Arranged Match

You will pluck me from obscurity sure that my gun handling abilities are above par, on par, almost par, and you’ll mould me the way I did dough, and bread and gluten-free spaghetti (stealthily unbendable, non-pliable, even when wet).

And I will break up, break with, and I’ll take in all sorts of literature and I’ll explain, in a zombie apocalypse I’m exactly the person to know.

I’m a person you should know, okay? You say you know, it’s why you picked me. But I can’t help thinking all action is really inaction, and that there’s no other earth to compare us to, no mirrors, and no reason, and what we think we’re altering’s only a construct that isn’t there anyway. A hypothetical, invention. Like freedom, you know?

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Company

I wrote my speech in March, you got engaged in April; some things you just know.

When we met, she studied each of my bones to its base. My bone bases. And the skin on top like make-shift masking tape, Sellotape sticking together what’s crucial, like a vein or sweet wrapper or last week’s Heat with Katie Holmes on the cover describing what can’t be possibly true.

I wondered about the soles of her feet and any other edge and whether she had the kinds of corners which erode like cliffs or if she wasn’t an indestructible icon like a smiley face or a wink, existing online, not a reflection, but a reality separate that we can’t alter, except in code, maybe, but one day it’ll be running us.

She kissed my ear, missing my mouth and my cheek bone, cross marked with blusher, whispered, “Thank you for doing this,” but there’s no actual purpose so to do or not do is option-less, and we’re close to eliminating death and sex is a relic we house in museums, or will in 2015.

Every artefact of you is in a Shoebox Appeal I send to another country, and I have to include a toothbrush, because them’s the rules, so I take your used one out to keep the DNA and one day there will be as many of you as I want and there won’t be choice and the selection won’t be love because that’s a David Blaine, Derren Brown, Hugh Jackman in that film with Scarlett Johannson fallacy (an illusion) and once we accept that there’s nothing then, well, nothing.

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The Break-Up

If my breakup made the news and there was speculation as to who I’d date next I’d hide out on an island with every ex-boyfriend I could convince to come with me.

You’d be an easy draw, first RSVP, an email, a text, short call, not even a letter. In fact, you’d be awaiting announcements, from Day One to present day, sure that fault-lines effect not just earth but my underskirt, understudy (the girl you see in almost every photo of me), under-eye-skin, conscience.

I was never quite sure my religion, which my religion was, until I was sure and knew it was not text book, a modern day creation. You, who Sellotaped Rosary beads when they snapped, once.

Every other piece of news is tea-making time and that, this, relationship is the whir of a plan to kickstart a career that never should’ve veered, from TV.

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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.

I Don’t Even Own A Calculator

I add up what I’d get on eBay for my CDs and books and even my films, but I sell myself short already and picking prices for my possessions is a little like my dating history.

I stop watching films when the characters make fun of tramps,¬†when that character gets labeled a terrorist as a running joke, especially when Adam Sandler’s playing two people.

I remember each incarnation of Katie Holmes and each is so separate, like my conquests, with only one major trait in common, otherwise they’re strangers. Jack squints as he looks at the line-up, says, “That one looks like Adam Sandler dressed up as a woman, and that one’s Billy Madison.”

Those films go first, then Punch Drunk Love because Craig liked it.

It Was Always Going To Die When She Left

Jack says, “Now where am I going to go for my ‘Columbo based medical CSI type hourly drama’?” and it sounds like a question but it’s not one because he knows there will be a replacement, that’ll takes years to ingrain, sure but, eventually, the reruns will feel retro, of a better time, like listening to Bryan Adams duet with a Spice Girl or hearing the song Save Tonight and wondering what that guy’s name was.

But I felt the death coming, saw it, the second they announced she was leaving for another show, a somewhat less popular show, that she’d rather be in than this (perhaps she was a big Sex and the City fan?)

Recovering from Cameron was hard, because you can’t create chemistry, it just is, exists, like the asteroid belt or rings around planets or how forks fall to the floor then bounce when you drop them. Cuddy was impossible, and if you think about it, her going was like Joey leaving Dawson’s, Rachel leaving Friends, Marisa leaving The O.C. (okay, bad example), Summer leaving The O.C., Luke leaving Gilmore Girls before the shows were up, before those shows got canceled or whatever you call it when they stop something while it’s still popular? I guess, dying with dignity, euthanasia.

But Cuddy and House burned out like me paired with many people, because some of us equate catastrophe with love. And ending the show one season after a principle leaves and saying you’re stopping while the show’s still got something is what we call “denial”.