Of the things I shouldn’t see, this is a low vote, hanging score, because I’ve watched men ejaculating into milk bottles which I thought were museum relics we’d soon admire. Once, a promised laugh meant pegged balls and suspenders. You’re lucky the visual you have is imagined; like an unreleased film, replay’s less likely.
So this, I’ll forget by 2015, quicker than the rim of Ben’s mouth, the pockets of John’s duffel, webs of Timothy’s toes. Sooner than Justin Beiber’s forgotten; his is a ‘fake your own footage stolen’ fade that’ll pain a girl less until 2080.
I will turn out to be who you truly hoped I wasn’t and this is disappointing like the second single from any X-Factor winner, apart from Leona, who maybe got it right momentarily, but moments are disappearing acts slicker than Michael. And I’ll edge towards the sorts of behaviour you had reserved for psychotics and sisters and addicts and Lindsays and Ryders and Depps in different decades. And I’ll do it, especially the despicable thing, with the authenticity of a street bought watch telling almost the right time, and no-one stops to really listen to the tick because that’s time-wasting. I’ll fuck your dad for less than a fortune, to piss mum off, and I’ll integrate quicker than all the characters introduced at the start of season two of every show, sure a shake-up’s vital, but just because budget affords it, shouldn’t make it so.
Eventually, you’re found out, and the identity you built, that took years and pounds and lies, is revealed simply, sandwiched between episodes, a quiet revelation and the other characters expect you slipping simply the way regular cast members have left lately. Except you’re one of them, infiltrated them, know each of their individual secrets and the group ones and where the safety deposit keys are hidden, where the safe is, passwords for tabs and dates of births, and hook ups and dress downs to use at certain restaurants, and within a month they’ll not know how you did it, in fact, they’ll not even notice, but they’ll be pouring you juice and offering you pastries that no-one so skinny would eat, really, but you’ll eat one anyway, because pretense is your game and you fucking invented it