Friday, 30 December 2011
Recently the wagon has been dragging me along behind it, face-down
and it's big and dark and spins with the mud caking to your knees and because you're fucked it's all a tragedy really, ball-ache cold with vodka tears pissing out, burble of sick in your throat, cold from the booze. And you fucking reek of it now because seven brandy shots two pints two beer bottles (the ones that cheating fuck left at your mate's house and he fed you gleefully because you were always his favourite) a double gin and ginger and that fatal half bottle of vodka you gulped down like bleach you lie flat on your back and don't scream. Ten minutes later with that pizza you ate a lumpy orange catastrophe on the floor you smile at the taxi man and for some reason the poor bastard lets you in and you wake up next morning with Her looming over you like a Greek statue, Diana, and you curled like an egg in her Dad's bed, bruised in your Guinness boxers, waiting for the tide and it doesn't come because she sits down and gives you a look very much like pity and you think, Christ, this has to stop.
Wednesday, 28 December 2011
Things
John King. Mass Effect 3. John le Carre.
That last-half-a-pint-should-stop-tip-of-the-tongue-numb-nope-got-it-chug-it-love-it-hate-it-keep-calm-and-stagger-on-nothing-wrong-drop-the-act-fact-is-you're-pissed-and-done.
Mock the Week. Marmite. Turkish Delight. Kate Bush.
Mate, lover, buddy, son, sweetie, boyo, brother.
Xbox 360. Final Fantasy. Leather, braces, Doccy Ms, Maccy D's, Jezza K, white privilage, racist Disney films, feminist things.
Did a dissertation in 4 days in a vodka pisshead haze. Sugar Rush at 3 o'clock, 9000 words counting and I can't stop because it's in at 12 and the drink will sort it, flowcharts and referencing and don't know what I'm doing, but this is goodbye to the little black dot collapsing out into a black hole that arrived here in York and is now a ghost child on platform 5 that I will love and leave behind. Long days.
My ex-girlfriend's pet name was what I used to call my dog before. And now I can't anymore.
Bye.
That last-half-a-pint-should-stop-tip-of-the-tongue-numb-nope-got-it-chug-it-love-it-hate-it-keep-calm-and-stagger-on-nothing-wrong-drop-the-act-fact-is-you're-pissed-and-done.
Mock the Week. Marmite. Turkish Delight. Kate Bush.
Mate, lover, buddy, son, sweetie, boyo, brother.
Xbox 360. Final Fantasy. Leather, braces, Doccy Ms, Maccy D's, Jezza K, white privilage, racist Disney films, feminist things.
Did a dissertation in 4 days in a vodka pisshead haze. Sugar Rush at 3 o'clock, 9000 words counting and I can't stop because it's in at 12 and the drink will sort it, flowcharts and referencing and don't know what I'm doing, but this is goodbye to the little black dot collapsing out into a black hole that arrived here in York and is now a ghost child on platform 5 that I will love and leave behind. Long days.
My ex-girlfriend's pet name was what I used to call my dog before. And now I can't anymore.
Bye.
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