Control Of The Next

The reason I broke up with you is I had Jesus to think about. And I wasn’t over Kevin and even though you said let’s work through this together, and that’d be a totally romantic gesture now when shit’s more spreadable, I had Jesus to think about, and the nag to get out of my brother’s room (where the computer was) was him and Kevin calling was a mysterious way of his and songs playing at opportune moments (Coldplay at work, when I just got out of the shower) were all him, and my apologies went through his mother and I’m not sure she’d been passing them on. I’m not sure she’s ever passed them on. And that’s a waste of a million lunch breaks. I could’ve hopscotched the shit out of John, kiss chased the ass off of Kim.

You don’t know how exhausting it is having a second conscience stapled to your school shirt, or how 8am anti-masturbation workshops and purity courses will affect you until you’ve got the certificates and that’s a sanction a relationship of mine never had. And you may have been the man to date stamp it, with your bed invites and your, “you and me and us,” and your friend phrases on phones: “She likes Snow Patrol. Yeah but she’s cute, you know.” You didn’t know I was a get outter. A kleptomaniac with men for like ten seconds until commitment was a comment in a feedback box in a restaurant slot, like, let’s have sex soon, or now, and my friends would’ve done it before and I’ll maybe love you forever and even wait if we don’t have to tell anyone, if we can maybe just lie.

And if it wasn’t Jesus and his Tuesday suppers and double Sundays and Monday Home Groups, maybe I’d have done something risky. Like, you know, date you for longer than three weeks in 2004.

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All That Time, Wasted

If my calendar had been full and myself, gumption-less, the antithesis of Kate Winslet, what sort of woman would you be with and would you suck the same way or are techniques distinct to a person? I swear I’ve done things a little different depending on the receptor, who’s on the receiving end. The way museums are so fucking boring you can’t even be bothered to walk all the way around.

One of the guys, I won’t say which one, but one of them said my words were a lot like mumblecore and this is the briefest example I’ve got of a pinning on after of meaning. And I’m pining after that 2004 feeling which is irretrievable like my hotmail account circa earlier because I stopped logging in regular around the time I quit church and church clubs which were the least successful date I ever went on but the longest in terms of timescale. I committed years. And you were the cull, were part of it. And my apology’s null considering. Still, I’ve got recommendations and cheat sheets and solutions and a Bible study work around which’ll get you to first base if you’re content on only getting there.

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Elephant

You were a taster for a product which they never made, eventually, after so many samples were handed out in shopping centres, town centres, site specific stores and doors. Some were even posted.

So I became accustomed to something which wasn’t there. Like finding out the person you’ve spoken to six nights in a row, on an internet site which lets you upload any picture you like, is in fact sixteen and the opposite sex entirely from what they led you to believe. Although, sex, perhaps, shouldn’t be such a stipulated thing and, I wonder, if it wasn’t for my upbringing, would I infact be another person entirely?

And this thing – you – I sucked on like faith, pulped like a book I might write and one you definitely did, is a memory flitting from damp bathroom fittings to air to the blocked drain outside my back door, clogged with something grey and thicker than pus, heavier than gravy that’s set.

You were a self-sent, the first break up I incised with my own teeth which melt like kitchen sealant, ready for a new layer, except there’s not one coming, because some things are finite – Brad Pitt’s career, my underwear.

And if only it wasn’t for greed, and I kept free street gifts. But Communion, I’ve got to take straight away and suckle as it melts over my tongue which didn’t see savourable attention until 27. And it’s an instant healing, connection, to a thickly-studied god, who’s talked more than many men to me, despite the apparent charm of me. And he’s said, “I will,” and “Keep on,” and “I’m fucking sorry.” And depending on the level of the room’s hysteria, I reply, “I know. I know god and thanks.”

If I Had Only Felt How It Feels To Be Yours

I will go back and detergent my hands until the alien-ness of them is a summer arm scraping, is MSN message typing, trying to keep up with a words per minute sort of a man who develops exactly how you expect, or better, which is almost always not the way development works and everyone who got it wrong you sacrifice like shrunk clothes to charity shop skips which’ll never sell because the label doesn’t match up the seams.

Re-reading every message and text, some people don’t change and others are potential-less when they started off fat like fruit. And how could you know the way this’d end, if there aren’t ends and ends aren’t games in which you wait and stop waiting like queues you can’t quite bother with. And things I wish you’d think were eradicated, vindicated, but good Catholics know that the release is temporary and word only and someone else’s prerogative entirely. And Prerogative, that’s a Britney Spears reference, and you get that, and I’m sorry I could fuck someone over so intent on saving, preserving me, or just witnessing what I turned into.

Maybe, Obviously, Do It Differently Now

I didn’t make the right decision then when right decisions weren’t to be made and guts couldn’t be trusted. Twilight hadn’t been written so how could we know how to pick between two people. Joey and Pacey and Dawson were well-wrought and pending cancellation, but no-one speaks sense like Stephenie in heart matters and I’ve learned more in three and half books than I did from the Bible but that’s technically a lot more books so maybe the two are incomparable. Maybe. Although I’ve stood in the middle of a religious fervour and watched hands flip like Mexican waves at football matches, and my stomach’s punched like bad news Wednesdays and dodgems and I told the truth once and re-reading the Chat Log is a little like reliving and I forgot Radiohead, erased every that year gig and desperately missed, lived an on-offer dialogue which I should’ve switched for long distance, pain in the ass, only.

And I’d do it differently now. I’d pick apart ideals first until I understood that the un-understandable is a waste of time and what’s not is hands on duvets, inseparable and an aura of an online almost and seat scrapes and two-shoulder warmth and answer phones to call back and un-do and every lesson I’ve learned twice and it’s never sunk, not even the second, the way butter’s a lump on top of bread, just-cut, ready to drag like botched face lifts.

I’d like to instill the sort of gumption I flunked so the right people stick and the wrong sooner know they’d not. But I can’t rewrite Chat Log.