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May 28th, 2012


05:15 pm
So I decided to go for a walk. I was drunk and miserable and I hadn't left the flat in days and I needed to get away from the place, get away from my thoughts for a while, so I put a can of beer in each of the four pockets of my jacket and went out for a stroll. I had no plan, no direction, I just let my feet take me where they fell. Rain had drenched the city all day but had stopped by the time I went out; the night air was still damp though, and the streets were all glossy under orange streetlights. I soon found myself in a scheme somewhere, basking in the light from the windows glowing warm in the dark. There was something comforting about the way the windows glowed, it's difficult to explain, but I remember doing this as a child and finding it beautiful and peaceful, especially when it snowed, but of course it hardly ever snows now.
I kept walking, tumbling I suppose, with no idea where I was or where I was going. That's the thing with the city, there's always somewhere you don't know, somewhere you haven't found yet, and it seemed to make sense to just keep moving. Eventually I found myself in a posh-looking, leafy street lined with huge 4- or 5-bedroom houses with well-kept gardens and unnecessarily powerful cars parked on gravel drives. There was a lot of noise coming from one of the houses, they were having a party, and I peeked into the front-room window from the end of the drive. Everyone looked so happy, so I decided to join them.
A woman answered the door and made it easy for me. 'Oh, you must be Daniel's friend,' she said, 'Do you know that he's already left? He said to tell you he's sorry but he had to go. Sean, isn't it?'
'Aye,' I lied. 'That Daniel, he's always leaving me like this.'
'Well, you're here now,' she says, 'So you might as well come in for a drink and enjoy yourself. Here, I like your trousers!'
I'd forgotten I was wearing my stripy pyjama bottoms - I'd left the flat in a drunken hurry with no thought to my outfit. The woman led me into the house. She looked around forty maybe and she was very pretty except for the weird blonde wig she had on. When I entered the massive living room, it was clear it was someone's birthday: there were balloons all over the floor and tied to lights and picture frames, party popper debris everywhere, paper plates with forgotten finger-food and the last scraps of a cake on the table, lying next to a display of cards addressed to Hilary, some with the number 16 on them. The room was full, you could barely move for guests, and I soon got talking to whoever was standing next to me. I stayed in that room for a while, enjoying my new life as Sean, chatting about the mysterious Daniel and what I did for a living. It was obvious that no-one really knew Sean, so I was free to invent him. He drove an ice-cream van, which I thought was pretty cool; he was found as a baby on the doorway of a church in Melbourne, Australia, but was adopted at the age of two by Scottish parents. I made it up as I went along, not caring about contradicting myself because I knew I'd never speak to these people again. I almost started to feel guilty after a while, everyone was so nice and friendly and I genuinely enjoyed their company and I was having a great time, but then again maybe I was just enjoying my ludicrous lies.
Eventually, I got talking to the birthday girl. She was tall with long and scruffy light brown curls all the way down past her chest, beautiful eyes but I don't remember the colour - sometimes I think blue, sometimes brown, maybe even green. We started chatting about something, anything, probably nothing. She was very open, enthusiastic and chatty, and soon we started talking about music. We seemed to share similar tastes and she said she had this great new record that she wanted me to hear and that I should come to her bedroom and give it a listen. I'd already heard it but I pretended I hadn't, not that it matters - she never got round to putting it on. As soon as the bedroom door was closed, she kissed me. Just turned round and gave me a gentle wee kiss on the lips, testing the waters, waiting for a reaction. Of course, I kissed her back. I probably should have hesitated, thought about it - she was only sixteen - but I was feeling bold and reckless. I can't imagine what attracted her to me. Maybe I was just the exotic stranger of the party, a bit dirty and mysterious and eccentric; the weird, orphaned Ice-Cream Man in his pyjamas. We didn't go far, in fact we didn't do much at all. We kissed and touched but went no further, overly intimate in that way you can only really have with a stranger.
I woke a couple of hours later with Hilary in my arms and I could hear the party still going strong a few rooms away. I rolled her over gently and got out of bed. She seemed to be asleep but was probably pretending, trying to avoid any awkwardness. I lifted my unusually heavy jacket from the floor - it was still loaded with beer, I hadn't even touched them thanks to an endless supply of free punch - then I quietly left the bedroom.
I popped back into the party room to say goodbye. I found the woman with the wig, who I suppose was Hilary's Mum, and I told her I'd had a lovely time but I had better be off, and she gave me a sly look as though she knew what I'd been up to. Then she took off her wig to reveal auburn curls and looked in my eyes. She was really drunk and placed the wig on my head, pulled it down to tighten it, obviously amused by how it looked. 'It's been lovely to meet you, Daniel's friend,' she said and gave me a kiss on the lips. She ran her hand down my cheek and grinned an alcohol grin in a flirty but innocent way, like when the older woman in the shop calls you darling or love. I said, 'Thanks for having me, I'll be sure and let Daniel know what a brilliant night you've shown me,' kissed her again on the cheek and left.
I still had no idea where I was. I opened a can of beer and just headed in the first direction my feet saw fit to take me. I kept the wig on because it was starting to rain.
When I woke up again, I was at a bus stop. My forehead was stuck to the glass of the shelter - I was sitting upright in the corner with my head against it. The first thing I saw was the ground where four empty beer-cans lay, then I noticed that my mobile phone was lying next to them, face down with the battery cover and battery missing, nowhere to be seen. My first thought was sheer panic - my whole life was in that phone. Remember, this was a while ago, somewhere in my mid-twenties, long before I had a computer or broadband and an email address. I didn't even have a land-line at home because it was an unnecessary expense and besides, I wasn't really at home that much anyway. As I picked it up to find the screen all scratched, the old woman I hadn't noticed asked, 'You had a good night, son?' She was sitting beside me on the bench in the bus shelter. 'The bus to Glasgow will be here any minute, if that's where you're going,' she said, and all I could muster through my dry throat was a croaky 'Aye, cheers.' There was a little awkward silence before the bus arrived and, ever the gentleman, I let the old dear on first. When I got up to the driver, I realised I didn't have any money - there's no pockets in my pyjama trousers and all I'd had in my jacket was beer, phone and keys. As if that wasn't bad enough, I caught sight of my vague reflection in the glass of the driver's booth and noticed my odd-shaped head - I was still wearing the wig. I yanked it off quickly then tried to plead my case, explained how I'd been stranded at a stranger's house in my pyjamas, but I needn't have bothered. Before I reached the end of my plea, the old woman had walked back up, bus-fare in hand, saying 'Here you go, driver, I'll get this,' and she paid my fare. I looked her in the eyes and said sincerely, 'Thank you, thank you, this is really good of you and I don't know what to say.'
'Just you get yourself up the road and get some sleep, son,' she said and went back to her seat. I stumbled right up the back and sat down, embarrassed and humble, lost for words.
The bus took me to Buchanan Station so I made the walk down to Queen Street to get the train out to the flat. As I was walking, in the distance, I couldn't believe it at first but there she was: my ex-girlfriend. She was stumbling and shaky, obviously still drunk from a night out, just like me. I wanted to shout out, run and catch up with her or even just somehow let my presence be known, let her see me in the same state, pretend that I was doing okay. But I decided against it, in fact I even took a slight detour to avoid her, I don't know why.
When I got home, I went straight to the bedroom and stripped then slid into bed, pulling up the extra cover to keep me cosy. As I drifted off, I was thinking about my weird night and how I was looking forward to telling all my mates all about it when I woke up. And then I remembered my phone was fucked.

