Wax Wane

If you’re dead wood, what am I? Deader? Or algae growing on wood, ready for a scrape, or shade, power washer.

I instruct you how to block someone even though you’re versed in blocking me, just, maybe not when I’ve already blocked you. Strange how a thread disappears, a confusing edit making a 52 message string almost incomprehensible; people balking at nothing.

But we don’t balk, really. We’re blitzed and escalation sits bemused on our eyeballs. And really, I didn’t digest a thing which happened the last 6 months, or before, and I don’t see how I’m going to. Because the future is this unthinkable thing, you know? This unpredictable, potentially awful, ungrabbable, unimaginable, not-Disney-movie, piece of shit to plan for.

So if the choice is mine, like, seriously, and I get to pick anything I think will make me happy, then, what should I? How much longer can this wax and wane fester, like yesterday’s guac? And what’s with the wait?

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I’ll Take Us Right Through From Sunrise To Sunset

I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.

Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?

Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.

Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.

__________. ____________. ______________. ❤

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I Keep Waiting

Expiration dates are loose and, like, wartime was tough, Mum says, not that she was there, and people ate tins ten years after, and they were okay. No-one’s going to blog about how brilliant old food was but it was better than nothing and that’s the sort of country this is: rationing’s ingrained like defects and illness developing slow like adaptations of books to TV shows, and Jennifer Aniston’s hair colour or, I guess, several colours at any one time because I can’t achieve that gold, no.

I wonder if we’ve a sell by, if we didn’t play out the exact arc of what this is, think we’re due a re-run for a singularly unacceptable blip. But some broadcasts don’t get a DVD release because the music royalties are too high, and when they switch in songs it’s never the same. Think you won’t notice, but you do, and half-fake is worse than full: a broad daylight cheat we’re not brazen to try.

But it’s not a repeat. It’s not the same for me. It’s rooted in a bagful of unrepeatable things, but it’s new, like a reboot but better because what reboot’s even good, actually? It’s like all those TV couples, dead now, you wish had met at other times and started then instead of fucking everything so spectacular-royally the first time. You think you fucked things up for me, even slightly; you didn’t. My medicine’s monthly, but don’t make me wait long like that. I can’t even take it.

An inscription in the front of a book in the charity: “To do something about this. When’s the time limit? Cross fingers, I won’t miss it.”

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I read books until my 18th birthday. After that, the “have to”-ness, made the process attractive as anchovy pizza.

There are opinions. Trustable ones, solid like second hand furniture checked for furrowing woodworm. And the ideal is ingrained like Corinthians and the Fresh Prince theme or the yellow M. Mouthwatering down to each tooth root.

I undercut myself completely from 12 and the damage is not reversible. But ours is, which is a fuck-up luck advent calendar second life shot jumble. Rare as Impossible Princess.

No matter what happens, there’s no banter like it. And that’s a compartmentalised important sort of novel detail that mattered pre-diagnosis, before any off-switch, was theatre director fact. She said, “Is he coming? Can he see it? Will it be a bit fucking weird?”

And I can’t change all opinions, of the part I family play to each of my well-worn peoples. But updating operating systems is time-wise lengthy, and maybe we won’t blame others for changing our minds on this one, for how were they to know? How were we?

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There aren’t unexpected endings or expected ones and predictions come true coincidentally and there’s no significant alignment between what we pray for and get, and dreaming something’s no more solid than a job application, a purchase on eBay. Mine just never turn up.

I’ve spent a lot of assuming time, and I’ve made such a high amount of guesses, inevitably a portion are true, have come it. I’m completely comfortable with the idea there’s no string puller, no grand plan, nothing I can sign up to that’ll significantly alter my day to day.

You’ll suggest a religion to me because you can’t help yourself and it’ll be the one you condone, belong to or believe in. And your answer for every other contradictory or plain wrong choice I could make or club I can join will be that yours came first, or it’s right because a voice told you or a wish got granted, or I don’t mean wish but prayer. But I like wish better because there’s something less cut-throat in it, not the determination of a will get, must get, should, but a maybe.

I enjoy maybes. Everything is. It rolls. And only the writers are gods, killing the people we love, making decisions on our behalves. And we’ll be unsatisfied either way so what the fuck does it matter who’s dead?


Not What I Wanted For You

I held back because I thought time was a Friends’ box set: even when it’s done, repeats are playing somewhere. And we must be that pick-up-able thing so that answerless questions get met after summer breaks or in sister shows. Not just fan fiction.

