I Am The Only Perfect Choice

Unfortunately, you’re a late life revelation, like saturated fats are super bad and the Bible’s just a book. Seriously, an anthology, best bits, picked to make the most sense. Or, some, anyway.

Then, I learnt lessons, like:

#1 Don’t trust if he stands you upĀ &

#2 Limit the chances you give &

#3 Retrain your brain to think of something else &

#4 Choose to love another.

Self-help’s a worse religion, really, because it’s a course changer, convincing you better’s out there, diminishing neon to nothing. But with cliff burials, ground shifts, and coffins stick like Jenga bricks, diagonally. And you’re going to fix that shit eventually, whether you want to or not.

Past aside, because that’s patched if you ask me, a free-pass, all apologies out, what if we never met? Would that be best?

Because I am so in love with you right now. Sorry.

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Say I’ve Crossed A (NaPoWriMo #6)

The playback footage of five years
six ago
reminds me and I ask you
documentary documenter
if he’s changed.

You say, “I don’t know, Pam.
You all have, I guess.”
I’m trapped in pull-back moments
of what was
feel every culpable inched nerve
of almost.

Tarantino in that video shop job
each tutorial second
of must-watch
pre-empts a connoisseurial grab
and you’re ready to take now

You Had Me At Meat Tornado

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.


When it looked like Jim might cheat I was like what the fuck have they done to this show? Have they not seen it? Do they not know who they’re dealing with?

Nobody cared, they just carried on writing, emphasising characteristics I knew were not that, but thrown in to create a kind of tension only Steve Carell could create.

And in 6 months, it depends on deals really, who’s signed pilots, who thinks they can make it on their own. I can’t wait to watch them fail one by one.

You’re All Going To Hell Anyway, So You Might As Well Do Something For Yourself

Jack says, “Some films justify cheating and even endorse it, as if the writer’s after a way of rose-tinting a past they can’t really change.”

I ask for examples and Jack gives a comprehensive list that’s almost faultless, although his romantic comedy knowledge isn’t as full as I’d like in someone I’m considering seriously.

“What about Something Borrowed?” I ask him.

“That I didn’t get,” he replies. “The first half I couldn’t tell who we were vying for. And when she had the chance to fuck Jim Halpert and maybe even marry him and didn’t take it, the character seemed unknowable, as if the writer went back and re-wrote parts of her own life to feel better about them.”

“Isn’t that everyone’s dream?” I ask Jack. “To change things we can’t?”

“Not mine,” he replies, then he reaches for his phone, and I hear the message send, knowing I’m a bad overlap, like two people’s coats on a bus seat awkwardly layering or two flat fridge magnets, one peeling from the heater heat, the other more firmly stuck, only just. Not every action’s comprehensible so it makes sense that in films sometimes people make fucking stupid decisions.

Don’t Forget Us When

When you’re gone I picture ring donuts with full sugar crusting. I imagine scooping jam from jars with tea stained spoons and chocolate coins at Christmas, the metal circles noisy in my hands, drawing attention to fingers meant for particular purposes.

My Mum says you can spend forever wondering what happened to someone, feeling guilt over words, imagining what they’re doing. That she’s been preoccupied by someone’s eyes for thirty years only to find out they died already. Only to find out they’re dead.


The Day I Met Her

Jack says, “The thing about the location is you don’t have to love it. In fact, you hardly have to like it, because marriage is more than eighty pound a head venues or perfect backdrops for photos. All that matters is the moment you say what you should’ve years ago.”

I agree. “The whole thing’s private or should be. I cry at Taylor Swift songs, at The Office, at Dragon’s Den so I hardly need nudging. And the last thing I want’s a performance.”

We play hard to get with other people’s words. We shut down, pretend we’re listening, when really we’re picking TV shows for inspiration and wondering boat or hotel? Or if to just fake it altogether.