Sunday, 28 December 2014


She baby-talked down the phone to me as I trod on the pedal of the dustbin. She was saying some soft words about how much she loved me; I was peeling a carrot into the bin with the cordless phone crooked in-between my head and shoulder. It all felt a bit much. Her perfectly powdered matte skin was desperate to attract me, but all I wanted was to crawl inside the dustbin, close the lid, and die.

She said god had told her we were to be together. That I could try and fight it, but one day we'd end up together. I mumbled about not wanting to fight anyone. I mumbled about not being sure. I mumbled because I didn't want to hurt anybody. I mumbled because I didn't want to turn her down. I mumbled because I didn't know how to say no. And so, and so, and so... and so... and so it goes.

I close my eyes to dull the specks of rage, every time she tells someone how much we are still in love. I close my eyes and drift off, every time she recites the days since we've been married. I mumble in agreement each and every time. Because now, I'm dead. Dead inside. Instead of dead inside a dustbin.

Tuesday, 23 December 2014

The story of my descent

As I tumble, I see all that my mind can see. 
From when I was only three, learning how to pee, 
Up till thirty-three, still learning how to be. 
Each stair my body crashes against is another blow to my soul. I spent my entire life on and off the dole, not knowing my life's role, trying desperately not to fold. Yet now all I feel, is cold.

My foot teeters on the edge of the staircase. My balance wavers and my heel slips off the top step. Did he push me? Or did I fall on my own accord?

Time stops going forward and goes in every direction. Memories don't link linearly. They're a mash of threads all wrapping around a central point. They trigger countless others as you pick at them, like a spider walking across its web.

I saw what I needed to see. And all the things I never wanted to see again. I saw it all. The tears I shed for boys who treated me like dirt. The tears of joy when I first held him in my arms. The tears when my 'friends' didn't pick me for their volley-ball team. The constant steady stream of tears when I had no real fears, just felt emotional for no apparent reason. Tears, so many tears. Until I had no more, and was just laying, gasping on the floor, doubled over and sore, with nothing left inside me any more. 

I saw them laughing at me. Arguing with me. Rolling their eyes. It flooded back a myriad of memories. It was all so happy at the start, meeting all these new people. I rode his coattails again of course to find them. For years we built friendships. But then, familiarity breeds contempt. I'd sucked the sweetness down to the sour centre. Everyone stopped listening to me and stopped taking me seriously. They all turned against me. Even him. 

He was my best friend. My entire world. Everything I did I got his approval for, and his opinion on. Everything he did I followed. He was my confidant. My protector. We knew each other better than we could possibly know anyone else. But something simmered under the surface. 

We were sitting at the kitchen table. He said he was full. I prodded his belly and told him food had nothing to do with it. He was already full, so why stop now? It was so long ago I barely recalled saying it, but now I could see it all again as clearly as watching a movie. I noticed the glimmer of hurt and sadness in his face as he picked up the fork and stared into the food on his half-filled plate. A fraction of a second later and he was old, fat, depressed, and shovelling food inside his mouth, with tears running down his cheeks. 

I noticed friend's faces as I told them the same exact story again and again. As I piled upon them my woes. The first time, when they showed genuine worry. The second time, when they nodded politely. And the third time, where they stared off in the distance thinking about something else. Why did I tell them the same worries over and over? They gave the same advice each time and I never followed it or grew as a person. Just kept worrying. And what simple worries they seem now. No wonder they are sour now, as I chipped each layer down every time I opened and closed my mouth. 

He said he wanted to be an opera singer and I laughed at him. He said he wanted to dance and I questioned his interest in women. He said he wanted to be happy and I threw in his face a list of reasons why he should  already be happy, how ungrateful he was, how selfish. I found him curled up in the cupboard under the kitchen sink once. He didn't want to come out. I told him to stop being stupid and dragged him out by his ankles. Why didn't I ask what was wrong? Or how I could help? My memories were not kind. My memories are worse than I remembered. I saw the fear flash on his face when I opened the cupboard door. He was afraid of me, but I had no idea. 

Eventually I hit the bottom landing and came crumpled to a stop. My mind, exhausted of all its memories began to float above it all. Painlessly it watched the broken body, collapsed upon the floor. It watched as no one came to help. I knew why, I accepted it, I didn't analyse it or worry about it. Perhaps I have atoned now. Perhaps I have given him release. The stars are out. The cicadas are crying a mournful song in the dark blue moonlight. A possum crawls along the front fence, pauses a moment as if it sees me, then continues slower than before. The dew on the grass is glistening. Life goes on. I'll leave them to live it. 

Sunday, 21 December 2014

A Rat Utopia

He drove to work and no one waved at him in his car. He walked through the door and said "hello" and someone grunted in return. He typed away in front of his machine for four hours and then took a small lunchbox from his bag. He ate his lunch and then typed for another four hours before saying to no one in particular "goodbye". He drove home and no one waved at him in his car. He mowed his front lawn and the one person who walked by, meandered off the footpath and onto the road to avoid him. Their eyes met briefly and the passer-by grimaced in instant regret. He put the mower away and went inside to watch the television. The man on the tv said "good evening", he said "good evening" back. He stared at the man on the tv until he came to the conclusion that the man's face was made of plastic. He went to the bathroom mirror to preen himself and then had a quick shower and went to bed. In the morning he woke up, had cereal and drove to work and no one waved at him in his car.


I can't even bring myself to care any more. When the barren ground drags through the back of my mind, and everything in front is a wasteland of sameness. Who gets off on this shit? As if we could stay here forever, trudging through the dust. It doesn't take long to see all you want, and the shit you haven't seen you couldn't care less about.

I remember sitting in your room. There were two single beds along opposite walls, and we sat facing each other. We listened to a new album by one of our current favourite artists and we threw ideas around about what we'd do with our lives, as the words opened up our minds to new possibilities. Back when I was interested. Back when I'd listen to an album without finding a problem with it. Back when I wasn't too busy worrying about inconsequential every day things. Our tiny troubles melted into the walls we leant our backs upon. Everything was in front of us then, but now everything is behind.

We sold our childhood for a meagre price, because we had no idea what we were selling.

Friday, 19 December 2014

She held sandwiches in her fat flaps, and my heart in her bosoms

She was looking bored, with narrowed eyes cast eternally to the phone screen she held just below the table's edge.

"Thanks for coming over tonight, I uh..." he began awkwardly and trailed off when she gave him no response. "I think you're fit!" he blurted all of a sudden in an effort to catch her attention. It seemed to work, as her rate of tapping momentarily slowed, but she didn't bring herself to look up.

"I just wanted the free food. I thought your mum would make something better than this." Without looking up, her shoulders gesticulated toward the food upon the table; her tapping resumed its regular pace. "You promised me she was a good cook."

"I think she tries hard," he stammered, "but she's a bit slower these days, what with the cancer and all."

She brought her phone above the table as if she was about to make eye contact with him. "You don't know anything. My dad had cancer one time and he didn't suddenly get shit at cooking."

"No, no. Of course not. Mum, in future, please cook something better. Next time we'll want..."

"There won't be a next time," she cut him off with a sidewards glance at his mother who sat silent and emotionless at the end of the table.

"Oh. Mum, i-in that case, never mind... never mind about that."

"Help me up," she said, "I want to leave now." She raised her two bulbous arms out as if she was riding an invisible Harley Davidson, or as if a shag on a rock with its wings outstretched. He dutifully ran around the table to help her to her feet, lifting her bulk like one would an invalid, with his elbows hooked under her armpits.

"A-are we still on for Thursday?" he asked.

"Thursday?" she repeated.

"My hair appointment, you know, I get my hair cut by you every week on Thursday."

"I don't book appointments, you have to talk to the receptionist."

"It's already b... you're right I'll ring her, thank-you, th-thanks for coming. See you on Thursday! Maybe. Maybe on Thursday."

Canaliculus to the point of the ridiculous

Cancerous lips that wrap around you like a fish, pull at the tips and twist and twist and twist.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

No Cunters for Grunters

That fool.

That fool that pressed up against me and thought she was so clever.

She wasn't wearing a bra under her lace-patterned blouse. It seemed like she wanted me to notice, so I did.

I did, but I didn't like it.

She reminded me of all the girls I went to high school with. The ones that liked to press themselves against the boys and undress to their knickers. They'd hold cameras at arms length and pout perfectly like they were impossibly good at life. And they were. Blissfully ignorant, comfortable with their own stupidity, and loving all the lusciousness that life had offered up to them. It always seemed to offer a better menu to them than the one I got. I used to think we were all in the same restaurant and I'd simply been given the wrong menu, but it turns out I wasn't even in the same suburb. I was out in the boondocks with my face in a pig's trough, snorting through scraps and pushing through piles of shit.

Wednesday, 10 December 2014

The Edge of a Well-Trimmed Hedge

She played cups whilst I had a sudden onset of unpredictable diarrhea.

Her fingers twirled and teetered against each glass lip, squeaking and screeching away, whilst in the toilet my bowels were turning themselves inside out.

If I could sit here and think a moment, then perhaps I'd come to the realization that I was doing everything wrong.

If I had a moment to myself without all this screeching and diarrhea, then perhaps I'd have time to kill myself.

Instead I'm sitting here googling Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Living Life Without a Gallbladder, and The Top Ten Reasons Why Brad Dumped Jennifer.

What will I do if I lose all mobility? Will I drown in my own diarrhea?

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Renée Zellweger stole my face

I don't even have a foot print any more.

I'm so underground the girls can't even find me.

The ones that stumble by don't even notice me. I'm hidden. Hidden by walls and walls of excess fat, grey hair, hair in weird places. It's a balaclava that inspires indifference at best, and slight revulsion at worst. Mainly the former. I blend into the indifference afforded to the middle aged.

