Thursday 25 February 2010

Postlude

A titled peace this age with it brings;
The joy, for confusion, will not show his head:
Come hither, we’ll talk more of these questionable things;
Some shall understand, and some shall not:
For never was a story of more stress,
Than this of love and its new found Happiness.


This book is dedicated to the important people. Much love to you.
Special thanks to Shaun Davis for Chapter Eight (As Written By...My Agent).
Look out for the next book - a poetry book about my favourite subject.
Read the beginning of it all, Sexy Utopia



Marcus Flemmings 2010 (c) 

Become Happiness (Chapter Twenty)

In the beginning we are born with distinct opportunity. We are born with the same happiness gene. Time gives us the gift of ambition. Soon this manifests itself into greed, lust and other unsavoury emotions.
Buddhists believe in the ability to seek happiness via the loss of craving. Sadness is referred to as ‘Suffering’. The attainment of non-attachment leads to nirvana. What we all believe we wish to seek.
Clear mind, clear thoughts. Clear path way to enlightenment. Safe haven to happiness. Nirvana.

My methodology is slightly shifted from that chosen practice. I choose to embrace the opposite side of that thought. Grip onto all of lives pitfalls and great oblique overviews for my own personal humour and, latently, my satisfaction.

Take love for example. The thing that has always eluded me. I have loved and lost. That old adage 'It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all' - this is true.

With her it was the love for what she was in my mind. Rather than love itself. Love unreciprocated is not love - it’s merely passion misguided. She was perfect for me. But she wasn't for me. Life is full of these anomalies...

When I finish my poetry book, when all is dusted and done, I'll dedicate it to love. I'll dedicate it to that emotion I felt for her.
My unexplained mystery.
It'll be a manual for love. It'll be a success and it'll be REAL. My agent will finally let me into his office with welcoming arms due to my talent and not my sarcasm and basic form of wit, which mildly amuses him (Even though he’ll never admit it).

As for her, she'll live. She'll be happy. She doesn't NEED me. It would be man's natural will to hate and wish her an unhappy existence. It is not my natural will. In fact, the opposite. Because, in my mind, she will always be what she is in my mind. And that person deserves happiness.

Novelist and physicist, Charles Percy Snow once quipped, ‘The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase; if you pursue happiness you'll never find it.’ I work with this notion.

Invariably Happiness will find me. With my carefully thought out lifestyle I am the epitome of what Nirvana is.

Become Happiness.

Embrace Female Elevators (Chapter Nineteen)

I love elevators.
They're special. Much to the disagreement of my vertigo they favour me more than vehicles of an aero dynamic persuasion.
The female voice in the elevator is the best part of the whole experience. Her comforting pre-recorded voice is both courteous and welcoming - "Floor 1", "Floor 2" and so on - It fills me with a kind of orgasmic glee. Her tone was not dissimilar to that of your partner after a long term relationship- words mean nothing. Monotonous sounds - in one ear and out the other.
The whole experience was rather similar to that stage of a long term relationship. Minus the 'orgasmic glee' part.
As the elevator does down I ponder upon a question, what else is similar to relationships?

"Hey there." A familiar female voice says, "It had to happen didn't it?"
It was the accountant - as she entered the lift. Surprised, I mumble back..."Hey."
I hadn't spoken to her since the meeting aka date we shared. She was right though it was bound to happen at some point. She worked in the same building as my agent. The only mystery was what she was doing on the third floor - as she worked on the ground floor. "I guess this could be quite awkward if there was than 2 more floors till the ground floor."
Still rather shocked and, more than anything, embarrassed about not contacting her since the meeting aka date I reply with another mumble...
"Yeah. I guess."
Deafening silence fills the elevator. It feels comparable to entering the black hole. Not that I have. But my imagination runs wild at times.
We both look away from each other. The voice of the elevator lady becomes inaudible flooded by the sound of the elephant in the elevator. For the briefest of seconds I turn and look at her. She was just as beautiful as the first time I saw her – me exiting the women’s toilets. Why didn't I contact her AT ALL after our meeting aka date? I turn away contemplating the answer to this.
“GROUND FLOOR” the female elevator says in her loudest voice.
"Well bye. Nice seeing you again." The accountant says in her smiley way.
I instinctively walk in front of her and push the button for floor FOUR. Whilst managing to block her exit.
"Let's talk." I plead.
She chuckles, "What? On the lift?"
"Yeah why not?"
She laughs, "Yeah why not!"
The doors shut and the female elevator heads back up.
A silence again.
I don't know how to begin.
"This is romantic." She quips.
"Yeah. It’s not my most celebrated moment, I must say."
"To top the moments spent not contacting me?"
I laugh nervously.
"Yeah. Kinda."
"You gonna give me a contrived excuse for not contacting me? Cat died?"
"Don't have a cat."
"Dog had to visit a vet?"
"No dog."
"Had to write a new book about useless men? An autobiographical kind of thing?" She said, on the verge of bitterness.
I laugh with nervousness again then open my to speak, she interrupts.
"Don't worry I already know."
"You do?"
"Yup something to do with an ex or some girl you like or something."
"A little."
"I spoke to your agent last week to find out if you were still alive."
"Ahhh..."
"He told about some girl...your ex?"
"No. Actually she was more of a muse. Or more like..."
"Someone you wanted and had history with?"
"Yes. But more than that. You know in life, when you really want something and you reach out for it and it seems close and you reach out more and more and it seems closer but in actuality it’s further and further?"
"Yeah..."
"That was her. And I know that's no excuse for how I treated you but...well there's no but..."
She smiles. "We all have moments of weakness.”
I correct her, "Stupidity.".
"That too."
“FLOOR FOUR” says the elevator.
"Back down to ground floor I guess?" She asks, already knowing the answer.
She presses the ground floor button.
"So am I forgiven?" I ask as the elevator goes down.
"Shall I forgive you? That's a question. I'll have to consult my calculator and equations to answer that."
"Ahhh, I get that joke. Cos of the whole you being an accountant thing right?"
"Indeed. You’re a quick one. I'll have to keep an eye on you."
We both laugh followed by brief warm glance at each other and then turn away.
“GROUND FLOOR” our talking lift informs us.
"Take care of yourself." She says exiting the lift.
"You too." I reply, still in the lift.
She waves a cute wave and slowly begins walking away. I mimic her wave - she laughs her even cuter laugh - just then the elevator door closes. I try to stop it - to no avail. All I get is a glimpse of her grinning at my predicament.
I guess it’s back to the  floor four with my loving female elevator.
My longest relationship ever.

Monday 22 February 2010

Sometimes Hark Back To The Times Of Yore (Chapter Eighteen)

"Where’s the book?" My agent shouts from across his desk - two weeks after the dinner party.
"In my creative hub."
"Creative hub? What is that? Your love palace where you bring your female groupies?"
I laugh, "I don't have groupies. I'm a writer. We have critics."
He chuckles then stops instantly with a deadly serious look, "Seriously, where is it?"
"You know...I don't know. In my head still."
"Don't tell me...writers block again? If I hear that phrase again I'm gonna throttle you. I should do it anyway after that dinner party stunt."
I laugh wildly, "You enjoyed that right?" I ask.
"No. I didn't. Neither did my wife."
"You mean the woman you’re cheating on?"
"Yeah about that, that chapter I wrote, you gotta remove that."
"Really? I was thinking of turning the journal into an online book."
"What? Like a blog?"
"No. Not a blog. A book. Online."
"Basically a blog then..."
"A book." I reply straight-faced.
"’Superman's a legend - he's almost undefeatable.’" He says, mimicking me.
We both laugh.
"How do you think of this shit?" He asks.
"You had to laugh when I said that right? Sorry for fucking up your ostentatious party."
"You won't laugh when you hear what I'm about to tell you."
"What? That producer and his wife divorced?"
"Oh nah. They're holding a dinner party next week. They're together still."
"Really? Can I come to that? I might be able to do the trick this time and actually break them up."
He chuckles, "Be serious for a second. That producer he was there to talk to you about a movie deal for your last book - Sexy Utopia."
"Really? Serious?"
"Yup! Obviously that's not happening now though."
"Shit. I kinda messed that up, right?"
"Yes. You did.” He says flatly before continuing, “Finish that poetry thing."
"I'm gonna put the journal online first."
"Whatever - just do something. Please. People will forget you otherwise."
I laugh.
"Sure."
I get up to leave.
"Don’t come back here unless you're doing something creative from your ‘hub’. I said it before and I’ll say it again, this is not a social club."
"Okay." I say leaving.
"And what's happening with that girl?"
"Nothing. I don't think I'll ever understand that situation."
I open the door to leave...
"I know about her already." he says smiling, "I meant the accountant."
I stop for a second and ingest thoughts of the beautiful, zany accountant. A brief grin to myself then an exit.

