity like stick sausages, pineapple and cheese blocks, party foods on paper plates sweating in three o’ clock air.
I tan my hand in the meat grill as Tulisa’s book quotes become the unintentional comedy I day seek, she dictated 308 pages and I filled an ice cream tub with street vomit sure my society dent was evolutionary like Britney, who could repatch ships on the brink of ice berg bearing and I wouldn’t kiss somebody comfortable with injecting a face unnecessarily but I’d fuck any Tom Cruise incarnation, even a Vanilla Sky one, because I know what the potential of god is and I sticker steal him.
An okay voice and personal rap and soap storyline, backwards cap and a simmering shout, a pattering scream from every audience woman almost of age, and we all wish we were her, the girl you do this for, who we assume is hopeless, fucking your best friend by now since you moved. She’s got every kind of need you never knew she had; you had only kissed her.
I was only ever serenaded with god songs and those songs weren’t about me and I’d will, “write something, write something else,” but Jack was a trickless pony, a clean-split egg, half-content not to contain anything, not a miniature toy or sweet or a yolk.