When I was young I wished for super powers. Who wouldn't want to be invisible? But then, when you are, you don't know what you want any more.

Imagine waking up one day and seeing your face on the red carpet. A celebrity has "taken it too far" and become a "plastic surgery disaster". Twitter is going bananas. Lines are drawn in the sand over whether its a horrible mistake or simply a bad joke. Yet all you see is your face, paralysed by botox, sitting on someone else's shoulders. How 'ugly' the media cries, how could they 'ruin' their good looks. How could they turn themselves into this monster?

And so here I am now, laying on the floor, with an ego the size of ant sperm, sucking the top of a tipped over wine bottle. What are the chances.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

What to do when a pedo looks longingly at you

They pick at them like weeds. Wrap them up in their fingers. Twist them and pull them. Remove their snugness with their smugness. 
His sticky tobacco grin flashed black gums and crooked teeth. A chanced glance, that revealed his true intentions. A longing stare that lingered just too long.

On we went without a word, just a weirdness between us.
Discard them and leave them to wither. But those weeds keep growing no matter how you've cut them. 

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

He may have worn the Reebok pumps but I called the shots

"PUMP IT UP!" I cried, for I was their king.

They would come to my kingdom, orphaned daily by their parents, seeking shelter and a home. My mother would feed them, and send them out the backyard to play.

I would command them, boss them, coerce them and manipulate them. They would do my bidding exactly as I asked. I would tell them to jump on the trampoline and count until eleventy-four, and they would jump on the trampoline and count to eleventy-four.

They would ask me for food, and I might give it.

They would ask if they were allowed toilet, and I may grant it.

Or sometimes...

Sometimes I would tell them to sit down and bounce their bum on the ground until the sensation passed. Until they had beat their sphincter into submission.

"Can I please go to the toilet?" they would cry.

I would consider it a second, as if I were being magnanimous. Then I would scream my response at them:


Friday, 31 October 2014

Barque of a twee

I hear a voice outside as I pull up another.

The voices outside mock me.

A girl squeals. Guys laugh. Voices so happy.

Lives enriched by being social.

And here I am ripping up another thread out of my carpet. Watching the line disappear in zig-zags.

I'm using his pen to write. Like some kind of ill-gotten and gnarled tree root of an erection which he uses to pleasure his wife's feet.

Rotting disposable shit.

I wish I was a rich girl.

It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone
It's quiet                                                                     I'm alone

The Ice-Cream Man

"Good afternoon Ricky. It's a swelter!" he declared to the little boy waiting patiently at the side of his ice-cream van. Ricky stepped back as he raised the struts on the canopy. He seemed a moral citizen. Uniformed, clean shaven, grey haired. The children didn't know his name - he was only ever called The Ice-Cream Man.

"Yep, lotsa kinds want ice-cream today," he enthused, as he climbed behind the counter and looked out over the sun-drenched park. Ricky nodded, his money already held out eagerly in front of him. "Chocolate... double scoop!" said Ricky. And his wish was granted; with a product so cold a mist of condensation twirled around his fingers.

The Ice-Cream man was an adherent to the magic of yesteryear. Waffle cones were sparsely sighted. He preferred the old style cones with one, two or three receptacles. He took pride in his fairly standard flavours - no modern fashionable gimmicks such as salted caramel or candy crushed into the cream. These were home made ice-creams. He didn't much believe in preservatives or additives. Not for ice-cream. When it stays so cold and sells so quick.

Wangers and mash

Misery is like a pool of water floating all around you. You wallow in it, you splash it all over everyone close by. It drains away slowly through the cracks in your mind, leaving pools all over the place. You can't climb out of it, and struggling is futile.

Manifest Breastiny

Why does everything feel so useless? So ultimately pointless? Nothing lasts forever, sure, and yet things that last a long time are revered by most cultures. Mountains, pyramids, the sun or stars themselves. Yet, even those wont be there forever. They are no more permanent than us, they just have a slower transition to impermanence. And if, not even mountains exist forever, stars blow apart and our very own sun heads towards obliteration, then what does it matter what we do? Not many people will care or find much evidence of my life by the time the sun destroys the earth. Hardly anyone particularly cares what I do now at this present time. So why then should I? Why should I meter out my desires by the wants of other people or by my own internal morality pressed upon me when I was a child?

If there is no invisible, omniscient and omnipotent God, whom maintains ownership of me and this planet, which I'm plainly convinced there isn't, then why should I not do what I want, exist how I want? When I am nothing but an echo in dust, another faceless nameless ancestor of anonymity, I won’t care. I wont rage on what humanity has become nor gnash my teeth against my own regrets. I will be nothing but an echo, long forgotten, non-existent. A ripple of cause and effect in time. How long till humans destroy themselves, inevitable, and then? Nothing. Life is pointless. We strive to get somewhere that ultimately is no where. And for what? Respect of peers? And at what expense? Our happiness and enjoyment of what little time we have. All to make money. Working nine hour days, clocking in at 8AM and out at 5PM, stressing about business which isn’t even ours. Getting abused for other peoples failures, losing our due credit to other people who do not deserve it. Paying 43% tax on our hard earned income and paying another 10% on all the goods and services we purchase. Why work or worry about what you earn when you lose 50% anyway? Every which way you turn somebody is fucking you over.

Being rich, being poor. That doesn't matter. We strive our guts out to make this money, so we can buy better TV’s, so we can afford couscous instead of cold beans. It’s all just a distraction. Work hard, your quality of life improves, your family loves you more, you can afford better holidays, and then perhaps you’ll be truly happy. Unlikely. True happiness is a myth. All there is these days is varying degrees of comfort. You sit around basking in the glow of your high definition television and DVD player, ears beating to the surround sound entertainment package, mouths filled with exotic sweet tasting foods. You feel comfortable sitting next to your wife, near your children. You call it love. You call it happiness. It’s comfort. Lulled into a distracted contentment where thinking about the bigger picture, or life’s scary questions, is pushed right out of your brain.

We’re programmed to get to twenty, or at best twenty-five. After that, each year is luck. As cells replicate and we deteriorate, that’s it, there’s no turning back time. There’s no pause button while we get things done. Does it matter? Living fast, dying young or meting out your existence slowly, dying at 90 in a nursing home, either way ends the same. It matters to you? You’ll be remembered for living fast and dying young? Maybe, but do you think you’ll care when you’re dead. Nothing matters after that. You might live the most impressive life ever, die thinking you’ll be remembered, but for how long? At best a few hundred years. Or you might be like Jesus and likely be remembered until the extinction of the human race. It won’t bring you back. It won’t give you eternal life. You’ll still be nothing. Maybe your organs will live on in someone else, or atoms of your matter be ingested by something else. This does not mean living on when everything that makes you you, your memories, your way of thinking, your personality, will be gone forever.

So as the universe expands until exhaustion, collapses in on itself once more only to be reborn in yet another big bang. Will everything occur the same way again? Will we be born a second time, and do everything the exact same way. Is that what “fate” is, because we've done it a trillion times before and are destined to repeat it forever. Perhaps. In which case I was meant to do everything bad I've ever done in my life and I certainly shouldn't feel bad about it. Especially considering the fact I've done it before and I’ll do it again. One must wonder how it all started in the first place and why it keeps continuing. If there are trillions of planets and stars in the universe, the question isn't how, but why. A question which will never be answered by man. No matter what, we won’t, as a species, survive long enough to see out any important machinations of the cosmos. So in that case, why care? Why bother worrying about something that you will never know. It all comes back to everything being useless. So ultimately pointless.

Why be happy, why be sad, just be, until you die. That’s the best you can do.

Ain't got Nyx

At this point in your life, middle age, everyone's wondering the same thing:

How to stay young forever, how to achieve immortality. 

Is it through these screaming angst-ridden larvae which spawned from a forced and loveless marriage? Is it by jotting down every thought... freezing yourself... killing as many people as you can... making yourself rich and powerful... curing cancer...?

Of course you'll realize most of these are fruitless.

Jotting down every thought takes too long, won't help anything, and you've started forgetting memories by now anyway. The pictures in your mind are fading to yellow, fraying round the edges, making you question events. And no one reads anything these days anyway.

Freezing yourself - in the vain hope that someday someone will unfreeze you. That the company you choose to house your corpse won't go bankrupt, lose power, or go on fire. That you will be chosen to be awoken and all of your memories will somehow be intact.

The only option is killing as many people as you can. Sure you have to deprive others their own chance of immortality in the process. But its worth it, right? You have to be selfish to want to live forever anyway, and the only reason they didn't go this route themselves is because they don't have the guts. Forget the fact you've just caused pain to hundreds of people. You've just changed the shape of the future in a real and tangible way. Think of all the children that won't be born thanks primarily to your hands. All the future generations. Now that's an impact far more potent than having one or two children is.

He answered me stochastically

A flash of light and its all over,
Ne'r to see the cliffs of Dover.
Receding, it tears flesh from bone,
Sinews snap, lose colour tone.

Do the blind store memories with pictures,
In their heads, like movie flickers?
Or do the memories become like sounds,
and smells, like telephones and coffee grounds?


For those of you who have never been torn apart by wolves, let me explain to you what it feels like.

The Anger Forces Engravings

When she died, I knew my life was empty. There was nothing to hide the void any longer. No distractions to keep me from looking down.

They always say in movies to look up, 'don't look down'. Don't look down or you'll fall.

What happens when there's no one to look up at any more?

You let go and descend into the blackness.