Sunday 21 February 2010

Always Resort To Carnage (Chapter Seventeen)

"What do you think huh?" My agent asked.
"It’s good, yeah."
"Better than that gourmet shit huh?" He asked with too much enthusiasm.
"Yeah I guess." I replied - with my new ‘whatever’ stance.
I was at a dinner party hosted by my agent, his wife and his pretentious industry friends. 6 of them - with their wives, apart from one younger dude, an actor apparently.. Being sat around the table with these individuals was painful enough without the questions being fired in my direction non-stop. It was as if they didn't get enough quality creativity time in their lives so they had to turn to me for some flair.
"So when’s the book out?" A well groomed 50 year old producer asked. 
"Hmmm, not sure. Soon." I mumble in response.
"Probably in the next 3 months. He's on fire right now" counter-answered my agent. Glee in his face.
"What's it about?" The producers younger (much) wife asked.
I pause to answer. Not particularly caring. My agent steps in, "It’s about love - a poetry novel."
Everyone around the table gasps in excitement.
"Sounds interesting." The actor guy says.
 "Can I star in the movie version?" He adds with a sarcastic tone.
"If I finish it, yeah."
My agent laughs nervously, "Good joke!"
"I'm not joking." I say.
"Writers block hey?" The actor asks.
"Yup."
"Me too. I'm writing a novel about war and peace."
"Is it called War and Peace?" I ask, in jest. Warming up to the party. Mainly the guest’s eccentric personalities.
"Yeah! How did you know?" He says. Everyone, thinking he’s joking, laughs. His serious, confused face soon changes the mood.
"What?" He asks innocently.
"You do realise there's a book called War and Peace already?" My agent asks him.
"There is?" He asks - he's so dumb. "That's okay no one will know the original."
I let out an impromptu laugh. The first time I had laughed properly in 3 weeks.
"What do you mean no one will know? It’s one of the most famous books of all time." My agent passionately asks.
I laugh again. No one else does.
"You gotta change the name." Says the producer.
I cackle evilly, amused by the crowd. Everyone looks at me. Bemused.
"Don't mind him he's just in a bad mood. Some girl he liked dumped him." Explains my agent. 
Everyone gasps - 'Are you okay?’ I hear some ask. I decide on melodrama to entertain myself:
"Yeah she's basically taken my mind and put it in an industrial sized cocktail blender and then poured it out into a heart-shaped jug and taken intermittent SIPS from it."
"No one sips anymore." Says the producers wife, really meaning it. She of blonde hair, like a customary token trophy wife.
I nod and agree, "Very true."
"Sorry to hear that man." Says the actor, "I once had to play a heart broken guy in a stage production. Very heart wrecking."
"Yeah? How did that go?" I ask, not at all paying attention.
"It was rather painful actually because I had just broken up with..."
"What about that Mandela eh?" I interrupt him, it was my turn to interrupt people, "Nelson Mandela - Terrorist"
More gasps from everyone. This time of a shocked variety. My agent, knowing that old line, steps in:
"Let's have dessert shall we?"
"You can't say that..." The producer tells me, oblivious to his attempt to change the subject. "What grounds do you have to say that?"
"Well he was part of a group called ANC they threatened and carried out various killings.” My background on this subject was vast - owing to my insistence upon continually using tired and tested line.
"Let's not talk about this now, shall we?" Said my Agent, again trying to change the subject. I loved my agent. He always supports me through all. Writers block, love life...hmmm...I say “everything” but only two things really. That was enough. However, at the risk of spoiling his party, I had to entertain myself.
Everyone in the room, still shell shocked by the statement I made, awkwardly drank their drinks.
A short silence.
The producer’s face filled with disgust whilst he SIPPED his fruit cocktail mixed with a slight drop of Vodka. Then he continues sporadically,
"Seriously there's no foundation for what you're openly spouting out - as if it’s a fact. Absolutely none. He's a living legend."
"I just told you the foundation." I retort arrogantly, also sipping my drink, "Legend? Nah he's not a legend. Superman's a legend. He's almost unbeatable." I quip.
My agent giggles, trying to contain himself.
"So childish." The producer mutters.
"Who’s Nelson Mandela?" The actor asks.
No one answers.
"Actually hunny, he's got a point." Says the young wife of the producer.
"What????" He says loudly in response.
"Well Nelson Mandela did use 'aggressive tactics' - causing terror and panic. I mean that is the definition of a terrorist isn't?"
She was smarter than she looked.
"Why are you agreeing with this man? He's anarchic at best. A plain old childish troublemaker at worst. Why do you always do this? No one wants to hear your opinion. You're here to look good."
I laugh.
"Don't oppress me." The wife emotionally replies, almost shouting.
"Oppress you? You obviously worked out how to use the thesaurus on that MAC that you brought with my black card. What kind of gold digging wife buys an APPLE MAC? I mean buy a diamond ring or a handbag. An APPLE MAC??"
A silence. His wife sobs.
I smile.
He continues his tirade of abuse, "Why defend that guy? You sleeping with him too? Might as well! You've slept with everyone else."
She cries even further. He looks at the actor – deadpan eyes.
"Yes I know she slept with you too!"
Everyone turns to the actor. He pulls a blank expression.
"It was only once!" He innocently says trying to defend himself. An argument breaks out between the three of them. With others joining in to calm them down. A crescendo of discontent.
Perfect.
I sip my water and watch it all, wry smiled.
From across the table, beyond the bickering, my agent looks at me shaking his head - like a disappointed father. I raise my glass to him and grin wildly.
My Happiness had returned.

Friday 19 February 2010

Deny The Denial Of Love (Chapter Sixteen)

I saw an ad on the train the other day proclaiming that the 'stroke' is the number three biggest killer of humans. Well, I want to know what the number one killer is - that's what I need to be wary of. Forget number three. Why spend thousands on an ad campaign to tell me about the number 3 killer? Money NOT well spent.

"Excuse me" a middle aged man says to me on the stairs leading up to some place. I purposely don't excuse him. I want a confrontation. I want a confrontation where a person beats me to a pulp. It would be preferable if that person was suffering from some sort of depression. A beating at my expense might drag them foot first through their condition. At least then my beating won’t have been for a selfish cause. However if this type of individual is not my aggressor then it matters not. I just need a good thrashing to help me physically feel the pain of her crushing my heart.

Friendship? Pah, what’s that?  Friendship bores me. How can men and women be friends? Sex always gets in the way. Or worse, Love.

She laughed when I even uttered the word love. As if I had said marriage.
9 days since that whole incident and I was feeling less confused - I cared less about the confusion she caused and more about my own inability to not fall in love. As much as I denied it, I felt ‘in love’ with her. She encompassed my very being.

Confusion was secondary. All I now felt was angry at myself for falling.

The first great killer of humans is love. The second is stupidity. The third is the 'stroke'.

Thursday 18 February 2010

And Also Question Day Four (Chapter Fifteen)

When I kiss her the world goes silent. I see the universe and all the answers to the theorem of time.
As we kissed for the fourth time in 24 hours I began to believe that I knew how to predict the exact time and moment that this world will end. I felt omnipotent.

Today I chose the venue we’d meet at. It was a boat bar that we had passed but two days previous.

