This week, you can also find me on Northern Spirit’s blog, A Wondrous Place, collaborating with Jake Campbell about all things Newcastle. And there’s still time to vote for July 2061 under ‘Best Writing’ in the Blog North Awards. Kisses and Tom Cruise movies for everyone! x
All planned words, preparation, is pointless, because you can’t pep your breath up in time, if breath’s ever used to woo anybody. I can’t forget Charlotte licking the back of her hand on the shop floor, telling us to test our breath out.
Some people couldn’t give a shit if there are gods or better ways to live or TV shows that change lives or antiperspirants with better smells, more functionality. Some of us are sick, don’t know it, and some will die before they can cut out the bits which stopped working for us, which never worked that well to begin with, if we’re feedback form filling, honest truth (unless there’s money in it) time.
I get you to send me home like a doctor would, get me to wait for your call (like a doctor would), examine the back of my throat (like a doctor might, depending on symptoms). Some things are symptomless.
And my patience runs out on the bus ride and I re-watch every Tom Cruise film I have which, honestly, isn’t enough, isn’t, couldn’t be, and who’d have thought? And when you ring with your decision, scripted answer, declaration, I start, “You had me at…” and I don’t finish. Because you had me at.
One day I’ll talk to animals better than you and I’ll wonder why I’m human, what that plan is, if plans exist, and if they did, do, what they look like: maps, lines, family trees, middle school graphs in maths, maps. I already said that.
And the animals won’t talk back or they will but I can’t tell you because when I tell I’m crazy but I’m not crazy, only, connection’s impossible on mobile networks at my parent’s house and in McDonalds and I once saw myself as an extra in a Matt Damon movie and I smiled at the camera like I knew where I was but I don’t think I did because I can’t have. I never even knew I was there. I’m not there.
You liked Drew before anyone did, read horror novels in middle school, felt cheated by the Prodigy song, a rip off.
Ryan didn’t mean to do it or he did but his motives have never been pre-figurable like some people’s, and you know we’re all supposedly destined but that doesn’t explain newspaper headlines or the plots to horror movies based on truth unless it’s the devil at work but you can’t pre-figure him can you?
And it’s the graceless unpicking of the rules you grew up with until you’re unsure if it’s disappointment or freedom you have or how to tell the difference because Stockholm Syndrome’s happened with almost every boyfriend, girlfriend, priest.
You’re not saying no feeling is real only you couldn’t assert with any authority why something is the way it is. And if books taught you anything it’s the potential for disaster, the absolution of men by men, the imminent dissolution of society, with fire, eventually, with plagues first.
And Drew was the powerful woman you loved when you weren’t powerful. You watched her exhaust every option without devastation. You read books she’s in the film of. You only read books there are films of. Ryan started the fire and she did and the Bible predicted it.
Drew Barrymore made it cute, sweet, to not kiss anybody ’til late. I didn’t wait long. Fifteen, sixteen. Who remembers eventually? Like listing GCSE grades on application forms once you have postgraduate degrees. Who fucking cares. Exactly.
Michael Vartan’s a good first kiss. Jennifer Garner broke his heart. That’s a bit of a legend. Fan fiction for them was jelly, however cold just submerge me in it. I’ll take the fleshy coolness on my thighs.
Illiteracy’s not something you sum up in a sentence and my parents aren’t it and I don’t know who wrote this and I don’t see how that’s the worst in the world, how that could be the worst thing. I mean, you wrote this. You’re doing great. You can spell words like ‘my’ and ‘are’. Take a rest. Tackle bigger problems tomorrow.