The well of despair swallows you and the light at the top gets smaller and smaller as you fall down. Until it's just a pin prick. Until perhaps it's gone all together and you're just convincing yourself it's still there.

Everyone says you've hit rock bottom.

But there's no bottom. No rocks to be smashed against. You just keep falling into blackness. Overwhelmed by fear and despair, you can grasp at nothing. That's when you know your life was empty, that it was pointless and pathetic - or at least, so you think, so you feel and so you treat it.

Perhaps everyone's life is just as pathetic. Just as empty. Just as unfulfilled. But simply more enjoyable due to money, possessions or due to simplicity, ignorance or both.

But it doesn't seem that way at all. With jealousy and spite you will abhor them. Castigate them. Slander them. As if it will make you feel any better.

I've fallen for so long, the light is so small, I can no longer tell whether I'm falling toward it or away from it. Like a single star, it twinkles in the distance, forever unreachable and seemingly so fragile. It's like a candle dancing in a draft. Until it snuffs out.

Thursday, 23 October 2014


He was a real fourth album of a man: the first parts seemed okay, some may have even said mildly attractive, but the mid-section was mostly filler and unattractive padding, and the bottom was certainly not worth mentioning in the slightest. Overall, it was probably slightly above average, but still somehow disappointing in a way you couldn't quite put your finger on. Perhaps the fun was finally gone, the desperate need to be heard, to justify his own existence as a relevant voice. Instead it was now all about being comfortable; doing the day to day things because he was supposed to, not because he wanted to, and certainly not because he liked or enjoyed doing them. He'd run out of things to say, the angst had all but ebbed away, and all that was left pathetically paled in comparison to what came before. He was a silhouette of former glories, a real fourth album of a man.

Sandra showed her butt, son

You're fat and ugly, and your face was put on wrong and lumpy. Yet you still take more pictures of yourself in one week, than have been taken of me in my entire life.

I'd like to make you my wife.

Become my trouble and strife.

Income despairity

If I could leave my feelings here and drive.

I'd drive until the day I died.

Gingiva vagina

They weep in corners in the dark. Clutching their fake plastic baby dolls. Their gums grind and grate and gnash. For gravy. More gravy. All they want is gravy. And pudding and peas. And mashed potato.

Gum it all down with a chin that rises too far and a palate that slaps against your tongue.

Gum it all down like a wrinkled pink worm. Glabrescent. Edental.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

A green slip saying you're something

I was thinking of getting away. Driving south for several hours. Starving myself. Consuming my own misery. Taking in the sights. Seeing what once was, and never could be. Letting nostalgia ruin the skerrick of a soul still stirring inside me. Letting it all out: my blood and tears. Into a puddle of piss pouring out of my broken dreams.

Thursday, 16 October 2014

Ode to Kiora

Kiora, Kiora, 
I slipped it into your bottom drawer
And I drained it till you were poor
And I was sore

Oh Kiora Kiora, 
I am such a bore,
I have no idea why you keep coming back for more
Especially after it tore

I abhor the knock at my door,
You're just a whore, whose core I regrettably explored
Doing you became a chore
Your cunt's just no fun anymore
I'm better off sticking to my black booty 4sho

The weather man says clear today

How can you write about anything when you've never done anything? How can you tell a story when you haven't lived one? When you've just sat around feeling depressed day in, day out, because your life is miserable and fucked. When your average day is to wake up, work, go to bed, and do it all again the next day. When your weekends are recovering at home from the pain of being abused and put-down and made to feel generally shitty for five days per week. Two days to let the wounds scab over, before they're picked apart slowly again from 8:30 to 5. Where's the story there? You're nothing.

Just because you're miserable doesn't mean you have anything to offer the world.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

Tennisu Hime-Sama

I tried to read the words on her foot. I tried to work out the shade of blue on her nails. I tried to imagine us together. It wasn’t hard. I’d never argued with her, I was oblivious to all her annoying habits, I’d never seen her at her worst. I could have approached her. But why ruin a good thing? You can have your 45 dull years of marriage. I'll take 45 seconds or whatever I can get. With her. Even just to watch, Not ever to touch. No one could understand her like me. My tennis princess.

Not even her.

Thursday, 9 October 2014

Not even Carrie Mathison's version of a shower could clean me now

They sit warily in tired hotel suites. With unmade beds and clothes dropped perfectly upon the floor. The city lights are on, peering through the window at them, but no one looks back. The city seethes and stretches on beyond this microcosm of time. Where innocence is lost. Where their inner child runs and hides. My job was not to be their life coach, nor to be their mum or dad. I was here to make them a star.

Happy retirement: here, eat a dick

I worked until they said "goodbye, 
enjoy retirement, hope you don't die."

After twenty years they didn't even shake my hand. Didn't even buy me a bottle of wine. They looked annoyed when I told them I was leaving, not saddened, shocked or concerned. These people to whom I'd traded twenty years of my life, for what now seemed a pittance. At the time it seemed the good years would go on forever. It seemed an okay deal. But now, only aged and in ill health can you see how terrible a choice it was. How little they care about the robot downstairs turning the cogs that brings them their fancy cars and slick suits. They trick you, they make it seem like you're their friend. Their peer. Their protégé. Yet you're nothing to them. You're an inconvenience that turns their meat grinder; either you do it efficiently and are tolerated, or you do it inefficiently and become expunged. 

So the lunch barbeque wound down, the fifteen dollars worth of sausages had long since been consumed. I stood there alone looking out upon the world. Wondering what the rest of my life would hold. Wondering how long I'd live. I still had two days left to work, but I already felt like I was an outsider. Unwelcome in what for so long had been my home. How could I possibly make up for lost time now? I could barely drive any more. 

Was it too hard for them to say 'thank-you'? Was it too much for them to buy a card? 

Sunday, 5 October 2014

She's giving me good vibrations

I was out there again, on the front lawn, struggling not to finish. The neighbours were watching on in horror and dragging their kids inside. Yelling "CALL THE POLICE" and "YOU FUCKING SICKO" and everything in between. I ignored the words, pretended it was the grunting chants of my fans in the stadium. They cheered me on as I revved up - I was the driver. The speed demon. The star of the show. We were no longer person and machine. We were one. Her metal and wires, her gears and pistons, they became an extension of my own body. I could feel her power become my power. I could feel her upholstery as if it was my own skin. Every stitch. Every vibration. I dry-humped the shit out of that car. And as I came, I started shouting back at all my fans, for they were all clamouring for a speech from their star.

"If Will Oldham can fuck a mountain, why can't I fuck a car? If everyone else has someone, don't I deserve to hold someone in my arms?

Life sometimes gets lonely, y'now? I don't want to head down the rest of this road alone. I've already travelled too far down it on my own."

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Pastrami: the most sensual of the cured meats

I surrounded myself with all this positive energy. Which it turns out was just a bunch of yes-men who wanted to eat my pussy up like luncheon meat - not savour the flavour and appreciate the delicate changes as I aged gracefully into womanhood.

The worst offender was Brendan Devodander, a vile pustular suck-up who replied to all my feminist rants with comments like "scholarly seductive" and, "you make me feel like a pervert" or his favourite line, "so hot."

It made me feel good for just that brief moment before realizing I was possibly being played. No mere male could appreciate each of the subtle sexisms that crept into a woman's everyday life, and yet here he was proclaiming my rightness in earnest. Yes, it was true, I should have realized straight away, but at that point I merely had an inkling. And so I devised a test, to say and do the most ridiculous things: - writing epistles about stuff I barely had a grasp on, taking pictures of myself half naked with another myself half naked as a fake ghost. The kind of shit no one would ever be into in a thousand years. He liked every post and liked every picture. A thumbs up, a "so hot", a word or two he'd obviously looked up in a thesaurus moments prior. The thumb sat there on the page, a reminder no longer of empathic enthusiasm, but instead a reminder of all the apparatus and digits that were so desperate to be inside me.

That's when I knew I was luncheon meat. That's when I knew I had to get Ello.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

First Annual Scottish Independence Day, 2014

We wept when it ended. When it all came to nought. The striving and trying and purpose we sought.

We cried at each other. When it all was too much. The fighting and cheating and lying and such.

We tried to stay separate. To keep us apart. By gagging and beating and cutting our hearts.

But we touched one another. When we were alone. Like trying so desperately not to go home.

Post title

I want a girl who wears a floral summer dress in spring. With delicate features, finespun hair and fingers that are thin.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Just three more things

So I was just standing there by the servo right, flicking my lighter like a bad ass because I don't give a fuck. When this car rolls up with a couple in it. They're talking all wildly like they're having a heated discussion when all out of the blue like, the man reaches over and bops the chick right in the face. I reacted right away, pulling open the car door and being like "Man! what the fuck?" So I laid into him a couple of times, gave him a right beating right in his fucking chair. Told him that's no way to treat a fucking lady.

So I was driving along when my wife brings it up again. She's been saying for a while she wants me to be more rough with her. Give her a slap every now and again. Choke her when we're in bed together. I'm just not into it, it makes me uncomfortable. Last night she asked me come home and pretend I was a stranger. Just barge through the door and act like I was a rapist. Does that mean she wants to be raped? Does she want to have sex with someone else? Has she been raped before? I don't know what to do, it just always ends in a fight. She started screaming at me to hit her, so I just... I just reached out and did it. I hope she knows I'm sorry.