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April 1st, 2012


08:39 am - Something New
The truth of the matter is that the truth of the matter doesn't fucking matter.

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March 26th, 2012


06:26 am - A Dead Flower Sort of Night
The mic is like a small bouquet, a handful of wilting roses, held so lovingly and then discarded for someone else to catch, passing with it perhaps some shadow of the mild success your own voice commands. Your friends were there, laughing and clapping in the role of the good friends they are supposed to be, and then it's done. You bloomed in spring and promptly prepare for yet another personal winter, your shining season dies in an unknown garden.
Off the stage, walking home for a half meal of noodles, processed meat and tap water.
The night isn't ever begun under the discouragement with which it ends.
Desperately, you will drink whatever there is to drink, and replay those minutes in the front of a bar or whatever else may pass as your personal audience, recalling the feeling of being above simple notice, to the tier of observation - the instance when you are felt and heard; an instance paralleled between the sheets.
Your friends are there, and then they aren't, and you are left with an appetite and little else. Sleeping with a girl only takes the 'sad sads' a little higher.
Hungrily, you will salve this discomfort with skin and breaths in order to escape the bills, the debts, the obligations of the creeping day, but even that lasts but for a precious few moments. You realize this as the heater clicks on, back off, on again, and soon the stars disappear as the sky is illuminated by an unwelcome sunrise. Tomorrow is upon you once again.
The show always ends.

