What If I’m Wrong?

They say steel. But I want to know what’s thicker, and could convince the questionable amongst you. Nelly Furtado says she knew she’d be famous, enviaged it, had premonitions of it, but how many is that true for? She’s just lucky it worked out, and every sad fucker with the same dream is a crisis-broadcast, plastic-wrapper, sweating their insides out, sure that breaks are lottery wins whose odds are as easy as adverts make it.

I saw my future, but I’ll never say what I saw in it.

Rootless

I’m going to teach my daughter, if I’m one of those women who has daughters and not just cutlery on which to polish and dote, not to get hair extensions. I won’t be a dictator but some things are important to pass on, like who not to fuck, and who to fuck, and who to really consider fucking, but don’t feel bad if it’s like a no.

I’m going to teach her about the word no and all the uses of it and that a panel of people saying no to her might be a distinct career point which changes minds and makes weight loss crucial and haircuts climacteric, but it could be a verge of has-beens, a gene pool distilling of four. I don’t know who’ll judge those shows, which rely on minimum-wage desperation, which is plentiful here, in 2016, and I don’t know who’ll live then, or if an apocalypse comes ready to gut-fuck us, and in wait of a prevention/cure, we sip-blow Lemsip which will scorch but not quite wash down. If we don’t die, and she doesn’t, I’ll say, “Kid. I embarrassed myself on television. It’s a passage rite so rehearse your fucking lines. Go impress Gary Barlow. Kiss Tulisa Contosatvlos.”