After some light chat about nothing and a drink, water for me, wine for her, we shared lips for the fifth time. The end of this shared moment was rather awkward though –she pulled her head away prematurely and took a second out. A blank stare into the distance and a turn of the head.
“How was that for you? Did the earth move?” I jokingly ask, to make the awkwardness less so.
She smiles lightly. No response.
“Is that a yes?”
“Is what a yes?” She asks, preoccupied, before rummaging through her bag for something. Nothing it seems.
I take a sip of my water and look outside at the river. A discomfited glaze hits our space. A silence.
“What are we doing?” She asks – almost at a mumble. With more stares at nothing in particular. Almost comatose.
I, confused, don’t reply.
“What the hell are we doing?” She asks again, this time more directly. I am forced to reply this time via her lack of ambiguousness.    
“What do you mean?” Nice reply from me.
“This. Us. What are we doing?”
“Mostly talking crap and kissing.” I reply whilst smiling. She doesn’t smile back.
“That’s what I mean. We’re friends. Friends don’t do this.”
“Well, we’re escalating our friendship to something more precious.”
“Yeah.” She replies flatly, pausing, then continuing, “I don’t want that.”
I am taken aback. It felt like the perfect mountain I had climbed in the past 96 hours was being slowly ripped down by some corporate fucks with aspirations of building another of the ‘world’s tallest buildings’ (How many do they need? Really?)
“Why not?” I asked – with that confused look on my face, that’s normally reserved for people who ask directions when I don’t want to tell them.
“It doesn’t feel right. We’re friends.”
“But...”
She cuts me mid-sentence, “It doesn’t matter what you say....it just doesn’t.”
“I don’t get a say?”
She pauses and puts her bag down. She went in there to take out her phone which she then randomly plays with. Annoying me in the process.
“No. You don’t get a say.”
I chuckle, annoyed, frustrated...inadequate again.
“Well...” I say – almost speechless, “...That’s bullshit.”
She looks up at me – with a ‘he swore’ look.
“It just the way I feel.” She says casually. As if I meant nothing to her. She continues to play with her phone. Giving me little eye contact. I turn my body away from her and take another sour sip of my water. No one sips anymore, I thought to myself to quell my anger. It’s true. No one sips anymore. Everyone drinks. No one sips.
I couldn’t contain the anger anymore. I put the drink down with a sharp thud.
“This makes no sense. You make no sense. You fall in love and then the next minute you fall out of love?”
“Love?” She snaps, finally giving me FULL eye contact, “Where did ‘love’ come from?”
“You know what I mean...something special happened between us and is happening right now...you can’t...”
She cuts me again, “Something special?” she chuckles, “Okayyyyyyyyy then.”
“What?” I ask aggressively.
“You live your whole life in a Charlotte Bronte novel. Your credence is ‘Love is all conquering’. It’s a fallacy. Like most writers you’re deluded.”
“You don't think writers are intelligent do you?”
“They're not intelligent - my dad told me never date writers, they're not clever. They make stuff up because of that very reason. They don’t have a basic grasp of intelligence much less possess it.”
“Yeah well my dad told me...fuck you!” I venomously say to her. But quickly elaborate, realising my mistake...”Not literally....just a figure of speech.”
“Whatever.” She says playing with her phone again.
I shake my head in resignation and then look up at her.
“You said writers inspire you. You wanted to write. You love writers and writing.”
“So?” She says in her typical fashion. Not giving a care in the world.
“You’re being a hypocrite.”
“Well that is the benefit of being a professional hypocrite! I can say what I want and then change it!!!”
I shake my head again.
“So everything that has happened you want to just forget it and pretend it didn’t happen?”
She nods yes, playing with the phone.
Silence.
“So what now? We just go back to being friends?”
“Yup. That’s what I want.”
Silence.
“Doesn’t make any sense. We haven’t even given it a try.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Why?” I asked, desperate for some logic.
Her concentration in her phone she barks out, “I just want this. Just friends. I don’t want to really talk about it.”
“We have to. Otherwise it’s going to affect our friendship.”
“Not really.” She says with a lack of emotion.
Silence. I lower my head in disappointment.
More silence. This time it lasts a full 4 minutes. Within the 240 seconds my heart sinks into a despondent shell.
She puts her phone in her bag and looks at me.
“I’m going to go.”
I manage to find the strength to softly reply, “Okay.”
She picks up her bag and stands up with a blunt, “Bye.”
I don’t reply.
“Fine, don’t reply.” She says.
“You haven’t even talked about it and you’re leaving. Fine.” I volley at her in my most moody manner.
“There’s not really much to talk about.”
“Fine.” I irritably reply.
“Bye.”
Ignoring her farewell, I randomly say, “’Professional hypocrite’...that's not even a job.”
She gives me a blank stare and again says bye before exiting.

This forever confusion was day four.


Tuesday 16 February 2010

Question The Three Day Cycle (Chapter 14)

"What's with the suit? It’s a joke right?"
She laughs.
When she laughs at me it doesn't hurt that much. In fact I laugh at myself in return.
"No. It’s my new look"
"New look? Are you a show dog?"
"I'm a gentleman now. Didn't you see how I opened the door for you?"
"Yeah don't do that again - its lame. This isn't 1942. I'm allowed to vote and all that. Even though I’m a poor defenceless and dumb woman.”
We laugh in the crowded, well known women’s clothes store. She wanted to meet up and talk again but could only fit me in with some shopping. She "needed" some "retail therapy".
Why?
She never said. As always our conversations were loud and raucous. In this well known pretentious clothes store our noise was out of place. I showed her a pleasant looking red top that she may look good in...
"Are you trying to make me vomit in your face?"
"It’s nice!"
"Nice? Like your suit?"
"Nah my suit is the summit of fashion. It’s the equivalent of a sunny day in a hot country, sipping on water."
"Water? Do people do that? Do they go to hot countries and sip water?"
"Well I do! I don't drink."
"Oh yeah. Cause you had a drinking problem before."
I laugh, "No - I just don't like the taste.
"I love the stuff." she says picking up a white top and showing it to me, "What do you think?"
"Hmmmm so so"
"Definitely getting it then...your fashion taste resulted in you getting that suit"
I brushed down my suit, proudly, with sarcasm.
She then showed me a pair of jeans, dark blue, skinny legs...
"Why don't people sip anymore? People don't sip anymore."
She went into a fit of laughter.
"Is that your most intellectual question?" she asked beyond the laughter.
"It’s a valid question. Why don't people sip anymore? They just drink."
"When did people ever sip?"
"Back in the day..."
"Back in the day when your suit was 'cool'?"
"Hey listen my suit is cool - it’s the rage!"
"The 'rage'?" She laughs, "No one likes your suit."
She showed me some shoes with heels like elevators. Is that a correct comparison? Shoes with big heels, basically.
"Can you even walk in heels that big?"
“Yes, I have legs and a brain."
"You have legs - that's true."
"Ha ha - you're too funny." She walks off slowly, I follow. "Especially with that suit on." She adds.

We wait in the queue for her to make her purchases. 1 pair of shoes, 3 tops, 1 pair of jeans. Skinny. Still talking about my suit.
"No one likes your suit."
"You keep saying that. What do you mean ‘no one’?"
"The clue is in the words - 'no one'."
“Have you done a silent survey?"
"No I am the voice of reason. The voice of the masses."
"You know what, people love my suit...I'll prove it."
I turn to the couple behind us.
"Do you guys like my suit?"
The guy, student looking, hair shaped like a bird’s nest and clothes with holes, speaks first.
"It’s alright actually."
The girl nods "yes".
She interjects.
"Quantify 'alright'"
"Well it’s not what I would wear but it looks okay on the older type of guy." The Student replies.
"Older type..." She laughs.
"Older type? I'm not that much older than you." I retort, "How old are you?"
"How old are YOU?" I ask defensively.
"21 - You?"
"Doesn't matter."
I turn back to her, "See, he likes it."
"He thinks it’s 'alright' and 'okay'. Hardly means he likes it."
"It’s a great suit."
"Alright it’s the best suit ever in the history of suits." She says sarcastically before walking off to the cashier ready to purchase the items with her 'hard earned' cash.

Later, us relaxed in a nice Italian restaurant we talk some more...
"So if I hadn't of contacted you then you wouldn't have contacted me would you?" She asks aggressively.
"Hmmm."
"No."
"I wanted to. But our last conversation wasn't too great."
"So you let the friendship go then?"
"Nah. I just thought you didn't want to talk."
"Nice - how about ask?"
"Okay. Well we're talking now."
"No thanks to you."
"Sorry."
"Sometimes I think you don't care."
"That's not true. I do. It’s just sometimes you're a little stubborn."
"So?"
I smile, "Is that your favourite word? ‘So’?"
"Yes it is. Got a problem?" She says with a wry smile.
"No. Not at all...hate for you to storm off."
She laughs, "That was an awesome exit right?"
"Yeah was just missing some water on my head. Drink in the face and all that. I actually over tipped the waiter with your money just to get you back."
She laughs wildly, I join in.
"Yeah I'm offended by that. Please give my money back you gangster. You're so cool"
I laugh and give her a quick poke.

Day Two
It was the second day of her being back in my life -- for once she allowed me to dictate things.
The time. The place.
I chose a walk on a riverbank with laborious yachts - a bit of culture mixed with a nice blend of modern pop culture.

We walked and talked. Occasionally stopping to let her take a break from her newly brought, excessive high heels. I joked that her heels were like elevators - she giggled - mostly from behind the pain. I walked more - rather sadistically wanting her to feel more pain.
Why?
It gave me a satisfaction that cannot be quantified with just one word. Or a sentence even. It’s just the way I’m wired.

She was different now. More receptive. In less of a rush to leave. More devoted to sharing her time with me. That attitude she previously displayed to me on a whim was now subdued. Still her sarcastic and funny self – but now she was the woman I knew was there. I gave the new her feet a break from walking and we sat on a bench overlooking the river - skies dimming and night about to crawl in. She rested her head and soft hair on my shoulder and we sat in silence looking at the off-crimson skies. THE perfect moment. If the earth swallowed me whole and took away my very last breath I would not complain. For time had conspired and given me this moment that was my most cherished in all my life. THE perfect perfection. Not an inch wrong with the frame. The pinnacle of everything. A love story told backwards always has a happy ending.