So I thought I could change him. I thought I could turn him into a man. But it turns out he's just another boy. He's weak as piss. My mother warned me not to marry him. She said that he'd never be a man and that I didn't have what it takes to make him one. She was right, but at the time the words steeled my determination rather than dissuading me. I thought I could change him. I thought I could, right up until I saw him get beaten up by a kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen. That's when I knew it was over. That's when I knew I had to get out.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

A Guide to Instagram and Celebrity Nudes, by Jennifer Lawrence

Taking a photo of my self in the mirror again. Whilst the pus drips down my tongue and the fat cells congeal in seductive ways. I hide my lies behind crooked smiles and a craftily contorted rachis. The colours change and the mask presses down upon me, fretting away at the embrowned and newly dulled lumps. They're still there of course, only becoming visible up close, or if the mask is removed to reveal an explosion of efflorescence. The silverfish will eat me when I'm dead. The cockroaches will swarm and then the mice will come to eat them. Until then I'll keep basting layer upon layer, until palimpsest grooves of dark geoluread and tegumentary dander cake around my imperfectly planed crows feet. Until somebody lazily clicks like and validates my humanity. They barely know I'm alive in here, and I'm not sure they're alive out there either.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Digging pioneers with their own cheval

There they go again, into the wilderness. Taking their walking meat packs into the desert just to see something new. Maybe to die under the shade of a tree somewhere alone and pink, like a well cooked prawn. After the horses and camels had long since been digested. And the leather in their shoes, boiled down to make an off-colour broth. That's where you'll find the bones of the trailblazers; turning to dust in the wind.

Monday, 15 September 2014



I liked it in the country. People always say that the air is more fresh and the people more friendly, that life is simpler and that every body is more laid back. I suppose clichés exist for a reason, and they're correct statements in some certain places at some certain times. But I liked it for its emptiness. Its wide open sprawling natural nothingness. It gave me a sense of wonder and novelty, as if I was a little kid again, exploring my seemingly humongous backyard. Back when the whole of life surrounded me, begging me to discover something new and awe-inspiring every single day. That's what I liked it for: a sense of nostalgic naivety, nascently kneaded from nothingness.

I'd been to this town before. The countryside, the species of tree, and the curve of the river were all familiar to me. But the buildings had changed remarkably in just a few years, to the point I could barely recognize the streets. I was a stranger here again, just as I had been the first time I arrived. In the weeks that followed my first trip, I became somewhat of  a local curiosity, as I dug through the garbage of the town's top players. Setting in action the fall of one of the town's most respected names - an ex-mayor with his fingers in one too many crooked pies. Here I was again, 20 years later, no longer a detective of the government employ. Now I am a private eye, working for my own or my clients' curiosities. Taking angles I couldn't normally take. It had felt good to tell them to shove their job and then to walk away into the wind swept night. But it took me a long time to get it back together. To get myself back on my feet and earn enough to survive. Starting a business isn't easy, and the boss can be a bitch.

The last 20 years had been kinder to this town than me. It was on the up and up, looking more youthful than ever. The "FOR LEASE" and "FOR SALE" signs were now few and far between; the CBD was a hive of activity, even at this gloaming hour. People seemed to have something to do and somewhere to go, there were hardly any stop and chats between them, and barely a 'how-dya-do' for me. It seemed bizarre for things to have improved so much just by helping to stem the corruption that had them in the doldrums last time I was here.

I stopped at the supermarket car-park on the way to my hotel and lit a cigarette. This is where it had happened. A body had appeared here in the middle of the day. The police wrote it off as a hit and run, but there were no witnesses, no screams, no tyre treads or any evidence of the body having been hit by a car. It had all the hallmarks of a previous killing that I'd investigated but nobody connected the dots. That's what I was here to do, I'd taken time off to do some digging. This was my own version of a holiday.

Just a thing I realised.

     If I've learned one thing from Netsux, it's how to set the date and time on my Siemens PABX.
If I've learned a second thing, it's that love is a futile, no-win path of a greater choose-your-own adventure tale, that ultimately concludes on the same 'THE END' page, so why bother, right?
If I've learned a third thing, it's that my grade 4 teacher doesn't know jack about creative writing, and I absolutely do not need an introduction paragraph. So eat shit Mr Spackman.

     Anyway, here is a thing I recently realised about myself: I have never slept with a woman that had a healthy relationship with her father. And I can't un-realise it now. Because I figure it probably means one of the following 2 things:-
a) I'm a heartless sexual predator preying on the typical daddy issues that staff strip joints; or
b) I'm an habitual 'rescuer' that can only be into a woman that I feel I'm in some capacity saving from a worse fate.

     Now for some perspective, assume that the cumulative total of women I've known falls between 5-10. I'm clearly no Don Juan lady-slayer, but there is enough raw data there to start drawing some assumptions.

     The obvious counter argument here is that I can't be so awful if I've gotten to know them all well enough to understand what their family relationships are like. And to a degree there could be some merit in that. I mostly like to think that I'm a pretty good dude, and can usually find it in me to ignore this particular statistic. But to me, here's the more uncomfortable question.

     If having a shitty relationship with your dad turns you towards a good dude like me, then what does my great relationship with my daughters turn them toward?

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

70 year old Jemz looks 40

Another day. Home again. Check mail. Water garden. Feed dog. Feed chickens. Open door. Remove shoes. Collect dishes. Wash up. Dry up. Tidy house. Collect laundry. Do laundry. Hang washing. Empty bins. Vacuum floor. Mop floor. Start dinner. Eat dinner. Scrub pots. Pay bills. Watch TV. Check facebook. Bed time. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Shower time. Get dry. Get dressed. Work time.

Repeat this.

20,457 times.

Then die.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Corad & Daroc

It seemed as if we were both losers, far too tragic to find anyone else to love us. So we settled with each other. Pushed against each other until we'd worn a self-shaped groove in the other's existence. Like a couch dimple furrowed gradually into another's psyche. My previous partner had only just left me in that clichéd state which everyone describes as 'emptiness'. To me however, it never felt quite empty. In truth, it made my chest feel full. Full of liquids that were too cold or too hot, causing a dull ache or a painful uncomfortableness to shift throughout my torso. Empty doesn't ache. Full is what aches. And I was full of misery, full of anger, full of misgivings and mostly just full of feelings of loneliness and bewilderment.

In the midst of this we met. She was convenient. I was convenient. I didn't ask for much, and she didn't provide much. We walked the cold streets at night, where lights were dull and destinations were undecided. No cars drove by and we barely spoke; we'd watch the occasional stranger and overhear the anxieties they gave whispered voice to. Life became simple again.

I'd settled for less, but less became enough.

Saturday, 6 September 2014

That time J-Law got her rat out

The curtain was licking slowly back and forth across the carpet, becoming worn and frayed. Life became so easy for a moment as I slowly choked away. I'd set up all my things around, so they could wish me well. Whilst the monsters ran away with me and took me down to hell.

Robin Williams died never having seen Jennifer Laurence's tits. 

Sunday, 31 August 2014

She was watching Doctor Who whilst her family fell apart

Scribing notes in shorthand, her skinny fingers paused. They pondered the sprawling scrawl of dead letters sitting saturnine on the script. Pushing pencil lead against the paper heavily, they turned the graphite into shivers of lustrous dust. She pursed her lips and lightly blew them, sending shimmers across the page and about her desk. He'd stopped talking. She'd stopped writing. The pencil's nub found itself rolling around in the corner of her mouth. He asked her where she'd learnt to write like that. It was her first day. Her grandmother, she had answered. Her grandmother, she had said, saw secretarial work as a profession, not as a stop-gap before or between having children. His temper tempered, he loosened his tie and dropped his guard. She had seduced him with the lost art of shorthand.

Thursday, 28 August 2014


All is well for him and his, as the laughs escape their lips.
His children skip gaily around him like a maypole with their bodies wrapped in chintz.
And I sit here a muddled fool, slouching on the bench,
A drink in hand and a mouth that fills the air up with my stench

All I'm good for any more is darkening up the place.
I darken stools and corners in the pubs, and darken up the space—
Between the armchair in my living room and this god awful place,
And cast a shadow over photographs of a long forgotten face.

That's not to say that I've forgot, for clearly that's not so,
But everyone that we both knew all left us long ago.
They scurried out the gaping cracks that oh so quickly grow,
When life becomes too complex and raw emotion starts to show.

And so she was gone, and all our friends too,
The madness amidst the solitude grew.
She was alone,
the night she died;
But I'm alone,
whilst I'm alive.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Terrible Toothsome

She looked like a meth addict who had had reverse liposuction. Bits of flab wobbled grotesquely under blotchy layers of worn out skin. She was here for the usual, a slice of carrot cake and a tall cappuccino. The carrot cake, she would always tell the clerk, was part of her '5 a day', since it contained actual chunks of carrot. Nearly always she would drop an inane anecdote, such as: "my dog turns four this Tuesday"; or, "I recently rediscovered cruskits"; or, "I can't wait until my holiday next month". She punctuated the last one by bending her bulbous arms at the elbow, throwing her hands half-heartedly in the air and releasing a sound from her mouth which sounded like "yeeeyyyy". Invariably the clerk would politely push their lips some direction or other, indicating that they'd heard her, but doing their best not to engage in back and forth banter.

She would groan into a chair and spill beyond its meagre attempts at support. The unseen sticker on the underside of the chair had seen better days. It's maximum load suggestion went wholly ignored. The cake would disappear rapidly and neatly, despite its crumbly constitution. The coffee, lukewarm as it was, however was always savoured. She would sit and look at the people going by as she sipped, thinking how easy she had it. Thinking how others seemed so tortured, struggling with this or that, worried about money and family and work and stress. She couldn't remember the last time she worried. Everything left to worry about was long gone.

Tuesday, 5 August 2014


That cold grey sea. That cold grey sea. I feel it's become a part of me. I fear it's become part of me. I fear the sea. That cold grey sea. That took my father away from me. That turned my mother away from me. That cold grey sea that swept at me. That leapt at me. That crept in me. It filled my heart and it chilled my bones. It made sure I was all...

