When Nobody’s Around I Try Not To Care

Because we’ve fucked, fucked five years ago or four, you think my emotions are thread pickable, place-able like buses on timetables. But if someone asked which celebrity I’d most want to sleep with, all things considered, how would you answer?

And it’s not the not knowing. There are things I don’t know about you, like, how much Botox you’d have if cash wasn’t a motivator and who you think would win between Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and if you’ve swallowed bubblegum and who you’ve kissed since 1995 and when you last ate pesto.

It’s the levelling. The Top 5 lists and history-thickeners. Facts important as Bible passages, prayer beads and meditation outfits. The names of Jennifer’s unborn children.

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I’ll Give You What You Want, I Am A Giver

I envied every chameleon with a wig change or outfit designed by some supposed celebrity designer although stitching clothes together never struck me as a forward facing career but it is now. And high school girls swapped dye bottles weekly but I kept my hair colour ’til I was 28 and it was an awkward give up, devoid of all the right moves.

I’d morph selectively, pick roles with the tenacity of Tom Cruise, absolutely in control of a destiny I was ready for, that I could taste like the food from the next tent over at a festival with something else frying in front of me: pasties or frites or paella.

At the top, criticism rolls off but people expect private property to be operative like the game Operation, and first takes stomach, and next claims eyes. But I don’t want pieces. I’m still interested in decisions. And you’re impeccable at them.

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Hooray For Love

You will survive the most fucked up thing you can think of, or not really because you’ve seen movies in which the unimaginable is true, but life will suck and you’ll survive and expect a good turn. But instead you should expect a long line of suck, of not quite cope and creative surgery.

And there will be nothing to do, enjoy or understand. And the coping mechanisms on offer like alcohol and god and marijuana are a repetition argument you had in 2003 when everyone changed more than you could fathom and your indoctrination began to unravel.

If there was something you could sell, a CD, house or a heart, you would do it. You’d even provide the tupperware box to put it in.20120910-010903.jpg

Control Of The Next

The reason I broke up with you is I had Jesus to think about. And I wasn’t over Kevin and even though you said let’s work through this together, and that’d be a totally romantic gesture now when shit’s more spreadable, I had Jesus to think about, and the nag to get out of my brother’s room (where the computer was) was him and Kevin calling was a mysterious way of his and songs playing at opportune moments (Coldplay at work, when I just got out of the shower) were all him, and my apologies went through his mother and I’m not sure she’d been passing them on. I’m not sure she’s ever passed them on. And that’s a waste of a million lunch breaks. I could’ve hopscotched the shit out of John, kiss chased the ass off of Kim.

You don’t know how exhausting it is having a second conscience stapled to your school shirt, or how 8am anti-masturbation workshops and purity courses will affect you until you’ve got the certificates and that’s a sanction a relationship of mine never had. And you may have been the man to date stamp it, with your bed invites and your, “you and me and us,” and your friend phrases on phones: “She likes Snow Patrol. Yeah but she’s cute, you know.” You didn’t know I was a get outter. A kleptomaniac with men for like ten seconds until commitment was a comment in a feedback box in a restaurant slot, like, let’s have sex soon, or now, and my friends would’ve done it before and I’ll maybe love you forever and even wait if we don’t have to tell anyone, if we can maybe just lie.

And if it wasn’t Jesus and his Tuesday suppers and double Sundays and Monday Home Groups, maybe I’d have done something risky. Like, you know, date you for longer than three weeks in 2004.

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All That Time, Wasted

If my calendar had been full and myself, gumption-less, the antithesis of Kate Winslet, what sort of woman would you be with and would you suck the same way or are techniques distinct to a person? I swear I’ve done things a little different depending on the receptor, who’s on the receiving end. The way museums are so fucking boring you can’t even be bothered to walk all the way around.

One of the guys, I won’t say which one, but one of them said my words were a lot like mumblecore and this is the briefest example I’ve got of a pinning on after of meaning. And I’m pining after that 2004 feeling which is irretrievable like my hotmail account circa earlier because I stopped logging in regular around the time I quit church and church clubs which were the least successful date I ever went on but the longest in terms of timescale. I committed years. And you were the cull, were part of it. And my apology’s null considering. Still, I’ve got recommendations and cheat sheets and solutions and a Bible study work around which’ll get you to first base if you’re content on only getting there.

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