Day Three
"I've always been used to getting what I want."
"You're telling me."
"When I was younger if I wanted something then it would be mine. I apparently had this face I'd pull to get what I want."
"Yeah I've seen it a few times. It’s like this." I pull a comical sad face with sad puppy dog eyes.
She smiles and playfully punches me on the shoulder.
"That's a scary face. Don't do it again. My face is more cute. Like a little kitten."
"So you think you can get what you want with your kitten face?"
"Yeah - anything."
"I need a face like that."
Day three of US, as I call it, was her choice. Nice quiet bar in the middle of nowhere.
Swanky but efficient.
Efficient but random.
We sat at the back on the black leather sofa that was big enough for three people. Since we'd been speaking again we'd not stop talking. Constant phone calls - up till 4am every day and now our third meeting. Everything was too perfect.
"I wonder where my path is gonna end?" She asked rather despondently.
"Huh? Why do you mean?"
"Nothing." She replied recoiling.
"No. Go on."
"I just...I really have no idea what I want to do with my life. I studied Maths and got bored and then studied English to become a writer. But since I left university I haven't even written a word. I've travelled but don't feel worldly. I just feel like my life has been rather pointless."
She sits, head down, saddened. I lean over and give her a hug.
A consoling moment.
"You’re not pointless. Your life has not been pointless. You inspire a lot of people."
"Oh yeah? Who?" She asks, teary eyed.
I pause for a full 36 seconds.
"Me." Another pause. "You inspire me. I write because of you. I smile cause of you. I do most things cause of you."
She smiles amongst the tears.
"That suit I brought, the first thing I wondered when I brought it was "will she like it?' - I wake up and I think 'I wonder what she's doing today?' - I sleep thinking of you, I wake thinking of you."
She laughs, wiping away the tears.
"I think I've got stalker-like tendencies..."
"Yeah you do..." She agrees with HER smile.
"I guess I'm obsessed with..."
Before I can finish my statement she places her lips against mine. I kiss her. We share a passionate 40 second kiss. Everything we had FOUGHT about, LAUGHED about, CRIED about became that single 40 second kiss. It felt right.

Then it ended and we shared a smile. But there was something wrong. A brief 5 second silence pause spoke loudly. Something was wrong. Like finding world peace...what's next?

Sunday 14 February 2010

Write The Occasional Poem (Chapter Thirteen)

Memories best told,
Are the ones we treasure as if gold,
When unresolved we treat our past thoughts with a glaze of perfection.

Occasionally I get lost and you give me direction. The hopes of the future I built in my imperfect mind.
A future where we both laugh together every second no conflict or fuss.

Total happiness with us was a must,
In my imperfect mind. A place where my darkest thoughts dwell.
The deep abyss which inks our bad times like a quill.
In retrospect you weren't perfect - just the best thing in my imperfect mind.

Thursday 4 February 2010

Don't Order Lobster (Chapter Twelve)

When a man takes a woman for a ‘dinner date’ on a first date - that's a bad sign. Means he wants her to be a trophy girl. Look good, wear heels and sport that clutch handbag. Potentially it also means it’s a one off - just a bit of time passing. A flurry into self-indulgence.

Taking her to the cinema means she’s boring – he doesn’t want to hear her voice or hear her talk about mundane things; such as the contents of her shoulder bag or, worse still, her wardrobe. After the film has finished you can both talk about how good the film was or alternatively how bad it was. It’s a damn sight more interesting than her.

Finally, a guy can take a lady out for a hot drink, museum or similar. Both are reserved for that woman with deeper thoughts and conversational skills that are worthy of such an esteemed locale. These gals are the ones you place in the ‘potentials’ list!

I took the accountant out for dinner. Breaking the rule of thumb as previously discussed - I saw her as potential....or maybe she was just fun?
Judging by the way she dressed - the clutch bag, dazzling dress, high heels - it was hard to say...

"This place is amazing." She said taking it all in.
It WAS an startling little Thai place with an indoor pond and fake palm trees.
"It sure is. I'm gonna get you to write it up for me as an expenses bill. ‘Entertaining client'."
"Oh yeah that was the real purpose of this encounter."
"Encounter...I was gonna call my book Midnight Encounters."
"Sexy Utopia?"
"That's the one! Well remembered."
"How could I forget? You've mentioned it 100 times."
"Have I? Oops. I'll never do so again."
"Nah - keep doing so. It’s cute."
"Cute? I haven't been called cute in about 23 years!"
"23? How accurate. I've noticed you're always so precise. Do you have OCD?"
"Probably. It’s better than turrets right?"
"Yeah it’s much better I think...SHIT BALLS...sorry that was my turrets."
I laugh nervously, "You're kidding me right?!"
She laughs wildly.
"Calm down - you can't handle my humour can you?"
"I can handle many things. Including accountants with zany personalities - don't you worry your numerical mind about that. What's with the swift jokes anyway? Accountants are meant to be boring."
"Yeah, I don't know, I think I was brought up on a diet of Ritalin."
“I was brought up on a diet of stockpiled food. That's why I'm so neurotic. I have an inherit fear there's gonna be a nuclear war at any minute."
She laughs wildly.
"It’s not funny. My parents used buy food in bulk. Why? I don't know. How? I don't know. My dad worked in a bag factory and my mum as a nurse. Where did they get the money to buy in bulk?"
"Is that question directed at me? I'm an accountant not a psychiatrist. You might want to not reveal so much about yourself on a first meeting...IF you want to make a good impression."
"I don't. I don't care about impressions. That's for the recipient to deal with me. Not me! I'm at an age where making an impression is like audio tape cassette - obsolete."
A small female waiter walks over enquiring if we want to order, we both look at each other with a cheeky glare - we hadn't even picked up the menus yet!
"Can you give us 5 minutes?" She says to the tiny female waiter. As the waiter walks away I watch her - measuring her height with guestimation work...
"How tall do you reckon she is?" I ask.
"What kind of question is that?" She laughs, "As tall as she needs to be."
"She’s abnormally small - like 4ft 10 or something."
"Is that an abnormal height? 4ft 10?"
"Anything beneath 5ft is abnormal. Anything beneath that height and you can start parking in the disabled bays at supermarkets."
"Mr Politically correct aren't you? I happen to think she was cute...Regardless of her height."
"Her height is a contentious issue for you huh?"
She laughs, "It’s not"
"You're very defensive of her. How tall are you?"
"I don't know - 5ft 6 or something."
"With 7 inch heels?"
"I'll put my 7 inch heels in your arse in a minute."
"Really? Foreplay before dinner? Kinky aren't you?"
She laughs wildly - and hides her face in the menu.
"Shall we order...?" The beautiful accountant asks trying to bring some normality to the table.
"When are you inserting the heel? I just wanna assume the position beforehand."
She holds up the menu, "Shall we order maybe?"
We both look at our menus - giggling away.
"3 inch heels by the way." She mumbles to me from beyond the menu.
I retort with a similar mumble, "That'll do the trick. Size isn't everything."
We both laugh - as she cheekily hides her face back in the menu I realise that she could be a keeper. A woman who not only encourages but also compliments my neurotic manners and lack of subtly. Perfect. And just then, as I began visions of her teaching our kids how to use sarcasm as a weapon like their parents, my leg vibrated. More accurately, my pocket. Even more succinctly, my phone - I took a sneak peak at it.

It was HER. My muse.

After 2 weeks of no contact whatsoever - she decides to call me just as I'm getting to know a person infinitely better (for my sanity). Suddenly my dream -like a montage sequence, involving the perfect accountant and me, became my new writers block. It was like your computer when it gets stuck whilst you're watching an illegally downloaded film - it was stuck on the same frame. In my twisted mind, I walked out of the frame and into another film - a film full of more montage shots - this time of me and HER, my muse, and the good times we had previously. No contact in 2 weeks and she contacts me now?

The accountant looks beyond the menu at my face – my face, similar to that of a man who’s seen a ghost, shows no emotion.
“I’ve decided what I’m ordering.”
I answer back – at 25% of the enthusiasm I had all but 3 minutes ago – “oh yeah? What?”
“The lobster and the salad. The salad because I’m a woman. The lobster because I want to see how rich you really are.” She says with THAT smile on her face. Suddenly that smile isn’t as special as it was. Her voice not as soft – it was like within 3 minutes I had sobered up and found out that this beautiful princess was actually just a queen past her sell by date – the queen of England. If you will.
“You okay?”
“Yeah fine.” I reply. Pause. “Just deciding what to order.”
“Okay. Seemed like you were narrating to yourself in your head there for a second.”
“You can hear my narration?” I ask jokingly, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Yeah, I prefer the director’s commentary though. How do I put that on?”
I laugh, but not very genuinely. Suddenly she’s not as funny as well.
“Let’s order.” I say hurriedly. She gives me a look of confusion. She’s realised what’s happened. She realised that this thing we had, although short lived, is over.

I hope she was joking about the lobster - they're expensive.