...all alone.

Sunday, 3 August 2014

We go so lo

And the ocean laps away at me, slowly eating away at all that I have done. Whilst a thousand miles from me, chattering voices meld into a droning fuzz. Like leaning over a cliff, below me a watery abyss, I hold on tight to him. But he lets go of my hand. And he lets me fall in.

And then he turns and walks away.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

Like razors in my heart

I put my hand on his shoulder, a half pat, half squeeze pathetically fell from my fingers. I didn't know what else to do, where to look, what to say. I could barely look at him, laying in that hospital bed, as white as the sheets that rigidly wrapped around him. The life force seemed to have been drained out of him from the cuts on his forearms. All the colour. All the energy. The sadness. The misery. It had all wept out of the wounds on his wrists.

I coughed slightly, looking out the window at the sky beyond. There was a puff of cloud in the distance. I focused on that, making my eyes bat quicker to force back the tears that were pooling against my eyelids. What help was I, being here, when I didn't know what to say. When I couldn't tell him how I felt. When I couldn't even show him my face. Why was I the one still scared? All he wanted was someone to care, and I was too ashamed to shed a single tear.

"I.... I love...." I began, my voice trailing off.

"I love this time of day." I finally said.

Catamenia of nine tails

"Hello," she said as she reached the front of the line and came face to face with the teller. "My phone is broken."

"Broken?" he repeated. "Okay, well what exactly is wrong?"

"It no longer works. I keep making calls but no one picks up."

"Okay, so is it that the caller is picking up and you can't hear them? Can they hear you?"

"I've no idea. I make a call, and no one is there."

"Well, who are you trying to call, would you like to try calling my phone so we can see...?"

"No... my phone only calls God."


"Yes. But he's not picking up, my phone must be broken. He used to pick up every time I phoned. But lately he hasn't picked up at all. And you see, I really need him to pick up this time. I really need his help."

Saturday, 26 July 2014

Lover's Leap

The long ash blonde hair that tumbled around her fair delicate face was all crimped and messy.  She tossed her mane to the side as she gave me a tender glance. This creature glowed with some ethereal light and embodied the concept (my concept) of faerie: A curious innocence, frolicsome, mischievous and unfathomable. A creature to protect from the taint of man. Of men like me.

A wraith, slight and clad in faded torn denim, she leaned forward with intent. Her spiced scent (vanilla, cinnamon...nutmeg) impressed upon my senses and the breath caught in my throat. She was so close I thought if I just bit into her neck she'd taste like chai.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. My throat so decidedly constricted that everything churned and heaved in my chest. Air, words, vomit...all trapped forever. I might just die in those sea green eyes. I think I'd prefer it than steal from her what shone so brightly-the thing that caught me, the thing I will eventually devour.

She touched her lips to my cheek and the breath shuddered from my lungs at last. I said nothing. Did nothing. Stricken and aching. A car rolled up behind us the top 40 in full swing and good old Rev Jon telling us to "Keep the Faith" but love required a faith I could never muster.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

"He died like everyone dies. A failure, desperate for another breath."

A thousand prickling stings at the back of your eyeballs. On the verge of tears or sneezing. Your mind flows, barely conscious. It rides whatever beat is ringing in the background. Your body remains inert. Trapped.

The pit of your stomach slowly grinds against itself.

"Every day it tears my heart," he said. "Every single day."

He wasn't known for being anything but impartial. Certainly not emotional. We sat in silence, our lips were pursed and our eyebrows furrowed together in sympathetic vexation. Our eyes had long since drifted to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Here was a classically masculine man, a father, a grandfather, laying his soul bare like never before. We shifted uncomfortably.

Faith in the Father

My dad was the smartest dude in the world, when I was a kid.
He was a builder that could make and fix things. He was a mathematician that could solve complex problems in his head. He was a surgeon, extracting splinters from my hands and feet. He knew everything. He could do anything.

And he never had to go to church.

My mum would have us dressed up in our itchy church clothes every Saturday (because it was one of those churches), and Dad stayed home. If we asked why we had to go to church and Dad didn't; “I'll tell you when you're older”.

I was 12 or 13 when my mum decided that theological pursuits were my own decision to make.
My transition from reluctant church-goer to enthusiastic atheist was swift and permanent, and I quickly realised why my father refused to attend for so many years.
After all, he was the smartest dude in the world, and that science > religion is surely the only logical conclusion that a smart dude can come to.

I was 30 before we ever discussed it again. We didn't need to. We had individually come to the same conclusion; the pair of us, smart dudes.

I approached him for some advice, on raising kids with a co-parent that has what I would consider some pretty outlandish opinions on the subject.

“Dad, how did you convince Mum that I was old enough to decide for myself? You must have disagreed on a few things? How did you handle it? What would you do differently?”

His response was as out of the blue, and devastating, as a 40 day/night, planet-flooding storm must have been to all but a dozen odd humans and 2 of each animal.

“My greatest regret in life, is that I never instilled in you kids, the same passion for your relationship with God, that I had”.


“I never went to church because of the way they taint the true word of God. If I could do anything differently, it would be that. It would be teaching you about loving God.”

My dad was the smartest dude in the world, way back when I was a kid.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

And the words will come to me

I bit into a stale biscuit. Wrapped my lips around it, allowing it to crumble down the inside of my teeth. It filled my mouth with a spray of vaguely buttery dust. It struck me that my life was as bland as this biscuit. If my life was a biscuit, it would be this one: stale, crumbling, not rich or with any sense of depth, not something you craved more of.

My sister had given me four crystal beer steins for my 21st birthday. I was almost forty now, and I was still yet to use all four. One or two remained pathetically in their original paper wrapping. I'd had no occasion necessitating their unbinding. No more visitors at any one time than one or two. They sat in my cupboard collecting a vaguely bitter dust.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

The big easy

The name's Kiora-Dee,
I'll fuck you for free
Then talk about coffee
And write shit poetry

Coz mum hardly loved me
As much as she loved being free
And burning bras with glee
And doping up in pregnancy...

Whilst she was pregs with me
She was always off her tree
If you tested her pee
It was ninety per cent purity

My brain, you might agree,
Is about the size of a pea,
And all that's going for me,
Is the size of my titties.

The way skin strings itself around skinny fingers.

Your life is always leading its way to places you don't want to go. Situations you don't want to be in. Feelings you don't want to experience. A mist of fear curls around the pit of your stomach and gnaws at you. It gnaws at you. And gnaws at you. Until you sing:

No no no,
Just let me go
Just let me go

No no no,
I don't want to know,
Just let me go,

No no no,
I don't want to know,
I just want to go,


Thursday, 3 July 2014

Fee's Furious Fistings

I was too fat for fucking.

The boy's used to laugh when I hit on them. Most would pull a ridiculous face as if they couldn't tell if I was joking. Although I came close once. I promised him everything he wanted. He was giving me the first few digits of his phone number when his mate piped up "you think your banana would be enough to satisfy a whale?" They both burst out laughing and walked away.

I was too fat for true love.

I had to work hard just to get a date, let alone a relationship. I tried internet dating but everyone could tell. My words dripped with fat girl desperation. I probably mentioned my budgie too much. Guys wouldn't even send me pictures of their dicks. I had to meekly agree whenever my female friends discussed internet dating; agree that guys were pigs and sent pics of their dicks to everyone with a pulse.

Everyone. Everyone except me.

But what would I do with a dick anyway? I was far too fat for fucking.

That's when I discovered fisting. A banana might not be enough to satisfy a whale but a forearm sure was.

When you're fat, doctor visits are the norm. They're always checking this pain or that. Eventually they have arms up you or down you feeling around for lumps and what have you. I worked out the right combination of fake ailments to convince them to start rooting around inside me with their whole hand. Went from doctor to doctor. It was my sexual renaissance. They touched me in ways I'd never been touched, and never could do to myself. I imagine it was also much cheaper than gigolos.

Once they had their hand in there I'd clamp down. My pelvic floor muscles were like rusty vice grips. My cunt held on for grim life as the doctor thrashed around to free themselves.

Once my legs were up in those stirrups, my cunt became the stone. The doctor's cold hand became excalibur, unable to be prised from my inviolable grip. No one would be crowned king until I came and forcibly ejected the hand myself in waves of muscular spasms.

Sometimes with my legs up I imagined my large body was a spaceship, rudderless, flapping through space without direction. Then came the steering shaft, inserted into my body, guiding me from side to side. I allowed it to think it was gently steering me, lulled it into a false sense of security. Before biting back. Before gobbling up greedily more than my fair share. Wrist watch and all. And then holding on like a bucking bronco, veering from port to starboard.

Sometimes I'd yell... "Doctor, doctor!" I'd cry, and they'd think it was all a misunderstanding, that my body was in unintentional spasms, and that I wasn't pretending to be the TARDIS swallowing up an entire human. "Doctor, doctor, navigation systems: offline, time-wimey device: looking sloppy, all five companions: feared drowned!"

You're never too fat for fisting.

When the inside hurts and the heart wants to burst

She was selling flowers in the rain. Her red heart beating on the outside of her chest, sending ripples through the grey. The zombies walked on by, immune. Scraping their feet around her. Jostling against her and tipping drops from their umbrellas upon her. The braces around her legs rattled, as she turned to approach each one with the same weary smile. "Flowers, would you like so....Flowers, tulips and roses for your sweetheart.... Sir, flowers..." A drop of colour drowning in the ebb and flow of black and white.

She liked working in the rain. No one could tell she was crying.

