This is where all of the bad thoughts come to talk about you; the poor impulse control, the poor decisions, not the poverty (the financial poverty) or the pity but the aimlessness and the alleged lack of worry and at the same time your worry is swept aside because no one can hear you say that without attacking that horrible, petty girlish weakness as nothing you worry about surely has any consequence for anyone but your own inconsequential self. Outside there is the sea of social faux-pas, the embarrassment (if you don’t have money, why are you here) that you’re only out there in the first place to escape yourself. Yourself, in a specific vision. But it’s all invisible. It is long forgotten, that you used to be an introvert.
How about being quizzed about how someone else is doing.
A dinner table full of diseases and no one needs a book recommendation.
Sure what interest do you have in working?
While the queen is suspicious about the cat
‘sucking on things’.
You suck on things. A cat has never sucked.
But there is no flow here; no interest, no honesty, no comfort, no empathy. Everything you do is somehow infuriating.
How dare you ruin the royal flush you vain, self-absorbed, risk-taking, self-destructive, heartless little shit.
This little shit enables the willful ignorance and laziness. Makes it feel needed.
The worst mistake yet those false allies my god. They could do everything you do better only they have a bit of sense don’t they? If there had been a tree house, you’d never have seen the inside of it. You think those things change with time but they really don’t. They are no more your friends than everyone who has never employed you. And you are no more their friend than Yoko Ono. You are interrupting the important men. You remember once ‘Quiet little one; men are talking’.
But you decided one day to be impenetrable and you will live with that forever. You had to speak in some kind of codes to seal everything off from the scrutiny. Now, you have no idea if it makes you naked or not.
Men twice your age coo at you, because you’re not half as dumb as they expected when they met you and tried to suck out your youth. But then you’re being explained to again. Because you haven’t managed to prove that you’re capable of thought, of opinions, because you’re paralyzed and physically dumb.
People call you ‘classy’ as if that’s a synonym for ‘old-timey’ and only when they don’t know the half of it. Beautiful fluffy white pavlova vomit with red raspberry swirls, downing cans and rolling smokes on the Rose of Tralee stage, she’s a lady woah woah woah, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.
But you love it, yes you do, being patronised. Because you have to. So you’re an addict, for a pat on the head or a tongue in your ear. In a state where you’ve escaped yourself, and submit to another person’s personality.
And it’s sickening to be a ‘clever’ brunette, a fragment of all boy’s fantasies where they come to Sasha and want to marry Annie.
And you. You’re just around. All the time. When you shouldn’t be.
She has only threatened to unplug.
You’ve had to bin your last scrap of romance because another woman’s tits landed on your head, but you’re left with something much more resilient.
You allow me to be bullied. As an adult. Same as ever.
You remember very clearly being told “You know your low self-esteem is nobody’s fault but your own” and the funniest thing about that was that the intention was sincerely to help.
When your name is called, in that tone, you tense up, like a wet cat.