Monday 1 February 2010

Prevent People You Know From Wearing The Same Clothes As you (Chapter Eleven)

“What's with the suit?” My agent asks as I walk into his office space – he rises to his feet to take a better look at its magnificence.
“You like it?”
“Yeah it’s a nice suit.”
I give him a catwalk twirl.
“All right calm down -- what's with it? You got a job interview?”
“What? No. I can't wear a suit?”
He chuckles, “Quite frankly, no. You don't wear suits. That's not your style!!”
“My style?”
Interrupting, he changes the subject, “Hey, you done with the book?”
So do I, “Speaking of books...what did you write in my journals I gave you?”
“Nothing. Don't worry. It’s a good book slash journal. We might as well submit this for publishing instead of the poetry thing.” He says, whilst reaching for the journal.
“Ahhh, no. I don't wanna publish it. The book's nearly finished.”
“It is?”
“No.”
“Ahhh for pat's sake! Finish it!” he demands handing me my journal back.
“Why don't the characters have names?
“I don't want them to. I want them to be ambiguous.”
“And do you actually do that shit at dinner parties?” he says laughing and shaking his head. I laugh back nodding yes. While I laugh he takes another brisk view of my suit.
“Wait a minute is this the same suit that the guy was wearing the other day? The one you wrote about in your journal?”
“Yeah.” I say, giving another twirl, “It’s nice right?”
“Yeah. Love it. I might get one.”
I grimace, “You can't get one.”
“Why not?” he asks forcefully.
“Because I got one. We can't both get the same suit?!”
“What are you? A woman???”
“Don't buy the suit. End of story.” I take a seat and put my feet on his desk – as if I had brought the leasehold to his office. I then continue, “Hey, do you know a girl on the 1st floor? An accountant?”
“I know a few accountants - why?” he replies whilst staring at my feet on his desk.
“I'm seeing one from downstairs in a couple of days.”
“Really? That’s great! It’s about time you got some lovin' - nice ass?”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters. So does she?”
“It’s okay.”
“I knew it! A guy’s gotta look right?” I don’t answer.
“How did you meet her?”
“Women’s toilet?”
“What?”
“Long story.”
He looks at me with contempt. I continue, “You ever been in the women’s toilet? They got nice gadgets in there.”
“They do?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah – they got like these sanitary towel bags for getting rid of...”
He interrupts, “You know what I don’t wanna know.”
I continue, “I wish I had a womb then I could make use of such contraptions.”
“You wish you had a womb? What are you on about?” Disgust upon his face carries on talking, “Seriously man some woman action might help this writers block. By the way, whose this girl in your journal you keep writing about? She seems like a problem.”
“She's just a friend.”
“A friend? Then why do you keep talking about her? Over and over? My advice - give her a miss. She's a problem. She'll make you go cuckoo.”
“She's like my muse - she inspires my work.”
“All you do is write about HER. It’s boring. Find a new muse that helps you finish the book. This accountant sounds promising.”
“Sounds promising? I haven't told you anything about her.”
“Finish the book.” He snaps.
“I will.”
“Finish it.” He knocks my feet off his desk, “And don't come round here uninvited. This isn't a social club. We're not frienda. This is a client stroke management scenario.”
“Stroke?” I say laughing, “You keep using the word 'stroke' - You might want to calm down, you’ll have a stroke in a minute.”
“I'm not joking!” He replies chuckling but trying to hide it, “And also the stuff I wrote in the journal you can't use any of it. Its personal stuff. It was like therapy for me.”
I stand up all ready to leave, “Okay.”
“And, seriously, what's with the womb thing?? You’re worrying me!”

Tuesday 26 January 2010

Women's Toilets = Paradise (Chapter Ten)

The toilet experience is important to me. It’s an experience to behold. My own personal home toilet has a brilliant feng shui about it - minimalistic and flush white. No pun intended. The rug I rest my feet on when seated on the laboratory is thick in richness, so that my feet are accommodated for whilst the process is taking place. There can be no better experience than releasing after you were dying to for 10-30 minutes. They are quite simply ‘experiences’. Pure and enjoyable.
    On a slightly more emotional note, my public toilet ‘experiences’ counter balances this.
        Public toilets, no matter where, are never ideal. Actually ideal is not the word. The word is hygienic. Firstly, I refuse to use the public urinals or bowls or whatever they are called. These are like an open competition of manhood - a competition I'd probably finish as a ‘competitor’ in, rather on the podium. Most guys chose to stand half a mile from the bowl in order to display their 'asset'. Coupled with seeing how straight they can piss from long distance - it’s like watching the British team Javelin in the Olympic. Hit or miss. Bronze medals all around. No Gold – but well played anyway. No pun intended. This game is not for me. My masculinity is normally set at semi-automatic (in gear 2). My testosterone levels are low. My doctor told me that my mother probably drank too much white wine when I was feasting on her internals. All of this means that I HAVE to use the cubicles. It’s like your own personal toilet space. Minus the comfort and hygiene. When using other people’s home toilets at social gatherings I turn on the tap to drown out the sound of my own waste being dispensed. This again is comfort.

In this instance, on my way to get this journal back from my agent in my new suit – much like the weird gentleman’s from a few days previous – I feel the sudden urge to...release. After much deliberation, I use the public toilet on the ground floor of my agents building. 1pm. Lunch break. Prime time for toilet usage. All cubicles are full. I push each door gently – maybe one is actually free...!?

They’re not.

2 bowls are free. 2 are not. One is occupied by what’s looks like the worlds fittest man...and the other by a dude so cocky his manhood must have been nominated for an Pulitzer prize. I squeeze in between them both desperate to let go off the pent up discharge...surrounded by these two self-appointed Adonis’ I feel pressured to perform – everything seems smaller. The bowl. The room. EVERYTHING. Everything apart from them.

1 minute later – I have still not released.

They don’t seem to move – I’ve been there 3mins. They been there before me and they won’t stop pissing. One guy, the fittest man in the world, is doing loops with his piss. Impressive, I think. I watch for a brief second. He gives me an acknowledging smile...and does more.  This guy is my hero.

I look slowly to the other guy to see what tricks he’s performing...none. But he does, however, take exception at my brief glance. He gives me the look of a man about to damage my outer shell. I zip up and leave in a hurry.

Still desperate for both the release and privacy I enter the women’s toilets....but slowly...looking to see if it’s empty. Which after an intensive inspection, I find it is.

    Women’s toilets are so refreshing. They smell good. Why don’t men get treated to automated air fresheners that dispense a dose of candy scented goodness every 60 seconds?

The sanitary towel bags in the cubicles made me yearn for a womb. I wished I could have periods just so that I could make use of these fancy sanitary towel bags.

Women’s toilets have condom machines. Men’s don’t. Doesn’t that make sense?
    Also the tap water is softer in women’s toilets. It’s like little plush raindrops of joy hitting your hands. I wish I had a womb.

On my way out of the toilet I bump into an attractive lady about to walk in. I think fast to avoid any embarrassment...
“Is this the women’s toilets?” I ask innocently.
“You see that sign on the door...?” She replies with a cheeky smile on her face.
I look up and point at the WC sign with the stick lady placed on it, “That one?”
“Yes, the one with the woman on it...” she replies, still smiling. Her smile gives me Goosebumps. It’s special like turning on the radio and hearing an old Al Green song.
“Is that a woman? I always thought it was a man dressed a woman. It’s hard to tell nowadays. Political correctness has gone crazy.”
She laughs. Seems like I’m charming her without trying.
    Note to self: awkward situations are wonderful for attracting the opposite sex.
“You’re the type of guy who wears frilly pink underwear and pees sitting down right?”
“That’s a scurrilous remark and I take offence.” I reply.
“Ah, the word scurrilous...I don’t hear that word anymore.”
“You don’t hear the word scurrilous anymore? What are you? 150 years old? No one uses that word anymore. I was merely being nostalgic”
She laughs, “Nostalgic?” and continues, “You’re full of divine words aren’t you? Like a walking thesaurus. When you masturbate do you say ‘oh deity, oh deity’ instead of ‘Oh god’?”
“Firstly, who said I masturbate...?” She laughs, I continue, “Secondly, if I was to masturbate I would do it in silence. The sound of my own voice would be a turn-off. I mean it is making love to someone you really love. But that’s taking it too far.”
“Why are we talking about masturbation?” She asks comically.
“You brought it up. You tell me.”
“This is proper ‘LOL’ moment isn’t it?”
“A ‘LOL moment’?” I laugh, “Let me ask you something do you write ‘LOL’ or ‘HA’?”
A cheeky smile hits her face, “I generally don’t take a tally on my wordplay when interacting via computers.”
“You’re very well spoken...you’re very scurrilous.”
“That does even make sense? Let me guess you’re a writer huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“There’s a literary agency upstairs and you’re full of...”
“Myself?”
“That as well – I was going to say long words.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”
We laugh. She continues, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Boring old accountant, huh?”
“Boring old accountant.”
“Well ‘boring old accountant’ I happen to need someone to help count the money in my wallet when I buy you a meal – do you think maybe you could help out with that?”
“Original line...” she says whilst shaking her head in amusing disgust, “Not good, but original.” 
“I know I’m a writer – we plagiarise everything. All creative ideas are stolen from someplace. Nothing is original.”
“Did you plagiarise that line from a 14 year old boy?”
I laugh. She’s pretty swift.
She continues, “Listen I gotta go and use the loo before I flood this hallway. However I work in the office down the hall come in and get my number before you leave and I might do some ad-hoc accountancy for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you flood the hallway actually. I could write about it.”
She playfully pushes her way past me to the women’s toilet. I smile to myself thinking that I must use women’s toilets more often.

