We’re waiting at the end of the runway, that in-between place, ready to take our slot. It’s somewhat eerie. People are twitchy and there are one or two nervous coughs. Whether that is because we’re about to take-off or whether they are uncomfortable in this limbo I am unsure. I don’t feel anything.
A woman behind me is unwrapping what I imagine to be a boiled sweet. I feel she is not making ample use of her opposable thumbs.
I look out of the window at the airport building. It is near enough for me to see people staring out of the enormous glass viewing windows but far enough away so I cannot see the expression on their faces. A few of them know me. Well enough to know they couldn’t stop me. Sitting here now, I wonder if they didn’t try hard enough. Some would say it isn’t too late to change my mind. These are the people whose glass is always half full. Unfortunately mine was always half empty and I know I shall never return.
22
Twenty-one
I had a phone call this morning. The voice on the other end told me I didn’t have cancer. I didn’t feel any different. Don’t get me wrong. I was relieved but I hardly underwent a radical change. What did fuck me off was my mother, ten minutes later. ‘Praise the Lord, Eve, you have a wonderful father up there’.
Fuck off.
My friends behaviour was interesting to watch in the hospital. It’s weird how trivial people’s conversations become and how bored you actually get of them. Plus the flowers that they all brought made me sneeze.
Fucking cheers.
So Jesus has now blessed me with a cut the length of the M6 right above the line where my pubic hair used to be as now all that remains is designer stubble which can’t make up its mind in which direction it wants to grow. It’s an odd looking scar. I keep thinking it’s going to split open and a small child will clamber out and call me mummy.
I would like a child. I’d like to bring it up without forcing values down its throat like soggy vegetables.
To uncover the mockery of convention and expectation. To encourage a child to think in whatever terms it wants and form its own opinions. I cannot let go of some things as I have been socially conditioned all my life and feel trapped inside this notion of what others expect of me. It’s all a pile of shit. A stubborn turd up conventions arse, only moving when a larger, more weighty turd gives me a stoolish push towards the light.
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Twenty-two
The big bang. Now this is weird. I recently read a book which stated that you can’t ask what caused the first particle to exist because before the big bang there was no time, space, energy or matter therefore nothing can cause anything. Nothing exists so there’s no point asking the question. I don’t know about you but that fucks with my head. How can something that doesn’t exist, create the universe? Does that mean that the universe doesn’t exist because that from which it evolved never existed? And if the universe doesn’t exist then it seems to follow that the Earth doesn’t exist, trees do not exist…in fact, my conclusion leads me to believe that I also do not exist and neither does Carol Smilie. Which at least is one pleasant aspect of this whole phenomenon.
It may have occurred to you that I am not too familiar with the science of quantum physics. It’s no wonder people believe in God. It’s not that this picture of creation is more credible, it’s just a lot fucking easier to get your head around. In actual fact though, it’s the scientists I believe, rather that the twelve pissheads who tagged along after realizing that if they stuck with the wacky bloke they’d get free wine and the occasional fish supper.
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Twenty-three
I had another dream last night. I was putting the dogs in the back of the car when a man knocked on my window, telling me that my little car, worth about
£200, was valuable. Apparently it had once belonged to a member of S-Club7. He pushed me into the passenger seat, hopped in and drove off. Here the dream turned quite unnerving. I couldn’t get out and told him to stop the car. He didn’t so I wound down the window and yelled for help. He then wound down his window and started yelling for help. The next thing I knew, we crashed through a shop window.
There was a wedding taking place inside the shop. My door suddenly opened and a large woman offered me some cake. The strange man walked around the car and, quite happily, we started dancing.
On a different note, I told me brother about the hormone problems I’d been suffering. He said it wasn’t a problem, he’d just start calling me Geoff.
Twenty-four
Most books I read these days are just old plots rehashed to disguise themselves as a new idea. People don’t like truly new ideas much. Are there really any new ideas anyway? I’m not so sure. Can a story be a story without a plot. I don’t see why not. Ideas can be interesting no matter how they’re pieced together. I think its quite fun when they’re not. I sit thinking about writing all day and it takes me til nine to actually sit myself infront of the computer and 25
actually do something. I wouldn’t say I’m lazy, I just sometimes get frightened that I’ve got nothing of interest to say. As you can probably tell. I wonder who would actually want to read what I have to write.