Our expiration date was a line read from a hand by a hack or somebody with genuine talent if you believe talent exists in all its reported fashions. To some, creased palms show work and working, but now I understand the kink in the centre of mine, akin to birth marks or made scars. It’s us wearing out and me watching last words on lips I didn’t kiss every opportune moment. I don’t know when a moment is.

Nicholas Sparks as god.


You’d think I mean diseases, that I’d caught some STDs from you, the way you look at the legs of employees, the hemlines of blouses, the stitches holding buttons together. But that’s not it. I kind of wish that was it, then you’d be easy to forget, reject, like stained clothes from eBay or shows with Zooey Deschanel in. Not awful just clumsy. Not even clumsy because that can be cute, just done before, badly scripted, slowly sinking, the slip so miniscule nobody sees it, and I’m not watching so I don’t see it either.

I thought love was a slow but definite fade, that relapses were for proper addictions to addictive substances: coffee, Diet Coke, caffeine, Matt Damon. But it turns out, it’s a freaking obsession, and it’s the waning that kills me, the slope that’s an absolute tease. When you think you’re in the end zone you’re due another turn, a sickness bout. The bends.

We don’t have any real friends. But you do have a girlfriend. And my timing is horribly teenage. I wait until you’re happily married, settled, pregnant, tied, ringed, betrothed, vowed, pinkie promised to somebody and that’s when I act. And if we were really fated, if we were fatalists, if there was a god calling shots on each situation like a director of films, TV, surgery, theatre, would each action be so ill-timed, badly defined, exactly wrong? I guess that’d be pretty funny to watch, actually. If you were like a sadist or something.


If one word describes you, what is it? Have you picked specialities? Are you weighing your options? Are you asking advice from department heads, peers, street people who can make snap judgements your mother can’t make?

You’d like to think you’re complex, that you’re part of a story bigger than you, and every walk-out, break-up, row over babies or dinner was a chapter, segment or sentence, that made the decision for you. And you don’t know if Gemma made it, if Emma did, if you’d feel like this if he was single.

You said leave and he did and it didn’t make you happy like you thought and if you don’t know what’s best for you maybe you shouldn’t be healing people, maybe you should stop. And you wish he would stop he would stop he would stop but he’s your cereal, milk, water, dinner, drinks, shots, clothes. He’s the cops knocking at 4 and your friend ringing at 9 and the pizza delivery guy and the postman and the cashier at the store and the person pulling shoe sizes out of storerooms for you. He’s who you pray to, plead, every wish you make on candles, eyelashes, cookies, lights and lotteries. And he’s nothing, not yours, not in your bed, not close.


Your Heart Breaks on the Street

You are not phased by incisions, operations involving skin removal, additions, alterations, serious changes which make people into other people. And what you don’t condone you do anyway because you’re paid for it and being a wish granter means your sleep’s unbroken, has been since 2004.

Then Lexie left and it’s a long line of women until her and after, and eating lunch you catch glimpses of eyelids and fringes and you think, “I thought she was on the East Coast, but maybe she came back,” but she didn’t and eventually you catch the person’s jaw, ears, fingernails, know it’s not her. She is an accurate study in photographic memory, remembered alongside pages from textbooks and pornography and it’s untrue, the adage that says what you put in your brain stays there. Usually you forget faces quicker than character’s surnames, addresses of friends, phone numbers of relatives. Hers is the only and in dreams she’s herself, never in another body like some people, and she tells you you did wrong over and forgives you over and you take ibuprofen when you wake up, but only coffee cures headaches, and your teeth are ground down like filed nails and when you call she doesn’t pick up and when you add her as a friend your request disappears and there is no follow up and it’s the open-ended-ness of the situation that’s the absolute finish of it.


Not intentional. Not nearly. Almost always not.

You don’t know what to do with tarragon. Could make an incision in a man’s brain to see his decision making. Reshape people’s faces for a living.

Say you’ll wait ’til after, so you’ve eaten the steak, paella, lasagne. But you blurt it out like an answer in class, put on the spot by a teacher sure you don’t know answers. But you know some, knew some.

Wish everyone understood action’s aren’t meaningful, defy definitions, and the clean cut life they’re all after is a thing of the past, the fifties, and even then, most times, was a lie: case in point, Betty Draper.