And oh yeah, I need a womb.


The Virtue of "Ha" (Chapter Nine)

The way I see it is; the world is split into two conflicting camps...

The LOL camp and the HA camp. I prefer the latter. I like to think of myself as the pioneer of the use of HA. I use this term when I am amused by something in a literary format.

These occurrences normally happen in electronic mail (known to many by email) or during some good old online social networking. One my favourite pastimes.

People of the ‘LOL’ are my enemy. I am incompatible with them.

I awake each day to electronic mail and text messages on my phone littered with LOL’s. This upsets me. Makes me feel suicidal. You might even say rather nihilistic.

I don’t like to be bothered. Well, I do. By people I WANT to bother me. This happens infrequently. I am frequently bothered by people who want to bother me. For various UNACCEPTABLE reasons.
You see this is why I don’t bother people...I get so many people bothering me on a daily basis that I don’t wanna become one of THOSE people that I venomously dislike!

People BOTHER each other so as not to feel lonely. I am comfortable with feeling lonely. I don’t like the feeling of being in a zone where I am creative and not lonely. That makes me feel perfect. I don’t like being perfect...although sometimes I just can’t help it :)  (smiley face followed by LOL)

LOL
LMAO
CUM
WTF
BRB
OMG
TB

The most disheartening one is CUM – this is both confusing and misleading at the same time. Not to mention it’s hardly abbreviating a word if it’s only missing one original letter.

Is it me or is talking with other dysfunctional humanoids a lot easier nowadays?

My nephew, the other day, took a test in social networking abbreviations...he scored 80% is that good? I took the same test and scored 30% but my online IQ test was 128...I am now confused.

Does that mean I’m a pauper or a rich man, mentally speaking?

People who intimate their physical reactions electronically with stars are losers. That’s official.

e.g. *rolls my eyes*
e.g. *faints*
e.g. *laughs*
e.g. *fuck you all for inventing such inept social etiquette. Fuck you for destroying the beautiful language we write. I turn in the graves of Cromwell, Shakespeare and Welles in disgust. Fuck you all.*



Wednesday 13 January 2010

(Chapter Eight) As Written By...My Agent

If you’re under the impression that reading this will close the book on some unanswered question, then do yourself a favour – don’t waste your time. After a couple of paragraphs, you won’t want to be here. What follows, reads more like a rant than a conclusive and accurate summary of Happiness.

What you’re getting here is a boring letter of complaint about a boring little man. A boring real life story about someone you’d never want to meet. Picture this annoying git being about six foot tall with a haircut that screams, “I’m a creative sort.” Picture the smarmy shit sat opposite me in my office, smiling at me from across my desk, whilst cradling a couple of supermarket carrier bags. Picture him wearing a tee-shirt that reads: “I’m a lover – not a writer.” Imagine, for a second, that you are an agent and this twerp is your most gifted client. Now, I think, you can begin to fathom where I’m coming from.

It wasn’t always like this. Oh no. I used to command respect in this industry – heck, I was the industry. If anybody wanted a book published, they would come see me. I had a beautiful wife and two perfect children; I ate at the most expensive restaurants in the capital, kept a brand new BMW M5 in my driveway, and every other weekend I would take a trip out of town so I could screw my wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor. And who could blame me? – she’s got this cute boyish kind of hairdo, and tits like watermelons. It was such a pleasure to wake up in the morning and realise that life had worked out just how I had always planned. I was happy, or so I thought.

Happiness – what is happiness? Well, it took me a long time to work it out, but now I think I know the answer. I found the answer to this question through the process of elimination. I finally figured out that happiness is not the other half and the two spoiled brats; happiness is not eating at a fancy restaurant, happiness is not a brand new Beamer; and happiness is most definitely not shagging your wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor – no matter how dirty she might be.

And so this brings me back to my current situation – I take a deep breath and try to keep my cool, but this guy is too much.
“Why have you got shopping bags?” I ask.
“I went shopping” he replies.
“I can see that, but I asked you to attend a critical business meeting and you turn up an hour late with milk, bread, cheddar cheese and sanitary towels.”
“Yeah?” he shrugs.
I pull back to look at him and say, “Maybe, instead of shopping, you should concentrate on finishing that book you keep promising me…”
And he says, “What’s that supposed to mean? So I’ve got to starve myself for my art now? Who am I – a hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?”
I’m pissed off, but I smile. And it’s at that precise moment I realise what happiness must truly be – happiness is, for once on God’s green earth, having a client that does at least one damn thing that I ask of them.



Chapter written by Shaun Davis.



Tuesday 12 January 2010

Always Put "Alledgedly" After a Dubious Sentence (Chapter Seven)

My agent laughs wildly. Food sprawling out of his big mouth onto his turquoise tie. I sit opposite him, giggling at my own misfortune. The laughter lasts a while longer than I had hoped, making it rather awkward.
“It’s not that funny.” I say.
“It’s hilarious. Honestly. I can’t stop laughing – you ass.” His laughter becomes almost a roar. What is his laughing about? Well I told him my story about the gentleman with the nice suit.

Not long after I had accepted his offer of a hot drink, we sat in a corporate coffee shop. Me, with hot chocolate. Him, with a bottle of water. His suit looked even better whilst he perched on his stool.
“Nice suit.” I say looking it up and down, “Where can I get one...?”
“Thanks. I think you’ve said that about 10 times now.” He chuckles. I await an answer, it doesn’t come.
“No seriously...where can I get it?”
He chuckles again. It annoys me. I get set to ask again before he interrupts, “That Jewish joke was funny. I loved it!”
“Jewish joke?” I enquire.
“Yeah, back at the station...you knew she was Jewish right? Genius joke.”
“I didn’t do a Jewish joke. I didn’t even say the word Jew. I was talking about...”
“It was great. Seriously.” He says, interrupting again.
“Okay, well, it wasn’t actually...” I mumble, trying to set the record straight.
“So you’re a writer huh?”
“Yeah.” I reply, taking a sip of my drink, trying my hardest not to get annoyed.
“Anything I would know?”
“A book called Sexy Utopia.”
“What’s it about?”
“A guy looking for love...and he...”
“Awesome...what else have you written?”
“Well I’m in the process my journals on Happiness and also writing my second book – a poetry novel...”
“Poetry?” He laughs. “Sounds boring. You want to consider writing something else.”
“Well the way it’s written is unique; I’m trying to create a new genre with it so...”
“I want to write a book.” He says sharply. “Can you help me?”
I hear this question every time I tell someone I’m a writer. Most of the time I tell people that ‘I’m involved in media’ to avoid that very same question. I begin to speak, “Well...”
Again, he interrupts, “Can you?” He looks at me with ‘wanting’ eyes. I hate people who want things from me. They talk to you for a few minutes and then ask a question wanting a response that benefits them.
“Well, as I was about to say, I don’t really do that.”
“Do what? Help people?”
“Well that too...but I meant do ghost writing.”
“My story is really interesting...”
“Everyone says that, but I mean, really is it?”
He sits back, his face turns to stone. “What do you mean ‘is it’?” He asks, offended.
“Everyone has ‘an interesting story’, allegedly. The line ‘my story is interesting’ should come with a compulsory ‘allegedly’ after it.”
He looks me in the eye with contempt.
“You know I’m starting to think that Jewish lady was right about you. You might just be an idiot.”
“Yeah well did you know you have an annoying habit of interrupting people?”
“Interrupting people?” He says, in an animated manner.
“Yes. Interrupting. You’ve done it about...”
He interrupts, “I do not have a habit of ‘interrupting’ people.”
“You did it again!”
“Screw you.” He shouts out – drawing the attention of everyone in the nicely mapped out shop.
He sits back and sulks. I finish my hot chocolate with a smile. Ready to leave, I try and offer a few words as a token of appreciation for him purchasing the drink. But all I can come up with is, “So where DID you get that suit? I wanna get one just like it...”
He gives me an evil stare.
“I have to go now.” I say, “I got work to do. As I’m sure you do. You seem like a high roller. You probably have numbers to manipulate or a boiler room to frequent.”
“Actually I don’t.” He says bitterly.
“You don’t what?”
“Have anywheree to go.”
“Okay...maybe you can go and work from home then?”
“Work on what?”
“Whatever it is you work on...”
“I don’t have a job.”
“Oh.” I say, confused. “But what about the suit?”
“I found it.” He replies, his eyes looking down. His brain almost switched off.
“You found it? How do you find a suit?”
“I just found it alright?” He shouts out.
“I’m just saying, how do you find a suit? Do you like walk down the road and fall over a new suit on the ground and go, ’hey I found a suit!’”?
He gives me another evil look followed by the word “Bye.” – intimating that I should leave. I do so.

