Thursday, June 13

Catch Me Trying, Summer

Dear Summer,--

Are you a real word or just a phantom? Are you a real season? You’re not here. I wish you would be. Sometimes you stick yr head around the window and you see how everything is and you fuck off again. That’s no good. Summer, we need you, if only so we’ll get a decent grape harvest and then some good wine in the end.

Summer, even when I say I won’t drink, I end up drinking; helpless, hopeless, occasionally hopeful; always done. Do you know how much I’ve fucked up when I’m drunk? A lot. Do you know how much good I’ve done when I’m drunk and how that is the only time I’m happy – that ‘hour of a drunken haze?’ No one gives a shit about that. To be fair, neither do I.

For the first time in months, since Helen, K— asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with her. I’d forgotten what walking alongside a girl was like and those trifles, those brushes, those meaningless wisps of contact; but, forgive me, the sun was shining, was cheating; you were shining, were cheating; and I made sure we always walked in the sun, so I pushed K— there. But I’m not interested. There is only one. I fucked that up when I was drunk, too. (Then how good I felt when I was drunk afterwards! as good as I could drunkenly feel.)

Maybe those hors d'oeuvres were enough; sunny canapés. Inspiration tickled my belly. I’d left my book in winter. Now I am stirred again. I discarded the first attempt – as I should – and I am trying again; slower; measured.

Sometimes things are easier with you around, Summer.

I work late and I work weekends and I know that one day I will die. I remember it when I’m in the office so I shout it out – ‘One day we’re all going to die and we’re all going to die alone! Isn’t that great? It’s okay, everyone, it’s going to be okay!’
‘Shut up, you mug.’ says someone. He’s right, and a good friend. I went to his wedding last autumn; he told me – ‘I love you, but you’re a cunt.’
Maybe I am.
Though, if I am a cunt, Summer, you are too.

The days have no names. They go by, dateless, and sort of in a daze, and most of them are pissing themselves because they have no idea what’s going on. So what if I am in love? Nothing is easy. I’d like to go on a spree of loving everyone but that’s too difficult. I’d like to go on a spree of killing everyone but that’s even more difficult. The authorities will get to me before I’ve made any sort of dent on my List. I do have a List; first the art students will go (painfully, when I have the most energy), then I will skin alive those who push in front of me in the queue to get a coffee, then I’ll probably make it up as I go along; I was never much for organisation. Those art students are really in for it. I really hate them. They make me feel sick when I see them on the street. Actually, Summer, you were there when those art students were photographing each other for some shoot outside that café. I walked right in front of their shot. I wanted one of them to apprehend me so I could have bitten his eye out. If I’d done that I probably would have shouted something witty like – ‘Can someone get me hair and makeup?’

All my friends are falling in love, joining gyms and having children. I don’t have time for that nonsense and I’m not much good at it either. Summer, they put their children in prams and take them for walks in the sunshine. It’s terribly painful to look at. They show me. It’s terribly painful to look at.

After all that, Summer, when I swore I wouldn’t drink – because I’ve been so exhausted – I am drinking and now I am finished drinking. I wish I had more and that I wasn’t so tired I could have another bottle. I wish you would arrive, Summer. I’d like to have a word with you, get some colour on my skinny wrists. If only we were in love. I’m broken as hell. If only the sun would shine.


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