They wouldn’t let me have my holidays at work so I pulled a sickie. My excuse was far too ridiculous and far too obvious for them to think I could possibly be lying. I toyed with being inventive but then thought fuck it and rang in with a cold. I always thought repetitive burning diarrhea or thick, clotting menstrual bleeding were good for the no questions asked excuse but I really don’t give one.
I’ve not cried for a while. I’ve become rather harsh. I can’t tell yet whether or not this is a good change. I’ve been a pussy for ages.
Eighty-one
Can there be anything ruder than sitting in your friends home during a housewarming party, eating the fantastic food they have engineered and drinking 71
countless cans of lager out of the magic self-filling fridge and ignoring everyone whilst texting someone on your mobile phone? I have found myself standing in a room where I counted at least eight people doing this. The party wasn’t boring by any means but people don’t seem to be able to function properly anymore without typing letters into their ultra-modern, newly upgraded phone. I’d call them Neanderthals but I have respect for Neanderthals.
Eighty-two
I’ve brought very little with me, considering. I wondered exactly what to bring. I couldn’t bring it all with me. It was a matter of choice. I can’t remember what I’ve left now even though it’s only been a few hours. Never mind. I’m sure it won’t matter. I didn’t realize how much people traveling abroad actually carried until I stood in a queue with them all struggling to lug their cases forward with their knees.
Geoff Capes would be proud of some of them. How much stuff can you use in the space of a week? Mind you, half of it is probably the bacon and teabags British people usually take abroad with them in case foreign countries don’t actually have any food or god forbid, any PG Tips.
Eighty-three
I’m not sure if I love someone or not. For most people, this wouldn’t be too much of a problem. In many cases, it would probably be an exhilarating 72
experience. Falling in love. The trouble is I’ve been in love with this person for years. I don’t know why or when I started to feel different. I only know that one day I noticed I wasn’t sure how I felt any more. We hadn’t had a row or fallen out. We hadn’t been through a bad patch. It just sort of happened. I can’t really get my head around how I’m feeling so trying to explain it to that other person is the hardest thing of all. I don’t want to leave. At least I don’t think I do.
Yet I don’t know how much longer I will be able to stay if my feelings stay in this state of limbo. My life would be very lonely without you.
Eighty-four
I worked in a cinema for a while. It wasn’t a taxing job and consisted mainly of watching films all day.
Thinking about it I don’t know why I quit. Yes I do.
They wanted me to work through the night at the opening of the new Star Wars film dressed as an Ewok. I’m five foot eight. Kind of defeats the object.
Anyway, before I quit I had a great time. One morning a couple of my colleagues and I rolled into work early on a Saturday morning. We’d been out the night before after finishing late and rounded the evening off by going back to someone’s house for a couple more drinks. I went to sleep. For twenty minutes. I was woken up by somebody saying ‘quick, we’ll be late’ and thrusting an orange juice at me. I gulped it down. Nice orange juice. Would have been better without the vodka in it. My supervisor wasn’t best pleased but considering I was seeing him at the time he knew it was in his best interest’s to turn a blind eye. He tended to do that quite a lot. However, 73
sliding down the bannister shouting whoopi kind of gave me away. I was going to get sacked. I knew it.
But for some obscure reason, my boss approached me with a bunch of leaflets and said ‘can’t have you lot in here in this state, go and stand outside Asda and hand these out. Come back when you’re sober’. Top fucking boss but not being the type of people to take advantage, we sat in the Asda café and had breakfast.
Eighty-five
People who interfere should be interfered with.
Why don’t women want to be women? In body and in mind. Everywhere I look I see women trying to deny the fact that they are women. Desperate to be seen as girls they try and postpone womanhood as long as possible as if it’s a disease. Women longing for a flatter chest, narrower hips. Women walking around in hipster trousers and crop tops with bangles round their wrists. Bunches in their hair and childish hair accessories. Reading magazines which tell them what the celebrities are up to, which parties they’ve been to and what fashion disasters they have made. It seems to be something society is advocating. The control factor. Women who talk in childish voices and refuse to discuss anything that is actually relevant. They believe themselves to be modern and equal but it is not the case. Women are still considered the more vulnerable sex. The ones who need looking after. I think the truth is, most women wouldn’t want this to change. On surface level, yes. They can get as drunk as men and swear to their hearts content but when it comes to the fundamentals, where do they stand?.
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Eighty-six
I still feel cramped. Ah well. I’m usually fairly at home with long legs but now I begrudge them. No I don’t, I begrudge the money grabbing bastards that have wedged me in here so that they can fit an extra row in. I shouldn’t complain really. I should be grateful I’m actually flying through thin air. What would people have made of this a few years ago? I feel like I’ve been sat here for a hundred years. Time.
I never really have been able to figure that one out.
Eighty-seven
Trivial music. Not to confuse the issue, I don’t mean peaceful or even simple music but music that is just pure drivel. Lyrics that could have been written by my dogs and a rap interval that sounds like someone is suffering a mental episode. It’s a great con, how such dreadful artists can actually convince people that they are actually any good. Mind you, marketing helps.
Even so, why would you listen to a babble of nonsensical, trivial garbage and come to the conclusion that these people are contributing something useful to the world. Fuck off.
Women who speak in pre-pubescent voices and sing ridiculous love songs. Desperate.
75
Why people don’t talk about anything that actually matters.
Day to day life. What does it all mean? I haven’t got a fucking clue. The frightening thing is I believe it means absolutely nothing.
Do you sometimes get so bogged down in the mundanity of life that you want to scream? I know I do. Watching everyone around me acting like robots, engaging in moronic repetitive conversations. I sometimes feel so isolated and alone and often the more people are around, the worse the feeling gets. It feels like Invasion of the Body Snatchers but more invasion of the mind snatchers. I’m reminded of bad zombie movies. Am I so different? Surely not. Other people must think about things a bit more deeply than they let on. I’m afraid it’s a small minority. It sometimes makes me cry.
Eighty-eight
Sheep. Peaceful creatures. Wandering around a pasture, eating grass all day, stopping and looking around once in a while and then spotting a nice piece of grass to dine on. It seems a happy life for them.
Until someone takes it away from them.
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Eighty-nine
I can see my bloodshot eyes staring back at me in this light which is too bright. Too honest. I find peace in this tiny, enclosed space although I know I can only stay in here a minute. People are waiting. People are always waiting. For something. For someone to say to them ‘go ahead’. Without the words the waiting continues. There’s something about the washrooms on an aircraft. Sterile yet only if you go in them early on in the flight. Later, the sinks are splashed with water and tiny wisps of bathroom tissue dance along the floor.
The light’s not very flattering in here. Mind you, this is just what I might look like at 30,000 feet or so. I don’t know why I’m worried. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I made that decision some time ago.
It’s much nicer not having to pretend.
I’m getting to know this face. It’s taken a long time. I don’t particularly like it but I know it, which is intriguing. Three sheets of tissue and my hands are nearly dry. I touch my eyes with the moisture that’s left. It’s cold but it doesn’t help. My tears were too deep. My clothes are creased but beyond salvaging. A couple of blank faces greet me as I exit and I wonder if this is how I look to them. A blank face. I suddenly have an urge to find a felt-tip pen, run back in to the toilet and emerge as a clown.
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