This is the story that sent my agent into fits of laughter. When he finally calms down he looks at me – he wants something too.
“Where’s the book? You came here a couple of weeks back and told me you’d ‘email me’. I’m still waiting for the email.”
“Oh come on, you know that was a throwaway sentence.”
“Throwaway phrase?”
“Yeah, ‘I’ll email you’ – it doesn’t mean I’ll email you. I means I won’t email you. It’s like me saying ‘I’ll call you’. I’m not going to call you, am I?”
“Why not?”
“It’s the unwritten rule of etiquette.”
“It’s an unwritten rule of etiquette to tell someone that you’re going to do something but then not do it?”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta tell you that’s bullshit.”
“Okay.” I say in disagreement, whilst smiling.
“You’re a freak sometimes. Seriously.”
I laugh, he chuckles.
“Well?” He asks.
“Well?” I ask him.
“The book? What are you doing here? Is the book finished?”
“Oh that.”
“Yeah ‘that’.”
“Nah, that’s not done. I came here because I have writers block – not ideal, I know. Especially now. But I’ve been writing a journal about happiness. I think it’s causing my block. I want to give it to you to hold onto for a couple of days. It might unleash my creativity again. Maybe even input your own thoughts about happiness in there too.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No, I’m serious.” I push the journal against his turquoise tie. He takes it and holds it like a newborn baby. “I’ll come back here in two days and take it back. I just need a break.”
He watches me leave with the look of a man who has surplus responsibility. Maybe he'll learn something from chapter six.

Monday 11 January 2010

Avoiding Responsibilty (Chapter Six)

At train stations I purposely avoid old people and mothers with prams. I don’t want to help either up flights of stairs. This is too much responsibility. Responsibility comes with stress.

I like taking subways - its travelling in comfort. The only comfort being the fact that I don't need to do anything but enter and then exit. That sells it for me. It’s the only mode of comfort I need. As a kid I used to watch my folks driving whilst trying to keep me and little brother from causing mischief on the back seat as well as concentrating on finding the best music station for their personal needs. It all looked like way too much responsibility for me. Aliening myself to the subway was logical.

Today I am presented with options -- on the platform there are a couple of ruffians with hoods, a gentleman with a suitcase looking all executive like in a nice suit(a look I might go for sometime - I like it), a lady with a baby with a pram...avoid her at all costs. I don't want to be the smuck who's left to assist her carrying the pram up the stairs at my stop (if she even gets off there). With things like this fate always seems to call my name. So when the train comes I make sure I move away from her to get on another carriage. I do this with subtlety so that she doesn't notice.

My journey is spent opposite a juvenile who is hell bent on playing 'music' via his iPhone for everyone. You know, because he's so cool and thoughtful and considerate and all that. Rather than take pleasure in his ingenious discovery, that his quasi-mobile device can play very bad music with no baseline, he chooses to look directly at me - minus blinking. An ability I rather envy but can’t say appreciate.
     I ride on the train to be inspired and get new ideas. It’s a bit like travelling across the world to 'find myself'. But half-heartedly. Like I do with most things I don't truly believe in. Speaking of finding myself, I hadn't heard from her in a few days. We'd normally contact each other every day. She's just as stubborn as me -- neither of us want to back down....maybe she's found somebody else to lavish her attention on. Maybe she thinks that's I've found someone else to lavish MY attention on -- this thought makes me smile to myself, forgetting the juvenile across from me who is playing a unreciprocated staring game with me. He blinks, finally, in a dismissive way. Most likely his way of showing annoyance at my smile that was misdirected.
     I hate HUMANS on public transport they become pariahs. Like Zombies. No emotion, no communication. Once they get off any mode of public transport they're back to normal! What is this phenomenon? For a while I think about writing a movie with this as a premise – I ponder if it's a little too close to a film already made? Hmmmmm. And for my next thought...I again ponder (I like that word), passionately (and that word), and worry about the mother and the pram -- I hope that she doesn't get off at my stop.

She does. Great.

Head down, I head directly for the stairs, not making eye contact with her. Trying to hide between the scores of people around me.
"Hey!" She says.
To me?
"Hey!" She says louder.
I walk.
Almost on the stairs..."Excuse me!" she belts out.
Yup, she's talking to me. Why? Out of everyone. Why me? I am forced to stop my escape.
"Hello?" I enquire innocently.
"Did you hear me? I called you three times." She says, annoyed almost.
"Sorry...I have a hearing issue."
"Hearing issue?"
"Yeah...an issue with my hearing?' I reply, unconvincingly.
"Okay, sure. Listen can you help me? It’s the stairs and the pram thing..."
I look around at the people around me, it’s like they stopped just to watch me carry a pram up the stairs. I try and get out of the uncomfortable situation.
"I can't, it’s my back."
"Your back?"
"My back..." I say nodding sympathetically to her plight.
"You...seem okay." she replies, again unconvinced. By now, everyone is standing around – inhaling the conversation. Piercing eyes all around me -- waiting to judge me if I don't help. I am left with no choice.
"Okay...I mean it’s not that many stairs, I can probably help."
"Gee thanks. How nice of you." she says flatly.

After that seems like 1000 steps up, I place her pram and baby at the top.
"There you go."
She pulls a blank expression, "Well thanks, after I had to practically force you."
"Hey, well I helped." I reply loudly.
"Yeah after a mini debate..."
"MINI DEBATE? That was NOT a mini debate. A mini debate would be me saying to you that Hitler's regime was good moment in history and then you arguing against that....that's a debate."
Her face and skin flushes out to a pale white, "Hitler?" She shouts out almost in a state of shock, "I'm Jewish."
A silence falls. Those people who just about got over the fact that I didn't help her instantly originally now almost physically penetrate me with their eyes. The silence lasts a while longer.
"I will not stand here and take these anti-Semitic remarks."
I back peddle, "They were not anti-Semitic remarks....I was just saying..."
"Do you know how many years of persecution the Jews suffered?"
"No." I say with a degree of purity.
"No? No?? What do you mean no?"
"No, I meant I don't really know how many years....I mean, I know it was bad, but I don't know..."
"You're an idiot!"
A spectator, probably someone from a dinner party that I've pissed off previously, adds their intelligent view: "Complete idiot!"
"What do you do for a living, idiot?" The mother asks, patronisingly.
"I'm a...I'm a writer." I mumble.
"A writer? I'm contacting your publishers. I’m going to complain about you."
"You know what that's a good idea, here's my agents business card." I give her my agent’s shiny card with pleasure, "Call him on his mobile."
"I'm so offended by this whole ordeal...I want you to apologise to me immediately."
"Ordeal? Ordeal? This is not an ordeal...an ordeal is...."
She interrupts, "What's an ordeal? Being in a gas chamber?"
"NO! I didn't say that!"
The same spectator again interjects, "That's really disgusting. I can't believe you said that."
"Apologise right now." The mother demands...
Out of the blue, I am defended by the gentleman with the nice suit, "Excuse me can I just say, this man, he helped you up the stairs nobly. Everything else that was said after that has NOT been as bad as being portrayed here."
"I want him to apologise." She argues.
"Lady, he's not apologising to anyone." He puts his arm around me and walks me away slowly, to a chorus of abuse from spectators and the mother.
Who is this suited angel? His suit, so clean, his teeth so white. Hair so perfect. He reminds me of a classic Hollywood star of yester-year.
"Don't worry about them." He says with an assured voice, "They are political correctness gone wrong."
I agree with him with a smile and shrug of the shoulder. He continues, "That whole situation was like a witch hunt."
"Definitely."
"Hey you wanna grab a coffee?" He asks all too enthusiastically.
I pause for a second...who is this guy? Whoever he is, he's my hero...a coffee with my hero can't be bad....although I hate coffee. It'll have to be a hot chocolate. My hero, he saved me from having to accept responsibility. I love him.

Who is he?


Sunday 10 January 2010

The Hybrid of Communication & Idleness (Chapter Five)

The advent of the internet has changed most old, supposedly, great arts - reading books, buying old frail vinyl albums, love letters and my personal favourite - physical social contact. I also no longer have to go shopping in my nearest food superstore to get my favourite dietary items.

My previous experiences in these pyramids of peer pressure have been all too awkward. The whole process of finding your favourite goods is fun. Strolling from aisle to aisle, leisurely, is ecstasy. It’s what capitalism was born on. Screw all those debates about how communism eventually becomes a dictatorship. All they need to do is draw up photos of these beautiful aisles stacked with foods and drinks from across the globe – this would be enough to make the middling Cuban citizen yearn for a bit of Capitalist order in their lives.
     My carefree stroll down all the aisles, leaves my basket full of foods for ‘one’ - I am more than satisfied.

