Saturday, June 29


WALKING ALONG THE street, I wished to be punched in the face. I thought about starting a fight – ‘Look at this fella … he’s a big ‘un … I bet he could kick seven shades of shit out of me.’ At least one of my teeth would fall out. Feeling my own blood dribbling all over my face seemed very appealing to me; I saw myself as if through a film camera. Someone would stop it, no doubt, but I would be smiling in my blood before my lips and my cheeks swelled.
All of my peers have girlfriends now. They are pushing their relationships along until they can get married; just in time; who knew these things had a timer? I don’t understand any of that. I wish I did, but I don’t. ‘Holy shit,’ I think – ‘I’ve never even been in love.’ I am a hopeless romantic (at best), an evolutionary dud (at worst), an aspiring eunuch (at most). All I want to do is drink. Tonight I was supposed to meet a friend who has a tattoo of a bat and a piercing I felt most when she sucked my penis. I knew that she would distract me, I wanted desperately to see her, yet the sky became overcast, the wind blew, the rain fell; exhausted; I can hardly get out of bed in the morning anymore; been getting into work late; no one cares. All I need is a distraction. That’s all I want any more: distraction: work, food, guitar, drink, drink, drink. Simple people don’t need distractions. They are the superior race. I need a distraction. The asexual are like gods to me. I will shake their hands.
I got a postcard from her, a response to mine, delivered speedily by our respective postal services. I put off reading it for a long time. Eventually I read it when I was taking a shit. Not once did she ask how I was or mention me. I could probably have given it and he would have thanked me. Once I had read it twice over I thought a bit more about my suicide, thought I might cry, and then decided to take a shower; ‘Maybe you will feel better.’ Lately I’ve been having difficulty crying. My emotions are a little stiff these days. Boys don’t cry. My tear ducts are ready for their pension.
No sense in self-pity. Do something about it.
Maybe I will.
It amuses me, still, when people pretend to care. I should like to slap them around the face and tell them to pull themselves together.
My bedroom window is open, despite the cold.
For a moment I allow myself to marvel at the ladies and gentlemen around me; the glee they find in holidays, the satisfaction their partners offer them, the ridiculous ways they busy themselves, their stupefying eyes that I watch very carefully to see if they even twitch on the train journey home; I even see girls amazed, proud, at the paint they have put on their fingernails! and I wonder how much more of this mundane nonsense I can stand. After all, it is not that I dream of greener grass, but of no grass at all.
Hopefully this will all pass. If I were a religious nut, I would pray for this to leave me. Drink is, most likely, just as useless as prayer. My mother goes away for a holiday on Sunday and I am terrified of being left alone, especially right now. It makes me tremble. It is the first thing I think about when I wake up. This unstoppable countdown to Sunday. I must not be a fool. I must remain balanced. I don’t want Sunday to happen at all. There is no summer. There is only rain falling on the floor, drying, falling again. The crops in the fields don’t seem to be growing. Nothing grows, no one rejoice.
How absurd I sound! I know how absurd I sound, because I remember – through home videos – how I sounded as a child! I sound very absurd. Forgive me, please. I write. I write to you, though not for you. I breathe. Now I am quite drunk, so I must sleep.

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