When you piss me off, I’ll draw your attention, because this is a thing that you said.
It’s not the only or worst or last or best or, even, stupidest, but you said it. Do you remember saying it?
You’re so intent on saving something, I don’t have an adequate analogy for it. I guess it’s a bit like when our friend Sammy got born again and this meant that heaven beckoned but, also, the hell weight of all his friends going there, was a breeze block in a hot tub, and he couldn’t not try to convert. What else would a person do?
So claw. Imagine there’s this solid thing you can save. That we’re not an altogether hypothetical un-green-lit disaster waiting to happen. Why do we even like the idea of that? What the fuck is wrong with us?
“I have tried to be perfect a long time,” she says, squeezing the mayonnaise bottle like it might cure hand cramp. “Have read every self-help book on how not to make a bad choice. But each year I cling to that crucifix plastic bead, verse on über thin paper, and wonder if untying a heart’s impossible if it’s essentially barbed wire.”
You will refuse to admit it’s over even when Jack’s laundry left in the machine is a finger vomit, a three week old work-surface banana. You’ll pretend until your acting is called into question and you’ll consider classes to improve your actualising and you’ll wonder how long it takes to become a professional and if you’d earn better money at that, than this, because this is a pitiful wreak, a floor fall diamond.