Should I really give a shit?
I used to glance over at some of the books on my bookcase and it inspired me to keep on going anyway.
I can’t believe some of that uninspiring turdy rubbish has ever been published. Who has sat in an office and thought, wow, that’s great, let’s publish it? I know I’m being naive and the marketing value of a book far outweighs its content but it still stuns me.
Twenty-five
We spent a Sunday by the canal, my friend and I.
There was a carnival on. It was a very low key affair but we weren’t too bothered. We enjoyed a couple of bottles of wine between us whilst lazing in the sun.
Her daughters spent the entire day telling her how much they hated her and wanted her dead but apart from that the day was quite blissful. I was experiencing a nice bout of pre-menstrual-tension so the wine went down a little bit too easily. We decided on the way home to call in on a chap in the village who was hosting a barbeque. Needless to say, we got carried away and the afternoon ended in a huge water fight, leaving his house covered in about two inches of tap water. We scared his girlfriend away as she couldn’t bear the thought of a drop of water spoiling her make-up. I felt a bit guilty actually but he didn’t mind at all. In fact he said she was a miserable fucker anyway. Poor chap will shag anything.
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Twenty-six
Taxiing down the runway seems to take forever. The gentle pull of the aircraft lulling us into a safe place before the nose lifts and we all fear we are not traveling fast enough. To those watching it is only a few seconds but time seems slower inside. As the wheels finally leave the ground I smile and I blink a reluctant tear back into my eye.
Twenty-seven
It’s a beautiful day today. The sun is shining and there’s a lovely breeze catching my hair, making it look even more ridiculous than it usually does. Why then, I ask myself, does every single person around me look fucking miserable? Admittedly, I’m in the middle of scumsville doing what shopping I can with the pittance of change I have in my pockets but even so, wake up! At least their hair’s not curling out in fashionable 80’s wings. I am again baffled. What are all these people so miserable about? They can’t all be going through some unspoken torture. Or maybe they are. Maybe they are all wondering what on earth their lives are all about, what useful things have they spent all those years on, what small thing they could possibly do to make a difference to someone else’s life, to the environment, to the betterment of the human species.
27
Call me what you like but something tells me they’re probably more likely to be thinking of what they’re going to have for their tea and how long they’ve got left on their car.
The people in this world never cease to amaze me.
Mainly by their stupidity but often by their unwillingness to view the world around them as a gift.
Why are a lot of people not content unless they have problems? No matter how satisfied, healthy or rich, they always find things to complain about, no matter how trivial. Also, the competitiveness I see on a daily basis makes me think people have forgotten about individuality. Why struggle and struggle to be just the same as everybody else? Where’s the fun in it?
Twenty-eight
Who am I?
It’s an odd question and not a particularly easy one. I know my name, my family background and so on but who am I when I strip away all of these things?
I’m lying in bed alone tonight. It’s all rather tranquil. I should sleep but my mind is ticking along with the bedside clock. I’ve got thinking about death again. I try not to admit it but I’m so scared of it. Not just my own death but the death of those around me. What’s the point? I remember both of my grandfathers with such love and fondness but who will remember them when our memories are gone? Who will know the love they gave, the joy, the way they were always so selfless? No-one. It will be forgotten. It makes me feel so very sad.
28
Twenty-nine
I’ve just sat and talked bollocks to an absolute fuckwit. This guy apparently knows all there is to know about fucking anything. Let me describe him.
He’s a little turd of a man with undeveloped morals coming out of his bum. None of his arguments hold anything resembling even an ounce of validity. When I questioned any of his comments, he cut me off by repeating the same words only much louder. Fucking moron. His main topic of conversation centred around his belief that there was such a thing as a higher being for the sole reason that he had cheated death on numerous occasions. The funniest thing was that, as if to prove a point, he then full off his bar stool and cut his head open on a nearby table. Yeah right. Captain fucking Invinsible.