I got a free membership in the mail the other day for some nightclub. They spelt my name wrong. Even so, I was excited to actually receive something in the mail. I felt like they had gone out of their way to send me this membership to a club I’ve never heard of and I felt it would be an insult to them if I did not go. It triggered feelings of acceptance and comfort, I felt like people actually wanted to see me, like I was loved and needed, I felt like that if I were to opt not to go then the entire club would be disappointed, that the DJ would kill the music and announce that my presence would not be felt, there would be a collective “Aww” and then in the back a girl would start her slow lonely sobbing, I felt all of these things before I realized, just how damn lonely have I become, that a membership to a club that I didn’t apply to, my name spelt wrong and everything, made me feel like I had friends?
Damn it made me want to shoot myself. For being suckered in the first place and not having my defenses up, for being so vulnerable that I would lie to myself. It made me think, how desperate am I? Honesty is not always the best policy, especially when you are critiquing yourself.
And don’t, I repeat, don’t you fucking dare call me and tell me you are my fiend. I know you are. I am aware that at the moment we are a little estranged, it’s not your fault and it’s most likely mine. I still love you, but at the moment, I just don’t feel like actively doing it.
I am really enjoying scars on people at the moment. I just saw a guy with the classic stitches’ scar, a line down the middle of two rows of dots. I like the way that human skin will keep a memory of a moment, even when the human brain does not. I went to roller derby on the weekend and sat behind a girl who had scars all over her, both knees, her arm. I sat behind her trying to piece together what had happened, was it a car crash I wondered, or perhaps a bicycle accident. Was she drunk, who was there and what did they use to stem the flow of blood? There is a girl that serves me at my local sandwich shop and she has a scar on her cheek and jaw and her face is very asymmetrical, I can’t work out whether something violent happened or it is corrective. I find her strangely alluring, she is beautiful and there is no doubt about it.
I read the term ‘bacon sarnie’ last week and have not been able to get it out of my fucking head. Bacon sarnie bacon sarnie, round and round it goes. Then watching Top Gear last night James May used the term. It was like someone had filled a very specific hole in my mind.
So my doctor told me the other day that perhaps I have an obsessive compulsive thing going on with food at the moment. Like comfort eating. I eat a shit load. I then have to shit a shit load. I’m like a baby, I eat, poop and am permanently disgruntled. I have milk breath. I think my doctor is right though. I eat compulsively. I have discovered this stuff called “Branston pickles” which is not really a chutney, not really a spread. I’ll tell you what it is though, and that’s fucking delicious. I have been making egg and bacon sarnies with a bit of Branstons thrown in. Oh man, I could compulsively eat one now. Damn they are good.
The down side to all of this though is that when I pee I have to lean forward slightly if I want to see my penis. Meh, there are worse things.
No comments:
Post a Comment