So, like most people who aren’t married yet, or have nothing better to do (don’t know any different), or are running (towards, or, away from) a lifetime of GUILT: I am back (alone) at my parents house (with my younger brother a convenient (for who?) 5 minute walk away, on his second mortgage, with his pregnant wife and cat (who I had to go round and feed earlier whilst they were at work)). All the brackets are supposed to distract you from the cripplingly pathetic self-pity. So, who gives a fuck? Precisely: No one. What Do I have to moan about? Nothing. But I also have no one around that I can talk to. Thanet is a CULTURAL BLACK HOLE. Everyone I have met who has been spawned from this part of the world has nervously laughed it off in the same way.
Why am I drinking Sloe Gin? Why did I think I could use this week to quit smoking? Why did I stop writing in character? And where are you? I have never met anyone so clueless as to the extent of torment they have the ability to subject people to. No, no. Not just me. I may be graced with an access all areas pass but that just means that I am closer than most to the front of the line. The guillotine. The Chop. My back is against the wall and when your tongue isn’t down my throat it is whispering sweet nothings into the executioner’s ear. And then, you slip back the hood, and as I strain to look behind me (and it is a strain), I know who it is. Instantly. But you’ve drugged them so heavily they wouldn’t even dare question you. And for a second I think I see them nod in my direction, knowingly. But then I see where your hands are.
I don’t trust TV. Who does these days? But people have told me about The Killing. I’ve been sat writing this for 15 minutes (I’m learning how to use this fucking iPad (I know, I know) and Cath is asleep (this is the highlight of their week) and all Dad has said is ” …she doesn’t get her kit off very often.”
What do I do? Fulfil my destiny and watch Match Of The Day 2 before slitting my own throat all down the abhorrently appropriate carpet (and matching Cat)? Call you again (my hands are tied so tightly to the prophecy)… Or force another glass of test tube friendly Christmas Sloe Gin down, put my Christmas jumper back on and head out into the night in the hope that at least somewhere in this god awful place is still open. And sells cigarettes. Or at least something interesting might be lurking in the shadows.
Merry Christmas, Motherfuckers. See you on the other side.