Miss Havisham: burned to death
Potter about. Diddle on work website. Scratch as iTunes peppers the day. Stare at the piles of unpacked books and unsorted clutter and feel like the end of university all over again. Door goes. Ignore it. Hear key at the door. Throw on dressing gown. Politely suggest to buzzarding estate agent that he give 24 hours notice next time. Go back into room and stare at books and clutter again. Big mistake. Is it just me or are they getting bigger? Call mother. Bigger mistake – when will I learn? End the phone call having staved off the habitual argument resulting from an equally habitual and belligerent incomprehension of broadband internet whilst securing the promise of packing crates. Think about food but don’t feel hungry enough. Notice vodka bottle but don’t feel Christine Cagney enough. Contemplate cigarette but think of how nice it would be to get my deposit back at this creeping critical stage, so stand outside in insidious February sunshine, freezing my eczema off in pyjama bottoms and slippers. Contemplate creativity.
Matthew: regenerated
Realise my current mental state is only capable of creating a fine mess and quickly give in. Come inside, but it doesn’t feel any warmer. Listen to The Song and feel hollow, unfilled, unsoothed by any monotone. It just wheals up a rash of fresh neuroses. Listen to generic late nineties chillout music with sitars in it and collapse face down on sheets already smelling old after a week and try to think about nothing at all. Try not to think about work, about how I’ll get another job when this one ends. Try not to think about six months in a house with my mother, and how nice the veins on my wrist look at the moment – all nice and conveniently tucked away under dry itchy skin.
Egg: became an author. Finally.
Try not to think about V Day, and whether that’s the biggest mistake yet, if this is all just a rehearsal to prepare for what hopeless loneliness is truly like. Try not to think I want to get out of the flat and go to the pub. Realise everyone who doesn’t know where their life is going inevitably ends up in a pub. All romantics meet the same fate someday – cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe. Realise I just want to get out. I just want to go somewhere. Text people to see if they want to meet up later. Ask them if they want to go out. No replies. This is it. You reap what you sow. This is what they tried to tell you about taking responsibility for your actions, and getting your just desserts. This is all about accepting your fate.
I’ll come to the pub with you sweet Ben, when and where we going!? xx
Hmm. I suggest starting with a cup of tea, and see where you go from there. Life is much improved, I find, after a cup of tea.
but have you even considered the cosmic mollusc?aparently the whole universe is but illusion
tea is always good. breaks the day up a bit. also many many many of us are doomed to be lonely forever. it’s just sort of life.