Monday, 30 June 2014

She bites down on the brown crown when she goes to town

And so he's exhausted, but a thousand dead dogs drip upwards from the fields to the sky. They're purple, black and green, with thick studded collars and their tongues lolling out.

She, for her part, was copulating a tree stump. Like an impatient beaver gnawing away at it until it dammed up her insides.

She had the hip shakes, it was rattling about inside her like an itch that couldn't be scratched.

And so he lashed out and hit her. Again and again. Until she screamed.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Princess Monggo stepped out of her period panties

It was a long hard day down at self-love station. The blisters were beginning to rise and the thumb joints were worn out. Princess Monggo had discovered at least seven or so new erogenous zones and felt like it was time to update her Facebook regarding her latest pursuit of happiness.

"No one can ever love you unless you love yourself," she began. "A happy soul breathes life into a worn out body, making you look and feel younger. Think positive, be positive, love yourself everyday."

Her Facebook duly updated with a cleavage shot, she toweled herself down and made preparations for the evening. She was to meet a man on a semi-blind date. It was semi-blind because she'd seen a photo of him on his website. He was some kind of 24 hour something or other - a positivity coach or spiritual guru. The photo had him cross legged, assuming the yogi position and rolling his eyes back heaven-ward. To her he was beautiful, despite the stupid looking fedora and his inability to grow a beard. His name was Joe.

It was a cafe downtown. A rockabilly cafe. It was full of old fogies and wannabe greasers. It was a hokey american-style diner with polished silver napkin dispensers and a jukebox on every table. Neon and chrome shone obnoxiously just about everywhere, and the waitress who hovered over the ugly laminate table threw her avoirdupois bosoms everywhere else.

"What'll it be kids?" she said in a genial tone, clearly looking past the fact that youth had long eluded the two people in front of her.

"Um..." began Princess Monggo. She didn't want to pick something and leave a bad impression. She didn't want to seem too self assured.

Joe cleared his throat and began ordering for them. "We'll have two servings of benevolent blessings, a side of personal catastrophe to make us stronger, but a couple of glasses of inner strength to conquer it all."

The waitress stood there, her pen hovering over her pad. Two eggs, a side of bacon, and two glasses of orange juice, she ended up writing as she sighed and walked away.

Princess Monggo swooned. Her downhill descent had momentarily stalled.

"Did you know," Joe began, "that we're all getting dumber. The Egyptians were so smart we can't even work out how they built the pyramids. Now look at us. The machines do all the work."

The sound of the juicer smashing apart oranges for their orange juice was all the background music she needed to know she was in love. "The machines do all the work," she repeated back to him as if learning to talk for the first time.

The waitress had thrown in the oranges, peel and all, as a 'fuck you' for wasting her time.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

I am lagend

And so this is the best it gets. One day you'll look back and long for this. Despite the loneliness and misery. At least you had youth, and health, and the will to get out of bed.

And so this is the best it gets. Even though you're miserable. At least you're not old and miserable. With aches and pains and the lack of wits about you to end it all.

And so this is the best it gets. Shuffling toward obsolescence. Drowning in mediocrity. Watching a bank balance rise and wondering why you bother. You ran out of things to spend your money on long ago.

And so this is the best it gets. It's all down hill from here. If you're jaded and bitter by thirty, it never gets better. You'll spend the next 40 years frowning.

Friday, 20 June 2014

Clicking my way into your heart

If I could snap just another picture of my food. Just another picture of my plate. Just another picture of my shoes. Maybe you would love me.

Maybe you would see the real me. The real personality behind the 60's lomoish filter on my insta app. The non-flabby heart inside this flabby body of mine. The soul behind my soulless facey status updates.

I just want you to bitstrip me apart. Rub my facey with your instagram. I just want your tweets inside me, yourspace around me.  If I said to you 'whatsapp?', and asked if we could hangouts together, would you RSVP and be my +1?

They say there's PoF in the sea.
But all I want you to want is me.

Tuesday, 17 June 2014

Apoplectic Atropos

He was the biggest whinger of all. No thing was good enough. No one was good enough. As he got older things became worse. People became less tolerable and more infuriating. Like a fire catching slowly in his mind, they burnt away inside him. Turning slowly into a blaze. A red blaze that shot out of his eyes whenever he looked at some pathetic worm who couldn't answer his question, who was sub-par in some way they could never hope to understand. Only he understood. Life was this constantly painful disappointment, and people seemed to solely exist just to reflect and reinforce those mistakes. The choices he'd made years before meant that he was now surrounded by idiots. His life was inescapably full of idiots. He had barely any friends who weren't idiots. His family was fully loaded with idiots. He held himself to a ridiculously unattainable standard and every moment he was alive he felt guilty for being a failure. He held others to this standard and was constantly disappointed in them; ineluctably furious with them. It was the first time he'd heard the word ineluctable. He was annoyed with himself. But he was equally annoyed with everyone who read his story and also didn't know what it meant. The fact they couldn't read this story without pausing on that word made him angry. The fact he couldn't write this story without pausing to look it up made him angry. Being angry made him angry. He sat there fuming, wondering what to write next.

He was the biggest whinger of all.

You tweeted your way into my heart

You were in the middle of the road, tweeting. Walking off ahead. Not giving a shit about your erratic stumble bum gait and pack horse thighs. Not giving a shit about the cars that swerved around you.

I felt like I loved you then, because no one else could.

I always liked what was different. Anything that was unpopular, eccentric or odd. You were all those things at once and more. You were ugly. You were not particularly clever. You didn't know how to use make-up properly. You didn't even know how to comb your hair. It was the closest thing to dating someone who was mentally handicapped, without me being run out of town.

I had no qualms. I held your hand. I let you snuggle your smelly demented little face into my cheek and tell me things you thought important. It was bliss. I was your master and you were my apprentice. You hung off my every word as if it was gospel. I was your world and you were mine.

Then the storms came. You had got a bug of an idea inside you; a yearning thing that bit you. Your mind rarely stayed focussed on anything for long, except for this. The need for more cock. Mine was no longer enough. Perhaps it never had been. My hand was forced:- to lose you, or to accept other men in our lives. I grew angry, sullen, and withdrawn. I took it out on friends and family. Violently raged against them like the raging in my heart. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I dragged my knuckles on the floor as I paced - stooped over in misery. My heart was crushed.

I filled it with my computer. It started innocently enough. A nonsensical comment here and there to people on-line. Soon I was talking complete gibberish. "lolwut", I would passively-aggressively write to everybody. lolwut. lolwut. Like an owl hooting in the wilderness to no one in particular. lolwut-lolwut lolwut-lolwut. Just like you tweeted that day, in the middle of the street, manically calling to invisible birds. TWEE-TWEE-SQUAAAWWWK you had tweeted and twittered. TWEE-TWEE-SQUAAAWK-SQUAAAWK.

But no little birds ever answered me. The birds had flown from my glass aviary heart.

Sunday, 15 June 2014

An open letter to an unopen mind

It wasn't that she was a terrible friend - she was, but that had nothing to do with it. Her main fault was that she was boring. If you want to be self-involved to the point where the only topic of conversation is yourself, then you want to make sure you have an interesting life. You want to make sure there's something in it for someone else. Otherwise you put people through hell.

If you have good friends they'll listen for a while. They'll put up with hearing the same boring conversation over and over again for months; until they feel like banging their head into a desk and scratching their eyes out. As long as you show some growth eventually. If not they'll leave. They'll feel drained. They'll be too exhausted to talk to you. They'll find excuses not to be around you any more. Then your self fulfilling prophesy about everyone hating you and everyone being unable to understand you will come true.

Very occasionally you need to do something for them. Listen to their problems sometimes. Give some advice. Encourage them. Be happy for them. Otherwise you're a terrible friend. All take, no give. It's common sense.

It's common sense that you're a terrible friend.

Setting the time and date on Siemens Optipoint 500 / Optipoint 400 / Optipoint 420 / Openstage / Optiset

Setting the time and date on Siemens HiPath / HiCom 3000 / 3550 PABX

This procedure has to be done from the first or second phone on the system - usually they will be the lowest numbered extension, i.e. 11 or 100. The phone must be in the idle state (on-hook, currently displaying the time/date on the screen (albeit incorrectly!)). This works for all 3000 PABX / PBX series (3550, 3500, 3350, 3300, 3750 & 3800) as well as the 2000 series (2030, 2036), and even older models like the HiCom OfficePoint and HiCom OfficePro also called 150 H. And it can be done on any handset model, be it optipoint 500, 400, 420, optiset E or openstage.

  1. Enter the following code to access the main menu: *95 (i.e. star button then 95) (if you get "access denied", you are not using the main console phone, try a different phone)
  2. It will prompt for your username, see below 
  3. It will then prompt you for your password, see below (IF THIS IS THE FIRST TIME ANYONE HAS ATTEMPTED TO USE THIS USERNAME/PASSWORD it will prompt you to enter a NEW password, then prompt you to enter it again - DO NOT PICK A NEW ONE, KEEP THE DEFAULT - so if you were entering as customer level for example, may have to enter 1234 four times total! But next time you will only have to enter it twice. If you stuff up or are not sure, just pickup the handpiece and put it back again, it will exit)
  4. Once you are in, you will be able to browse different menu options using the left and right arrow buttons, it is sometimes best to scroll backwards (left arrow) as time and date are usually the last options in the menu. 
  5. Press the tick/ok key to select time/date when you come to it, and then it will prompt you what format is required. 
  • Username and passwords:
Default customer level username: 1234, password: 1234
Default service level password: 31994, password 31994
Default development level password: 18140815, password 18140815
Default customer level username: 633433, password: 633433
Service/development levels are the same as above
If you can't get any of these working, a last resort is inputting *95 as the username, and not entering a password. So the procedure would be:
  1. Enter *95 in the main phone
  2. It will ask for your username, enter *95
  3. It will ask for your password, don't enter anything, just press tick/ok to the blank
  4. It may then ask for your new password, and then to confirm, just press tick to the blanks DO NOT enter a new password. 
  5. If that works, then you can now get in by using *95/blank as the username/password combination
  • Important things to note:
- If you are having trouble getting in with any of these username/passwords - pick up the handpiece, hang it up again and try the procedure again with a different level username/password. 
- Sometimes the service level password will not have a time and date option. If that's the case, then you will need to use customer or development
- If someone has changed all your default passwords there's not much you can do. Except yell at whoever did it and make them change them back for free. The only reason to do it is to lock you into one servicing centre/technician.

