Self-deprecating-overload-ation

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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We’re Moving On (NaPoWriMo #15)

It precipitates

he TV declares it’s over via foreign policy, kissing wife and off-camera looking

He’s impossible

to get over on six TVs playing simultaneously in your bedroom/office/house

You scrapbook

the tour bus start and the White House end and restaurant cleared security

Battery-less remote

moving on

Surprises We Were Hoping To Avoid

Things you won’t wish for like
Sleeping with men your mother did
Or friends’ exes
And incurable illnesses
False rumours
True ones
And sex tapes
And restarts with Dan and Matt and Joe
And Jack
Week 3 out of 5 or 4 out of 10
Any mid-point
At which the dip is a death mask making
And any unclean paid for hotel room
Or Jury’s Inn
Eleventh choice at best

She Knew Where You Were – She Didn’t Care

You sold us all out, thinking you were her rescuer, the only one looking for her. And for these years, 154, you’ve waited, sure she was stuck, and aside from seeing mortals play out succinctly, you’ve meditated only on her release and how you’d orchestrate it.

But she was never in there. And she never once returned to tell you that. She could’ve called, written, texted if she knows how, but maybe she doesn’t. Not all technology’s an easy sell when you’re set on something else entirely.

She could look like Madonna now, and I’m never completely sure how Madonna looks now because she evolves quicker than tap water: some days it tastes like chlorine, others bi-carbonate. There’s salt collecting in your teeth dips.

As a Little Child

I figure when people have secrets, but I can’t figure the secrets out, what they are, which I guess is why I haven’t been recruited by a specialist government agency, why I never know a disaster’s going down when it is. I assess after, am an aftermath-wallower, understand the intracacies of disengaged looks, feel tension like frission between people’s lips. My job title could be ‘Eye-Fucking Expert’ but instead I settle for the minimum-wage sorts of fall-into jobs we own since the Millennium turned, which was a bad New Year for me, if the eve’s an indication of the coming year, of every coming there will be. And god knows, we’ve all predicted wrong.

You’ll Be Alright

One day you will be me but you will be better. Teachers expected you to excel but I’ll take time where they didn’t. I’ll put answers in your mouth, destroy relationships you start, make it impossible for you to work other places.

One day you’ll wonder why you worked for so little: cash, enjoyment, satisfaction. Why you let it be enough at the time, when it wasn’t enough at all, isn’t, yet you’re hammering at it like you’ve just discovered tools for the first time and you’re curious about them the way you once were sex, films, pizza. Now, pizza almost always bores you.

One day you’ll ignore mirrors the way I ignore them and you’ll think of me every time you do it, keeping your eyes on the tap or your fingers when you’re in bathrooms, buying clothes without trying them first even though your size is not a standard, fits all in every shop one.

One day you’ll be me, but better. The recipe improved by TV chefs in two hundred years, ready in seconds. Someone else’s skin. False eyes. Elastic shoes. Nothing pioneering about that particularly, apart from I’m dead.

Might As Well Die

Once Jack’s seen it too he says, “I guess that’s pretty subtle. And small towns are hard to go back to. And Patrick Wilson’s tough to resist, clothed or not wearing anything. And I’ve felt that way too, about a tonne of people, so to insinuate someone’s crazy for stalking an old flame, well, that’s kind of offensive.”

Jack and I met at school, messaged online in the nineties, reconnected later on Facebook. And if it hadn’t been him, it might have been somebody, because I’ve got lists akin to black books of the people I’ve seen, of the sins I’ve committed.

“Charlize Theron looked hot in that top,” Jack says.

“Charlize Theron would look hot in anything,” I tell him. And we’re far from home. And we don’t know what home is, because our parents moved so home’s a floating concept, one we make up, that changes, and the people we pick to go in it, be a part of it, the equivalent to the friends in sitcoms who sit around daily discussing, cancel, aren’t replying when they’re supposed to, and you’d think it’s easier now than ever, but the more texts you get, the emails, the calls and the updates makes you wonder what people did before TV when all you had to look at were books and walls.