Thursday, March 13, 2008

Scabby, Unwashed Insomniac Seeks Similar For Love, Laughter And Long Walks

I can imagine what my face looks like right now. I can imagine what I would look like to the intrepid observer as I sit on my couch, thickly socked feet resting on my bespoke coffee table: dark denim jeans, Brooklyn Industries tracky top, blanket - given to me by my curly friend - wrapped around my neck, up and over my chin and nose, cleverly hiding a scab on my left cheek, but making me slightly light-headed from breathing in too much of my own CO2. Dark circled eyes, bed-head hair and a scabby, bandaged hand. My only saving grace is the oddly identifying Tiffany silver bracelet that dangles from my left wrist. The Who is blaring out of my stereo, Love Reign O'er Me. (I save myself from my own irony) Again and again and again and again he says the words. I get stuck on songs that fit a mood to perfection. Over and over and over they get played, 'till the feelings have worn off - or I get irritated.

The mood in here has dropped faster than the temperature outside since I woke from a cheeky nap, late this afternoon. I only meant to rest my eyes for a moment or ten after a sleepless, tablet free, night last night. "Bollocks" was the first word that came out of my mouth when I awoke at quarter-to-eight this evening. Every night this week, I seem to have re-lived a certain friendship of old. They come back to me, all those lost people, looking past me as I run, struggling to catch up with them to say something, anything - but I don't have words. And they just keep ignoring me.

The other night I dreamt my hair was falling out. What remained was a fetid, matted, mess of yellowing scab that formed a bare circle on the back of my head with clumps of long, (think "Ring" - woman coming out of the telly) lank, black hair surrounding the horror. I remember just running towards my mum, my arms outstretched, weeping with the sheer horror of what was happening to me. She just rocked me on the ground, where we collided and looked over my head at my sister, both of them tying to disguise their own terrors.

I battered the crap out of my right hand on, “… when was it?" (Asking whom, I'm not entirely sure, as we have all determined that I am alone here, apart from the ghosts, when I chose to have them wander the halls) "Monday", yes, I think it was Monday. I'd had a frustrating fight with Army boy, first thing in the morning. Frustration that he couldn't understand and the whole tower of mess and symbolic self-destruction of the boys online came tumbling down.

Turns out I was “lucky” the first time round, when I met TRD online. Or maybe it was just his constant contact that made me feel as though I was. This time round, they've all been cunts. Head fuckers. Game players. Egotists. I think I’ve had the biggest learning curve in regard to online dating in the last four days than I ever will in a lifetime. There is no etiquette to online dating. There is no personal responsibility or courtesy. One second you are in, all eyes on you - the next you are out. What I have come to realise is that I am probably one of the more stable people on there. I watch Aberdeen, slowly turn maniac in his daily changing, profile photograph. I’ve dumped them all into my wastebasket, but they are still there – looking, or not.

Army Boy and I fight all the time. What it is about him that drags me back in again and again and again, I don't know. Well, I do know, but I don't want to admit it. He is the mirror of my relationship with Triple X. He pushes all my buttons, uses me for his greater good and knows when to stroke me at just the right moment so I relent. "Fuck - maybe he doesn't - maybe this shit is all in my head?" I can feel brown, acidic bile rising in the back of my throat. The head fuckers, the nightly nutters, I let them all in, because that is what I am used to. Or that is what I was used to. "I don't think I want to be used to that anymore"

My Ex, Triple X, Thrice Removed Ex, sent me a text on Tuesday evening. The number came up as unrecognised and the message simply said: "Are you still interested in making work?" First thought: "Wrong number". Second thought: "It's TRD". My insides liked the latter thought best and leapt and roared as I ‘calmly’ sent a message back asking who it was. The return answer was not a good one. How the fucking hell, bastarding, Jesus-fucking-Christ-wanker could think that this was a good thing to do - I have no idea. I played the game, curious to his cryptic, and a few texts later surmised that he was offering me a job. A job. Doing portfolio prep. With him.

My head, in record time, grasped the idea and rolled with it. "Ooooh what shall I wear in front of the class… My pencil skirt, button over shirt and tie?” I could just imagine “us” standing there together, side by side. Me, daring a child to say - "How do you know each other Miss?" Then I called him. And I couldn't hear him. He said he would call me back. I hung up. And switched off my phone and when I walked into the kitchen the next morning to make a cup of tea, I thought of him, just for one second and realised that I NEVER WANT TO HAVE TO THINK OF HIM EVER, EVER, EVER, AGAIN. That old familiar. Too, too many years have already been wasted. So I sent him a text, by reply at 09:52:31am, 12 March 2008: "I think this whole thing is a very bad idea. Us being in contact or working together. Please don't contact me again." I signed my name. I tried not to think about the fact that my stupid auto text had typed “contacat” and I'd missed it, when I re-read my bravery award a few hours later, but fuck that. I said "NO".

Boy bandaged hand or fucking not. I said “No”. To one of them, at least.

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