>>> Update, Siemens is now known as Unify.... this document applies from v1 through to v9. Openscape Business Version 1 (also not known as HiPath Version 10) no longer needs to worry about setting time/date manually as it is web based. You can change it by browsing to the URL of the PABX. Although it is still possible to get into the menu and edit the time/date in the manner detailed above!

The two Ronnies go to Mars

Everyone wanted to see my photos. Everyone wanted my latest update. Everyone wanted my latest witticism in 140 characters or less. Everyone wanted to watch me play my ukulele. Everyone wanted to see me. Everyone wanted to know me. Everyone wanted to be me. Everyone wanted to be inside me. But I'd never let them. 

Everyone needed to see my photos. Everyone needed my latest update. Everyone needed my latest witticism in 140 characters or less. Everyone needed to watch me play my ukulele. Everyone needed to see me. Everyone needed to know me. Everyone needed to be me. Everyone needed to be inside me. But I'd probably never let them. 

I need everyone to see my photos. I need to tell people my latest update. I need everyone to see the latest example of me pretending to effortlessly create a witty comment. I need everyone to watch me play my ukulele. I need everyone to see me. I need everyone to know me how I want to be known, not as I actually am. I need them to be impressed. I need to feel that people want to be like me. I need them to love me. I need everyone to want to put themselves inside me. I'd let them. I'd let them. But I'd never let them see the tears. I'd never let them know the real me. I will live forever lonely in this crowd of 'friends'.

小便の夢 (Shōben no yume)

My whole body was prickling inside. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Even when I could, each time my mind managed to briefly drift away, a general feeling of nausea clung around my stomach . Brought me right back. I felt sick. Like I'd had too much coffee and then I'd hit the low point after the caffeine wore off. Nothing was good any more. Well, except maybe the thought of more coffee. Is this how addicts feel? The gnawing inside them. As if everything is hollow and nothing could fill it?

I will make them drink my piss.

If nothing else, it might fill the hole. The hole in my life, the hole inside me. Blot out the pain of realizing that I'm worthless and no one could should ever love me.

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Just an old bitty without much in her kitty

The music droned on like an old man crawling along the ground on his throat. Life was blaring all around. A thousand footsteps scraping back and forth in zig-zags to the tune of guttural throat yodelling; colourful spotlight streamers darted angrily to avoid them. They'd gathered here to amalgamate. Young flesh and old, all pressing together in a rhythmic sweaty throng. They pushed and pullulated. Until they became one giant pulpy pustule of human paste. Heightened emotions synchronised. Became invisible food for invisible souls. Steam churned above and about them. As the atoms fused together.

They were the things that ruled the night.
Creeping from burrows to the beat of neon light.

The old one scored prey. Hunted him down. Became one with him. She'd been getting slower in her old age. Feasts were fewer and far between. Wrinkles streaked about her vision. Deep channels, narrow canyons. Eyes bloodshot, hair greying, strands wispy. The mirror threw images that were mere simulacra of past glories. The eye slits weltered whenever one wandered upon itself. Except tonight. Tonight she was loved inside and out. Fleetingly. And yet, seconds in heaven beat all day in hell. She'd been called a loser. A weed. She had dug herself down and down, until she couldn't see out any more. But this, this sprinkled in a small handful of dirt to fill her waking grave. A little more to stand on each time. The world beneath your feet can only grow when you've hit bedrock.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

A louse of innocence

As my feet paddled puddles on perforated pavements. My mind raced excitedly. The first celebrities in my life were my older siblings. One was coming to visit. I was waiting in the front yard whilst the rain dolloped down into puddles. The bee hive on the front tree was quiet for once.

My friend's mother walked by, sat on the front verandah with me a while and told me about her day. I told her I knew where babies came from: kissing. She laughed, pulled a louse from her head and shrieked as she crushed it into the concrete. A blot of red blood had oozed out around it, like crushing a well-fed mosquito. I'd never seen a louse before.

She left and I continued waiting. I don't remember my sister arriving. All I remember is the waiting. The patient, quiet solitude of it all. The feeling of loving someone enough to wait around all day for them. Watching the rain fall. Time meant nothing back then. I had more time than I knew what to do with. It seemed endless. I didn't even know what worries were.

Saturday, 7 June 2014

If I could just shit my way into your heart

How could I tell you just how I'd miss you?
How could I tell you I wanted to kiss you?

How could I ever feel whole again?
How bad could my heart break and how could it mend?

I was never very good with words,
And so I expressed myself with turds.

Back when we met, my mouth said "Hi"
And so now I use my bowels to say "goodbye"

I opened my mind to you,
and I opened my heart for you,

I opened my cunt to you,
So I'll open my butt for you.

Like a dog with worms, I'll spread my germs,
by wiping my poopoo all over your muumuu.

That time Shazza topped herself

She was gyrating harder than usual; turning an odd pink and foaming at the mouth. It was the sexiest she'd ever been. It looked as if she'd put a clove of garlic through a garlic press and then started dribbling it down her mouth. Yellow chunks of spittle and bile clung to her chin as her eyes bulged and drifted off in opposite directions. We cheered. Her nightly webcam performances had become a bit of a must-see in our dorm. They'd gotten less and less thrilling over time, become less convincing, and so she had to go a little farther each night to keep her audience. Hold her breath a little longer. Make the noose a little shorter.

We never expected it to end how it did.

She'd taken an extra pill this time. She became clumsy and flailed around her apartment comically, knocking over a lamp. She was a terrible actress. Eventually she fell flat on her face and lay on the spot. We cheered and waited. Her body thrashed a little, as if both Saint Vitus and Terpsichore were in there fucking the spider that jiggled inside her. She went still. We got bored. Switched off. We'd switch on tomorrow to see what she came up with next. Except when we switched on, she was still there laying on the floor. The next day, still on the floor. The day after, still on the floor. Some ruse Shazza we would yell and jeer at her, expecting her to get up. She never did. We thought about calling the cops, but we didn't know her last name or her address. So instead we signed in every night to see if she was still there. Five nights went by until the webcam stopped connecting. Our cheers had long subsided.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

That time Jason pooped himself

I hated them then and I hate them now. They can all go and get fucked. The hot ones. The ugly ones. The ones who pretended to like you just to stab you in the back. The ones who used you. The ones who said things about you when they thought you weren't around. The ones who laughed. The ones who pushed you down. The ones who walked right over you. The ones who are now so much more fabulously well to do.

What good does it do them anyway? We'll all be dead soon and what then?
"I travelled, I broadened my horizons, I spent my life doing what I wanted to do, I was happy." 
Get fucked. Shut your conceited supercilious self-entitled self-complacent face gash. All you did was subsidize jet fumes to choke a dying planet; just so you could piss and shit your way across a country that saw you as a walking dollar sign. You paid them to leave their traditions behind and live in the city. Your life experience is eating in a slightly different location until your bowels gave out. Until a unique culture was destroyed. Some fucking life you've led. You flew all the way there just to make yourself feel better about dying. And now to further convince yourself, you take it upon yourself to tell the entire world. Take a thousand photos about it.
Well fuck you.

I liked the picture of the sloth though.

Friday, 30 May 2014

There were more birds back then

Now the skies are curiously empty. Occasionally a crow drifts by, calling mournfully to unseen brethren. It bounces up and down as if manipulated by a string. Otherwise there's nothing, until the twilight sets and the bats begin sweeping amongst the shifting sheets of shadow.

There were more crabs too. More starfish. More life in general.

Life had given up. For now. Perhaps forever. Death had not replaced it. Without life there can be no death. All that was left was emptiness. Expanse. Expansive emptiness. Nothing could die. Nothing could live. This is what had become of my world.

There were more birds back then...

Thursday, 22 May 2014

Butterflies have no choice

I wait by the window everyday
For someone or something to take me away
Whilst the rain drips down and onto the pane
or the sunlight bleeds through and warms me again

If life was worth living
then maybe,
I would.
If you were worth loving
then maybe,
I could.

Comet me bro

I woke up and I was a comet again, hurtling across the sky. The children below were looking up at me as I trailed my way across the blue-black night, and asking their parents what I was. A meteorite, the dumb ones would say. An asteroid. A meteor. A satellite. The sullen kids wouldn't ask anything. They knew what I was. They telepathically and telepathetically begged me to turn ninety degrees. To hurl myself face first into the earth and let them off the hook.

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Bringing home the faking

If life was worth living then someone would've gotten it right by now. Someone would be winning. Those guys at the top who look like they're winning? They're not winning. They're the dudes with so much money they put cacti in their arseholes and pay women to kick them in the testicles, shit on them, puke on them whilst they're dressed in recently soiled nappies - you name it. Once you have that kind of money everything becomes meaningless. It starts with possessions. Property means shit when you could buy a small country. Things mean nothing when you could have whatever car or boat or gadget you desire. And then it moves to other pursuits, women and drugs and more women. Women who feed you milk from their lactating nipples, or lock you in a cage at night because you're a supreme court judge and you can't think of anything sicker. Intermittently she'll come out to squat over your makeshift palisade to send squirts of this or that in your direction whilst you feebly thank her for the kindness. 

