My Type

I will crave you in 2012, when nobody else does, because crushes rarely last seasons, and the ones that did, they got you, had you, emptied your insides like a pineapple core deflowerer, and there’s a specific bin now for what you are: innards, entrails, skins, peel and pips.

And the unfashionable-ness of it, of you since the decade spilt over into an uncategorisable event period, is what entices me, has been my problem since maturity, puberty, the nineties, when I thought I’d marry Mark Paul Gosselar, instead of Brad Pitt; always one for the realistic.

I could commit to a surname change or dabble in clinical words spread sexually and I’d avoid or read magazines about you and savour the information like it was secrets you’d give, precursors to vows, and I’d enter every waiting list, expect a positive outcome, fuck statistics because I’m not a 0.1, a negative 2.0, and even the 56 or 58 that failed, I’m challenge-able, will you, win you, can write a mean speech, essay if that’s what it takes to woo. And my veins are ripely varicose, like banana skin creases or George Clooney’s old eyelids or blood in chicken or string strewn at the bottom of a yoghurt or a stalk as I squeeze any last water out.

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Jennifer Aniston’s OT

You date him because one day he will date Jennifer Aniston. You sense this like month’s coming, movie reviews, the heat of food at friend’s houses. And you can’t help yourself. Or you help yourself to bigger than you should’ve portions at picnics, beach barbeques, youth group. You overdo every time, and I don’t think I just mean food but I don’t know and I wouldn’t want to insinuate something that wasn’t at least a little grounded in reality, didn’t have some truth to it, because we all know what gossip at school was like. Some of us started it.

Once you’ve dated him you wonder what the fuss is. You concoct plans to keep him, that might’ve kept him, and you go about altering every mistake you consciously made thinking it was the best choice at the time. But there are no best choices just best guesses and anyone who thought they had the hold on a situation may as well sign up to a religion sold to them for money.

You buy the shampoos, perfumes, clothes’ ranges, endorsements, water. You watch the nineties back like it’s re-creatable and chances are it will be, at least by 2023, and your kids will ask you for tie-dye, heat changing shirts, faded cut-offs, Adidas canvas trainers, and you consider the point of the past, fashions selected yearly, when the cheap and the sensible thing would’ve been to stick it out in your fluorescent pinks and luminous yellows and leg warmers. Back then, even Angelina Jolie wasn’t noxious.