Since you left I haven’t put a washing load in but I should. The basket’s pretty full. I’ve eaten out. Microwave meal cooked. Seen three films. Two of them documentaries. Read about the British contestants, your sometime counterparts, and who’s too ill to perform. I’m considering strongly worded letters suggesting you take places even if you couldn’t fit their costumes.
I imagine your days are pretty similar, glued to Twitter feeds of former-fellow contestants, to find who has orange hair now, flourescent yellow, who’s a tabloid-maker, Simon-fucker, who thinks their winning’s a foregone conclusion.
I bought every inch of you, even the unseen inches I’ll never get to see now and wouldn’t, anyway, even if you’d made the 12, because how often do performers strip these days on talent shows? Not often enough, I tell you.
Once, I wanted you in public but, looking on it this way round, maybe I wanted only what I knew I’d never have, like Hugo Boss or George Clooney’s transition from syndicated TV based on books to direction, and writing and frames, and two-yearly girlfriends who maybe sign contracts or something.
And you, and the years younger, think evasion is a boyfriend-girlfriend game, that snacks are placation, and emasculation is a text book term you haven’t learned yet. Next year, college, semester one.
Any job which isn’t over you isn’t a career I’m afraid, not what I’m planning for, or on, enrolling in continuous professional development courses for or retraining or experiencing work situations for years for free in the hope of a salary.
This might be the start of the slow dissolve, like sugar not quite melting in lukewarm tea, and our sweetness is tart, or will be, once the season’s second half airs.