I passed all my exams except one. I have to do a resit in August where failing will result in an extra work load at best and redoing the entire year at worse. I feel I should be really torn up about this.
But I have a typewriter, so that makes it ok.
that I want to run to India and show up at your door with a pack of cigarettes and a need for a couch to sleep on. I feel like my life’s taking off and I know that even though business class looks tempting, I’d much rather prefer to slum it with the cargo.
I’m hungry with the want to not sleep and live out these quiet hours alone. I’m breathless with anticipation. I’m going going gone and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.
The double bass man hunches over the neck of his plaything, eyes closed in the deepest of concentrations. The saxophonist is doing similar; eyes shut tight as his fingers whir magic and the trombonist inflates his cheeks more than the red faced gasping for air trumpeter. Solos come and go with an applause and yelling from behind. the drummer is the only one with eyes open, darting behind shining glasses to each player. The beat quickens, the cymbals hiss and roar their way to a climax and they all come together in a catastrophically brilliant melody that bites and sooths and lulls and pierces with bebop that sends shivers round my blood. I close my eyes and bite my fingerprints away in the intensity. I’m in the fifties. I’m nursing a beer with the coolest cats in town and I’m loving it. The music sways round me and wraps me up and engulfs me. When I open my eyes the musicians are all smiling and looking at each other. The beat slows and things draw to an end and their so amazingly happy and proud and my chest and guts exploded. The last warble from the trombone dies and the small crowd whoops and cheers for as long as they can before the next song starts up again. And I’m lost.
The two cats in the front clap and shake their heads. They dig it.
Pedal to the floor screeching acceleration through the deep wide open expanse of asphalt and cigarettes with the rat a tat tattling of something we hope will hold and we know it will for the sole reason that we’re hoping and yelling with the wind in our hair and fire in our souls with mosquitoes graveyarding their intestines in our vision and the hot choking nights of frayed leather and smoking rubber that fill our nostrils with the blind sense of adventure because fuck yes world, here we come.
I hopped a fence today. It was ten past six in the morning and I saw a fence that I always wanted to hop, so I hopped it. It led down a grassy knoll to the underbelly of a bridge littered with shopping trolleys poised like art. The sun shone colder as it grew higher but it wasn’t cold yet and I laid on the dew ridden grass that plagued the back of my head with cow licks. And I looked at the sky and smoked my hundredth cigarette that day/night/morning and smiled with electro leaking from my ears.
And there was no one else there. No one saw me.
I could be lying.
But I’m not. And that’s what makes this so fantastic.
Think I should move the wardrobe here?
If you want. I think it’d be better if you threw up some posters or a desk or something. There’s nothing in here.
I like it like this.
Fair enough. But my room has everything I need.
That’s because you live in your room.
Yeah, but that’s because it’s hard to live in the same flat as you.
And he just looks at me. I really want to tell him how frustrating it is to come home and find the TV blaring and him asleep on the couch rubbing his sweaty feet into my socks. It’s annoying waking up and finding the TV left on all night. Plates everywhere, stepping into old pizza boxes, my food eaten, my shower gel used, yelling at people, stealing the remote. He’s a chore. He’s high maintenance. He’s my brother and one of the reasons I want to leave this whole bloody country is so I don’t have to sit and be embarrassed by him and his attempts at jokes as he sits there bouncing on the couch that I fixed while he sat by not even lifting a fucking finger. God. Honestly. I was trying to write a post about my Dad and my Mum wanting me to go into accounting, to waste all this perfect life with studying a subject that will keep me comfortable in later life. Just comfortable. What if I don’t want to be comfortable? What if I’m happy with scraping by? I have £30 to last me until the end of the month. I’ve been smoking three cigarettes a day and borrowing off anyone I can find until I can pay for them again. I’m eating economy food and making a packet of bacon last for dinner for the week. Comfortable isn’t really an option right now. And I like that.
I don’t like coming in after such a fucking long day at work and wanting nothing more than to watch that film that’s on only tonight and no other night, and finding that I have to sit there and watch three monotonous hours of Grand Theft Auto which would be interesting if it weren’t the fact that my brother has an unhealthy fixation with killing everything.
Well then, he says, why are you still here?
I want to tell him I’m working on it. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. And I will.
Oh, turns out this is my hundredth post, and not the one I thought previously. But since I already thought it was gone and wasted I might as well just waste this one too.
Wait a sec.
Not yet.
…
…
There we go.
5 things you didn’t know about me:
1. I am right handed, but where my watch on my right wrist. This makes me so cool.
2. I have a dead uncle. I never knew him in any other way apart from Knuncky Kevin and Gum, my first word. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.
3. Girls want me and guys want to be me. This is actually sometimes true, but I always find it so surprising to discover it again that I have to tell people.
4. I’m not really that vain. I pretend because sometimes it’s funny, and my God no one realises how much it pisses me off when they try to bring me down because I seem content with myself. I know that no song will ever be written about me.
5. I don’t like people touching me.
In return, I tag: Catherine, Rob, Carol-Louise and Stuart.
chocolate in my bedsheets and hair everywhere. My desk is littered with notes and newspapers from two weeks previous, but I find a pen with ease. It’s always easy to find a pen near me, whether it’s on my desk, in my bag, or being pulled from my pocket as a notebook is slammed against a tree because I just can’t get this idea out fast enough. I dropped that pen though. I had another idea and fumbled between the pen and the bottle I was holding. The bottle won, thankfully. I have a dozen pens but Jack is few and far between these days. Contrary to that statements stands the two bottles that lie at my feet and that make me shudder with a delightful sickness every time I throw a mouthful back. I stub my toe on one of these bottles and there’s a blinding flash of pain like a camera and I slur together a smile as I think about all the pictures I have, for once I took pictures of things and now I can remember it all with megapixelated clarity. I knock into the mouthwash that we huffed for fun and to see if we could get high, I crush a cigarette laced with skunk with my toes and thud one arm off my door, the pen tearing into the paper that I placed up there as I tick off item after item of tasks that I need to do over the summer. I lose the pen when I step back and smile greedily at the mess I’ve made, and I smile oh so fucking widely that I can fuck myself up and heal and stand on breaking shins and see that I’ve tackled a large chunk of my summer goals in one godawfully amazing week.
