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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Can’t Always Get What You Thousand (NaPoWriMo #19)

Wife is like no
don’t wanna go tonight now
though party planned it.
President like
can’t always get what you
want, dear
get what you always.

Tonight is like
right
daytime TV
since mistress cut
your phone from ring.
Wife Jeremy Kyle
wax ears, ear buds
tissue stuff drum damage
least of problems.

Once, you’d join
something for you
learn to take care of the pocket gap
where liver used to be.
But tonight wife
is right
tonight wife says no
but you go, anyway
because she cottage cheese
sell-by date 2006
astrology predictions
Matt LeBlanc beg
holding all the vibrators
now.
always

What If I’m Wrong?

They say steel. But I want to know what’s thicker, and could convince the questionable amongst you. Nelly Furtado says she knew she’d be famous, enviaged it, had premonitions of it, but how many is that true for? She’s just lucky it worked out, and every sad fucker with the same dream is a crisis-broadcast, plastic-wrapper, sweating their insides out, sure that breaks are lottery wins whose odds are as easy as adverts make it.

I saw my future, but I’ll never say what I saw in it.

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.

Masks

Once, we were a behind doors, key under mat, two coffee cups for no reason couple. Now, I pull your mask down because your eyes are not enough and I take mine off because it made my nose look huge and that’s a good way to hide, win Oscars, or even be nominated, but I’m more into you than that. Accolades are for past lives.

In past lives we were at this point but perhaps I was younger than you are and you were more compromised than I am and you made the same choices as I have.

I don’t want to regress, find some spiritualist who can tell us what happened to us. I want to uncover it, marry it, decipher. The Da Vinci Code’s a fucking good read. I am not a completist, or someone who thinks inaccuracies make for bad stories. I would lie and lie and lie for you. I would write a book for you, talk copious amounts for shit for you. Hell, I’ll cook for you, if you really have the stomach.

But now, just now, I want to know what you look like without a mask on. Costumes are for bedrooms and you are for me as Angelina is to _____.

Now Accepting Applications For My 8th Best Friend

I’m a secret keeper. Guilt is my go-to emotion. I don’t think guilt existed when religion didn’t. There was a time before religion existed. Think about it: dinosaurs. Language is a construct solid like a conservatory, man-made mostly, the reason I was brought up to believe men would save me, that all words associated with women have been pejorative at some point.

I won’t share drinks or lipstick. If you date my ex-boyfriend, I’ll harass you passive aggressively until he hurts you how he hurt me, which is to say emotionally. If you ____ him, I’ll _______ delete you, put your number on dating sites next to pictures of Pamela Anderson lookalikes, I’ll list you in lonely heart’s.

I bought a best friend necklace for Gemma but I didn’t give it to her. I bought the same ring as one of my friends and thought it meant engagement, or marriage, or whatever rings meant or mean. The books I read growing up made me hope I’d make a good wife one day, but the nagging feeling, next to the guilt, that’s a chip that got fitted, like the ones conspiracy theorists think they got probed with, is that I won’t, and that that’s even a problem.

I’ll make you dinner. I’ll watch The Sitter with you. We’ll pass comment on Jonah Hill, speculate whether we’d kiss him. We’ll research geomagnetic storms so we have something to say to him, because actors play characters with similar beliefs to the ones they have, and identical interests.