I was also out there in this same sick world, failing just as miserably. I paid a girl once to look me in the eye and tell me she loved me and that I was beautiful. It might not seem quite as sick as being shat on, but it was. After she took my money she made an attempt; she got to "I", started giggling and said she couldn't do it. When I asked for my money back she laughed and walked off. 

Monday, 12 May 2014

Aught What I Ought

"I've got nothing left," he said morosely, before letting go. It was the last time anyone saw him. It was all he could do just to hold on. I went on a fucking adventure after that. The kind where you fuck everything in a certain radius, be it wide or narrow. It gave me an excuse to get all my perversions out; I acted out every fantasy I ever had. Eventually you go numb. Even the novelty of pushing the envelope can wear off. I attempted to write them down, to compile a journal of my sexploits. I got about this far in, my fingers hovered expectantly over the keys. They waited in frustration for a message from my brain to push the next stroke, but I couldn't come up with anything. I've got nothing left.

Monday, 5 May 2014

It's the fish that John West fucks that make him the best

I mean, once he's done rejecting the ugly ones, the implication is that he goes around fucking the good ones right? Hi, my name's Creg. I've been banging about this world for about 10 years now, so I know a thing or two. And I know some guys. Some guys who'll fuck you up, even if you're not a fish. I've decided to write today because it's the first spare bit of time I've had in ages and I've been neglecting my diary of late. I've mostly been discovering the joys of pressure. I love the feel of pushing all my weight against it when it's throbbing and hard. I'm not sure why it does that, or what sets it off, but I know that when it starts throbbing and becomes hard it feels real good if I push my whole weight against it. I started out laying on it on the tiled floor. That felt good. Then I worked out if I lifted up my arms and legs and head and chest I could hover right on it, nothing but it touching the floor, and my whole entire weight pushing against it. That felt even better. Then I was getting a snack from the fridge and I had an idea - I'd put it in there and really push the door closed with all my might. It got hard at the idea and began throbbing. I shoved it in, it was cold, nearly too cold. I closed the door on it, the plastic sealings were so cold they made me shiver. I began to apply pressure. More, and more, until I had my whole body pressing against the door of the refrigerator, my calves and thighs burning as I pushed the door closed harder and harder. It felt amazing. Each extra pound of pressure increased the sensation and I began feeling waves of pleasure and then... and then my mother walked in.

"Creg what are you doing?" she said.

Panic was gripping me and I had no idea what to say. "Hi mum.... I am just testing something." I stayed huddled against the fridge, attempting to cover my shame, luckily my pants were still up and not around my ankles. I don't think she had any idea at this point.

"Alright well I just want a juice, can I get to the fridge please?"

I panicked and began hitting my forehead against the refrigerator in an attempt to scare her off "no, no, no, no! Go away! Just let me finish my experiment. Please."

She came closer - I screamed louder - she kept coming closer - I hit my head harder. Then it briefly went black. I had knocked myself out, and when I came to I was hanging backwards, still attached by my penis to the refrigerator door. Mum had presumably walked off in horror, she never mentioned it again. I was left there to clumsily extricate myself, falling in a heap the moment I managed to pull the door open. For a few brief seconds before the door closed I felt what it was like to have most of my body weight pulling against my penis. Quite a different sensation from pressure, and one which I'll surely soon explore.

I was lowered onto the face of God

Compared to Him I was a tiny piece of meat, dangling helplessly on a barely visible thread of cotton. I made footfall on His upper lip. I pushed my way through the forest of white bristles and began the walk across His cheek. I used the wall of His nose to guide where I was going as His skin stretched out as far as I could see in all directions except the one from which I'd came.

It took me longer than I'd expected. I had needed to urinate for some time. I'd held it in for hours now as I couldn't bring myself to piss on God's face. It became urgent. I let it go in my pants as I reached the other side of His cheekbone. I was planning on releasing a little at first to see if he noticed, but it was so pent up that it came all at once, completely unstoppable. It sped down the inside of my trouser legs and filled my shoes. It seeped through the leather sides, and dripped out the stitchings. Piss dribbled across the curvature of His cheekbone like a tiny yellow tear and slid off into space.

I climbed the bridge of His nose and looked down into His eyes. It became apparent why he didn't care that I was crawling all over him, pissing myself. His eyes were twisted up into His head, cold and grey. An image of the earth, which hung in space just above us, reflected dully across the lens of His eyes. It was the last thing He'd ever seen. He'd been dead for some time.

Sunday, 4 May 2014


I fell in love during the vivisection. I was eviscerating flesh from sinew and bone. Creating a brand new creature from an old and untidy one. God created man out of unformed clay. I create out of unformed flesh - sculpting it into perfection. How could I not love what my hand hath created? How could I not get a thrill out of what I was doing? In this room I am god. The spongy tissue in my penis began to fill with blood as I brushed my shaft against the operating table. Here there was no he or she, there was just flesh and me. Push, prod, slice, stretch. Clasp, cut, slit, spread. They'd wake up in a white bed later, exclaiming shock and thankyous at their new appearance. But by then I didn't care. Love was over. Love is fleeting.

Wednesday, 30 April 2014

Sera & Dopey

Sera and Dopey could be the best of friends, or the worst of enemies. They've seen each other around the campus, but whilst they often visit the same or neighbouring areas, they rarely use the same pathways. Thus, their meetings are infrequent, and unpredictable.

Realistically, it is their mixed priorities that separates them.

Sera is all about the material. She wants to understand it, and remember it. She wants to be in bed at the same time every night. She wants to wake up feeling the same way, every morning.

Dopey is compulsive. He wants everything, and he wants it now. And now. And now. He wants to sprint and drink and fly and eat and fuck.

Perhaps the best of friends and the worst of enemies; but ultimately, the only 2 things that have ever, really made me happy.


Sunday, 27 April 2014

Happiness is an Old One

It was a story about a pig who had contracted German Measles. It wasn't very good, but that didn't matter. My parents were proud of me - five years old and writing my first story on an electric word-processing typewriter. It was cutting edge. It had a tiny LCD display that allowed you to edit the line of text before you committed it to paper. Spelling mistakes and accidental strokes could all be adjusted and corrected. I hit the enter button, the text disappeared from the screen and appeared on the paper behind. No more need for white-out and strike-through and readjusting a jammed ribbon. The words printed out in a screechy hum that sounded like the future. Looking at the page, the prognosis for this pig was not looking good. He'd been ill a while. The doctor was called. The doc said he might not make it through the night. If pigs received last rites then the best thing now was not a doctor but a priest.

 His family rallied around him, encouraging him through the night. They brought him moistened towels, emptied his sick bucket and made sure he was hydrated. They saved his life that night. Of course, being a contagious disease, they'd put themselves all at great risk. But what is life lived without risk? Without putting yourself out there for the ones you love? Even pigs know happiness.

Hope May Spring Eternal - But You Should Not Let It

She searched for him her whole life. The perfect man. The perfect dream. He had a secret. A head full of secrets, with a pensive face - moody, perhaps, but never loured. The classic cliche: tall, Darcy and handsome. She was clever enough to know that he wouldn't suddenly appear out of no where to sweep her off her feet. She was assertive. Proactive. During her career, in which she travelled the ever shrinking earth, she would look for him. In lonely bars and crowded clubs, at the ballet and in the slums. She could never shake the feeling that he was out there, somewhere, waiting for her to find him. Two souls calling to each other across the vastness of the universe.

She had never felt whole. She never felt as if she knew what love was, what it could mean, how it could feel. She was loved by her friends and family of course, but her heart felt like a balloon that had never been inflated. It longed to be filled with something, stretched out, to wrap around something and hold it tight. To find out the limits of her ability to love, to care and to feel emotion. To be brought to the point of bursting. Yet instead it sat, sad and deflated, perishing on the mantle. She spent her whole life looking. Filled her emptiness with searching. Until no one was good enough.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

I know I could be happier if I were more depressed

So I said to James I said, "mate, you've got it going on."

He retorted that the only thing he had going on was a bit of my mother. He implied that it was a small but otherwise good bit. That the bit kept him warm and satisfied even if I'd said she were dead or what have you.

I sat a while, wondering whether I should be offended, or whether I was just happy for the two of them. I decided to stay happy and let my three twitter followers know, after all it was the 99th day of my 100 days of happiness: #100daysofhappiness #day99 #stillhappy #mumsgettingsome. Twitter didn't respond. #noresponse #isanyoneoutthere

I lay on my back in the sunshine, that's the happiest thing one can do. I tweeted a pic of my toes wriggling against the sun - a spray of light rays spitting out around them like a mandorla. #100daysofhappiness #day99 #lazinginthesun. No response again, but when I thought about it, no one had ever responded to me on Twitter. Perhaps it wasn't as "social" a media as everyone banged on about. #amialone #whydoesithurt 

I'd done a touch too much thinking. I deleted my three twitter followers. They were bands and spammers anyway. Now I was on my own, ready to take on the world, ready to be myself and ready to... I remembered the one time anyone had tagged me on twitter. It was my mother. She'd accidentally done it in a post she was making about the dangers of wheat germ. She signed off LoL thinking it meant lots of love. At the time it annoyed me - how could my mother be so unsavvy - but now I'd give anything to receive a single tweet from her. A letter. A call... just to see her face again, smiling at me.

#100daysofhappiness #day1