I’ll Take Us Right Through From Sunrise To Sunset

I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.

Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?

Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.

Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.

__________. ____________. ______________. ❤

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Self-deprecating-overload-ation

I read books until my 18th birthday. After that, the “have to”-ness, made the process attractive as anchovy pizza.

There are opinions. Trustable ones, solid like second hand furniture checked for furrowing woodworm. And the ideal is ingrained like Corinthians and the Fresh Prince theme or the yellow M. Mouthwatering down to each tooth root.

I undercut myself completely from 12 and the damage is not reversible. But ours is, which is a fuck-up luck advent calendar second life shot jumble. Rare as Impossible Princess.

No matter what happens, there’s no banter like it. And that’s a compartmentalised important sort of novel detail that mattered pre-diagnosis, before any off-switch, was theatre director fact. She said, “Is he coming? Can he see it? Will it be a bit fucking weird?”

And I can’t change all opinions, of the part I family play to each of my well-worn peoples. But updating operating systems is time-wise lengthy, and maybe we won’t blame others for changing our minds on this one, for how were they to know? How were we?

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Catch

I am a catch, an understand your jokes, almost never late, catch who’s seen every episode of Frasier. And if that doesn’t impress you, when we’re snuck up on, filmed, photographer, fired or broken up with, I’ll find a way to your house or hotel room and watch whatever you watch when you’re alone. Even porn. Even that Paris Hilton one.

When You’re Concentrating

Don’t try too hard, or do, but don’t give advice before you know, and you’ll not know when you know because there’s no graduation ceremony, and the age gap pops like a DVD case that someone else owned first, and the skin on skin is something electric, and you can’t help the thoughts, that own age is two the same, and this is alternative, and you’ve reached to outer space since Signs which was after Sixth Sense and you’d embrace another reality if it opened like a set of soundless bead curtains, and you wish you could cup every lost year and live through his time because you’ve missed so much, and what’s left isn’t enough somehow, because eleven years gone, he’s got eleven years more, and every word you say’s a word he’s said and you’ll not match and how much longer will clashing be in fashion? The hairdresser said dip-dye’s not popular like it was in 2009, and 11, and eleven is a prince, is a Jack, is almost.

We Were Never Here

A year is easy to reach, and we do, without much thought. You cheat once, and I kiss a girlfriend I might have married, and I fight your father, and your mother says she’ll try and she tries and sometimes I buy her dinner or she pays because she’s the adult and I am, and it’s confusing, a little, and I’m not your teacher, and I teach you things, read books you read to keep up and ahead, and forget I can’t set assignments anymore.

And I wish we had deadlines, the ultimacy of exams, and I’d revise you until I secreted you even though I’d be the adjudicator brushing thighs at your examination table, developing paraphilia by association, the association being you. There are worse things to love, worse things, if you categorise things, if you can, and I do and your dad would say, “Don’t love what you love,” while fucking your friend Emma in the spare room on sleepovers you watched Dirty Dancing at for the first time, and Patrick Swayze, and dances, and Luke not asking; you never had a torso make you wetter.

Skinny Love

I’ve been in love before. I survived on Pot Noodles and scratchy Sex and the City videos, some of which wouldn’t play, when David left, and when Ben quit I dropped 2 stone. It was the simplest weight loss ever apart from, you know.

And I hope you don’t go but if you do I’ll be fine. I’ve measured the lengths for ‘getting over’, and ‘rebounds’ and ‘flings’ I’ll try and I’ll do if it means you’ll get grainy like a badly pirated copy of a cinema release or a shop copy of a book I could’ve bought new from Amazon and I’d really savour the wearing, absolute lack of wear.

Each time, I hope this love is it, and there have been about 5 true loves, 11 ‘ones’, and anyone that says they feel different to the last, they can really tell, they have certainty, knowledge, they’ve seen, I say, “Shit,” because no such thing, there’s no such thing, and I’d only ever say that in the bed of Brad Pitt, and then I’d be stop-gapping it.

Go Back

I can’t repair, and I spot lies on the sides of skin cream bottles. Scars are reminders of parties I had but shouldn’t have had because something got broken or stained or smashed. Stitches are for hemlines, not arms, elbows and fingers.

You couldn’t tell, but my laser eyes regress weekly, and I’m not sure how much they can cut off surgically until they stop working altogether. I always thought the scar tissue grow back was the hoped for but actually it’s degenerate; Lindsay Lohan.

I’ve cried more at TV than when people left me or came back only to pack or didn’t call when they said they would. There was a time every dream was prophetic and each promise a bond, stocks, shares and superglue. But if dreams are truth I love twenty people since Wednesday and I end up with each and there’s no need to choose because I’ve the seamlessness of Chyler Leigh.

It’s Messy

Unlikely happens, true. But this is a Mars bar changing shape, Angelina taking Pitt, Clooney divorcing, again. He’s smarter than that.

This is our Graduate moment, the time we define ourselves through a film we saw when we were young, didn’t understand and thought that this, now, was figuring out what it stood for, meant.

But we’re piecing together unfittable films and in the book it’s not an ambiguous drive, but an almost certain collapse after spurring moments that can’t last because snap decisions are Primark tights, good for one night.

If you think about people you’ve dated, you’ll always find one, five, four, you could’ve had more with. Doesn’t mean you should have.

 

Infected

You’d think I mean diseases, that I’d caught some STDs from you, the way you look at the legs of employees, the hemlines of blouses, the stitches holding buttons together. But that’s not it. I kind of wish that was it, then you’d be easy to forget, reject, like stained clothes from eBay or shows with Zooey Deschanel in. Not awful just clumsy. Not even clumsy because that can be cute, just done before, badly scripted, slowly sinking, the slip so miniscule nobody sees it, and I’m not watching so I don’t see it either.

I thought love was a slow but definite fade, that relapses were for proper addictions to addictive substances: coffee, Diet Coke, caffeine, Matt Damon. But it turns out, it’s a freaking obsession, and it’s the waning that kills me, the slope that’s an absolute tease. When you think you’re in the end zone you’re due another turn, a sickness bout. The bends.

We don’t have any real friends. But you do have a girlfriend. And my timing is horribly teenage. I wait until you’re happily married, settled, pregnant, tied, ringed, betrothed, vowed, pinkie promised to somebody and that’s when I act. And if we were really fated, if we were fatalists, if there was a god calling shots on each situation like a director of films, TV, surgery, theatre, would each action be so ill-timed, badly defined, exactly wrong? I guess that’d be pretty funny to watch, actually. If you were like a sadist or something.

Safe and Sound 2

You’re a safe breaker, code breaker. That Inside Man movie was about you even though you’re female.

You get out of bed when you’re ill and your maid brings you blueberries.

You’re impartial to Taylor Swift songs, films she’s on the soundtrack of. She’s your Halloween go to fancy dress outfit. Or it’s Gaga.

You’re too young to remember Dawson’s Creek in any sort of complexity and Boy Meets World, Blossom, Fresh Prince were shows your sister saw, but not you.

In your dreams, you figure out who A is, you’re the elusive third The Civil Wars member.

You’re watching as the famous people die.