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March 7th, 2012


09:22 am - Bloody
I wish it was someone elses blood on the jonnie.
It's in my mouth and under my nails.
I wish I'd woken up in someone elses bed.
Wish I was the wind in someone elses sails. 

I've no-one in particular in mind right now.
It was inevitable we'd end up in the sack.
I should have known you'd want to try again.
But I'm looking forward now
I'm not stepping back. 

My last lover's playing with a new man now.
It's only three weeks we've been apart.
They sat together and he sent her flowers.
Well he can fucking keep that fickle disco tart. 

'cause I've had it up to here with little girls.
She looked ugly today day, smoking her fag.
Just like a schoolgirl trying to look grown-up.
Now I'm looking for a woman but I'll settle for a shag. 
Current Mood: indifferentindifferent

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March 5th, 2012


10:10 am - One Of Those Nights
When I look in the mirror, I feel like the joke is definitely on everybody else. It's a quiet irony, seeing something different than what's there when you know that you aren't nearly starved enough to be catching a mirage on the horizon. When I look in the mirror, I see everything that was and everything that isn't, but I know that somewhere underneath, the same old monster is sleeping, waiting for it's time to dig itself up again and tear through the mask, show everyone it's teeth again; People used to call me pussy, bitch, snitch, thief, runner - And it's true, I was all of those things. It took a long while for me to finally get hard, the kind of hard you need to be.
It took being honestly stabbed, happily beaten, sincerely fucked to make me what I am today, the same old Mister Hyde I've always been. I'm playing at being a poor man's poor man, a false priest or maybe just an unpatroned saint as I beg and steal and borrow from all of my friends, just waiting for when they tell me to fuck off just so I can do just that and cut my leash. It's one of those nights just now, the kind where I don't want to stay in, I don't want to watch a film, I don't want to eat or sleep or screw, I want the kind of intimacy that comes strung to the back of a special sort of hate. I want the raw, the real, the hardcore and I am only getting soft. I don't know what to do about it. I don't know what I want, really, I just know I want it right now and I know that it isn't good.
Just lock me up again, please.

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March 1st, 2012


01:00 pm - Not Quite
Why couldn't I speak?
You're not really so unique. My eyes stayed on the floor.
I make a little suggestion, before I pop the question.
But I'd been way too off my face.
I would've done myself a service had I just carved it off of me.

"It's the first time in ages I've actually had the guts to ask, but I'm feeling particularly confident tonight, if you know what I mean. But that's the thing - You don't know what I mean. The reason I like you in the first place is is the same reason we won't get on, you're just not into it. I mean, you're cute and you're innocent and you're nice and all that, but you barely even drink."

No meeting granted,
But now the seed's been planted. And now you're in the know.
Too steaming too impress. Not a no, not quite a yes.
You ask if that's okay. I guess it is.

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February 26th, 2012


07:53 am - Naughty
The thing is, I know I can't be angry, but I am fucking mad.
The truth about my reasons are all just sodding sad.
I can't bear to see her, so pretty, so adult,
Even thought she's just as young as they ever come
dizzy from the rum, laying with a man
Who, thought I've known him for an age, and trust
not to engage in what I feel is wrong
Will always be so caught, see
We all want to be naughty.

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07:48 am - Away We Go, Again.
How am I supposed to walk you home when you're at least fifty feet ahead?
Cause you walked off in a huff and I'm so pissed I can't even remember what it was I said.

And I don't doubt you wouldn't touch him now, but let's face it, you always used to go for that kind of guy.
And if you ever really wanted two men at once, all I'm saying is that seriously,
I better be one you've got in mind.
Away we go same time, same place.
I don't like the way you miss your kisses on his face.
It's not that there's no trust, as such.

I'd love to make up but I've had far too much.

Now you know damn well I'm staying, I've only ever carried out that threat once before -
I left a country,
And even then I coudn't get far enough and now you always come and call me back before I could ever make it to the door.

Here we go same time, same place.
My embarassment versus your damp face.
We could lie down here or we could talk in bed.
But I'm afraid that's all, as I've already said.
Away we go, again.
I'll never know what you can ever gain.

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February 17th, 2012


04:02 pm - Writer's Block: A Bright Idea
What do you want to invent?


Soma, if it did the opposite. I feel like we all forget to actually feel the intense sometimes, and have so many ways to avoid doing so. I'd make something that manufactures true, temporary despair. We'd probably all recall better times and be more thankful for the experiences.

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03:59 pm - Friends
Can't live without them, don't want to either.

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