The next step of the process is the Greek tragedy...my downfall...the purchasing of my glorious items. First of all you have to find an aisle out of the 30-50 on show that is actually open. Then one that's actually customer-lite. Both necessities are painstaking. Once you get to the front of the queue – behind you is the other 100 people who have joined your queue. You are now faced with the unwanted pressure of having to pack your own items. Not something to be sniffed at. The overly smiley cashier never opens the bags for you - thus I spend the first 40-120 seconds of this adventure trying to open the eco-friendly carrier bag. One bag open. 3 items in...time to open the 2nd bag...another 40-120 seconds wasted...the items roll along the conveyor belt and begin to pile up - customers behind me stand on impatiently. Arms folded, pent up anger on their faces, annoyance in their tapping fingertips. I am Private Ryan, they are Tom Hanks and his crew of soldiers having to get shot to pieces to ‘Save’ me. There should be courses on how to pack shopping efficiently. I often mix the hard items with the soft items. Frozen with non-frozen. This, allegedly, is not etiquette. 5 minutes later when I am nearly done packing, what was once my glorious items but now just anvils around my ankles, I am presented with 57 personal questions about my shopping habits (how intrusive!) by the scary cashier - do I have a loyalty card? Would I like one? How would I like to pay? Did I buy petrol? Do I shower with a shower cap on???
No, no, cash, no, no, no. Receipt. Bye.

"Why have you got shopping bags for?" My agent asks, confused, an hour later at his office.
"I went shopping."
"Yeah I know you went shopping but I asked you to come to a serious, you could even say critical, meeting and you turn up with shopping bags???" My agent is your typical agent. Suited. Short-fused. Taste of money on his tongue.
"Yeah?" I shrug.
"Maybe instead of shopping you should concentrate on that book you keep promising me?!"
"What do you mean ‘instead of shopping’? So I gotta starve myself for my art? What am I? A hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?"
He lets go of a chuckle, amongst his confused and angry demeanour.
"Whatever, how's that book of yours...? The poetry thing..."
"’Poetry thing’? You're my agent and you're describing it as 'thing'? Reassuring."
“What is it again?”
“A book of poetry. All written by me. Fused with a tale of a guy who’s having...”
"Whatever.” He interrupts, “Get it finished. I told you that a poetry thing would be difficult. But oh no, you gotta be Mr. clever...and..."
As he babbles on, my mind wanders off into thoughts of me winning the Nobel for being the hybrid of Gandhi and Warhol. Gently, I smile to myself. The beauty of the internet and mobile phones with caller display means I can choose who I want to talk to. A key to Happiness - choose who you communicate with very wisely.
      I get up with my plenty some shopping bags, him in mid sentence - "Where you going?" He enquires.
"I'll email ya." I say with a wry smile. He and I, both know I probably won't. But if I browse the World Wide Web at any point I might do some on-line food shopping. Food delivered to my door. That’s what Sir Thomas Moore really meant when he first penned the word Utopia.

Utopia
U⋅to⋅pi⋅a
Show Spelled Pronunciation [yoo-toh-pee-uh]
–noun
1.     Not listening to people you don’t want to.
2.     Over tipping waiters with other people’s money (preferably people you don’t like).
3.     On-line food shopping.


Saturday 9 January 2010

Doubt:Never (Chapter Four)

I have spells of creative droughts. As of recently they have been depressive states. I doubt my own ability to be great.

"Oh come on you've achieved so much. You're the most creative person I know." She says sincerely...I think.
How many creative people do you know? I ask - but only in my head. What I really say is, "thanks."
"You're kind of like an inspiration."
"Thanks again. It’s just I wanna be like you; travel the world, affect a change. See new things. You know, something other than writing and managing things."
"Things?"
"My companies."
"Oh yeah." she smiles and continues, "Well you don't really do much managing."
"I do."
"Okayyyyyyyy, of course you do." her sarcastic reply is followed by her smile.
"Anyway, back to the crux of the episode."
"Episode?" She laughs. "Such drama. You're so fierce. There's a tranny in there isn't there? I always knew you flirted with sexual experimentation."
"Yes, I'm having an episode. No, I do not cross dress."
She laughs. I try not to. But give in. The 3pm coffee shop crowd, full of student-types, all look at us and observe our loud colloquoy.
"Can we get back the main issue here? I wanna travel. Like you. You're a demi-God - travelling from continent to continent like the passport of an immigrant." I say trying to restore order to the conversation.
"Do immigrants have passports?" she says laughing. I smile beyond my seriousness. She always has that ability.
"I assume they do. Anyway, you and you're travelling..."
"Okay, so yes, I have been around the world a bit..."
"A bit? That's an understatement. That's like being in a relationship, sleeping with another person only to announce the revelation with 'I cheated a bit'."
"You always take things to extremes."
We share a laugh.
"Seriously you've been all around the world. You're like swine flu."
She laughs and responds, "You’re the starter of swine flu. How was it sleeping with pig anyway?"
Such legendary banter. Banter like this always makes me feel creative.
"You know what it is, maybe you just need a break. A couple of days away. Paris, Vienna, somewhere."
"To find myself?" I ask cheekily.
"Huh?"
"Well you know, you're always 'finding yourself' in different countries."
"When have I ever said I'm 'finding myself’?"
"Loads of times.
"I've said those exact words to you? ‘I'm finding myself’" She says, serious prose filling her face.
"Somewhere along the line."
"I don't think so. I don't travel to find myself...as you put it."
"Oh no?"
"No."
"Why do you travel then?"
"It’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s a damn sight better than staying here and complaining 24/7, like you seem to do so splendidly. You're like a trapped animal. Your mind is the zoo. Your repetitive monotonous voice is the captured monkey." She retorts viciously.
I am again, socially inept. A silence.
She makes me feel small again.
More silence.
Suddenly I grab the floating urge to counter her insult.
With a subtle degree of arrogance I say, "I guess you're the paying customer?"  
Touche.
She gives me a look that could be best described as a ‘nuclear winter’. Milliseconds later she turns her head away.
More silence.
"Can we get the bill? I'm busy. I've gotta go." Her voice utters in disgust after cutting her eyes sharply in my direction.
Still upset, but arrogance growing, I continue my thinly veiled onslaught, "You're paying right? Being the ‘paying customer’ and all that?"
Touche part two.
Another look from her. Another cut of the eye and then a violent reach into her wallet - next slamming down money...too much. Finished off by..."I'm going home. Bye." - further finished by her leaving.
I smile to myself. I finally got to her. Suddenly I feel more confident. I feel cocky. My chest puffs out; my shoulders rise a few thousand inches. I am a creative god. Again.
     The waiter turns up. Still in the zone, I give him the money - all 'too much' of it.
"Keep the change."
Touche part three.
     I leave. Boisterous slow walk. I'm in no doubt about my talent now. Never doubt your talent. Never doubt anything positive.


Friday 8 January 2010

The Legend of Routine (Chapter Three)

In my day-to-day world I don't do much. My life is filled with routine, so it becomes easy. My companies make me money. Neither interests me. I write to have passion in my life. My only book, to date, a cult classic, got a small group of followers. I think they want to kill me. One probably will. Much like how John Lennon was killed. Of this, I am not sure. 
    Occasionally I play with the concept of writing my next masterpiece. Technically speaking, I don't do much.

I've build a world for myself that relies on comfort. My own personal comfort. 5 hours sleep. Up at 9am. Hot chocolate everyday apart from weekends. 3 scoops of granulated chocolate in my 'hot chocolate mug'. Fill with three quarters of whole milk. 1 minute and 20 seconds in the microwave. Keep the spoon in the tin of granulated chocolate. Ready to stir the heated beverage. This is efficient. It means you can use the same spoon without putting it on the unclean work surface. Whilst the hot chocolate is heating in the microwave I can place just two croissants on a microwaveable plate ready to be warmed for just 30 seconds. Finished by the usage of two serviettes to cleanse the crusts that will be left on my fingertips from the heated croissants.

This, amongst, my other daily routines is almost biblical. My day has routines so that I remain content and in control.

I have no time for folks without routine. Their lives are a mess. They live life on the peripheral of mayhem. My 'friends' seem to be all like this. They call, I don't answer. I don't want to waste minutes or, worse, hours on the phone talking about them. And I sure as hell don't want to talk about me. My life is simple. Simple and boring. I like it that way. No stories to tell. They do have stories, in abundance, and I don't want to hear them. They're mainly in the creative field, these ‘friends’. They think personal chaos is creativity. To a degree, I guess they're right.

Back to her again. She is the forbearer of this - the dastardly evil genius of chaos. She has no logic or order. One week she's in Paris, the next in Cuba. She attempting to find herself. You know that's one thing I've never understood...why people feel the need to travel hundreds and thousands of miles to 'find themselves' - this defeats all logic. Not only is it not cost effective, it’s also very contrived. She doesn't have to worry about that. She is from a wealthy background. She can find herself over and over again in different continents. Like some schizophrenic circumnavigator. When space becomes a destination of personal travel, she’ll go and 'find herself' there as well.

She annoys me. She has no routine. Only intellect. When I meet her she is often sitting - very content - in her own space reading the Economist or some Dan Brown crap. She 'gets' it. Me, I don't like to read. I get bored. Just like I don't like to sleep. She loves sleep. 8-14 hours. When I meet her and she puts down her book of choice, I am always greeted by that same explosion of smile. Her smile illuminates my dark undertones - it makes me feel homely. Femme fatales don't exist anymore. Women are allowed to work nowadays. Meaning they don’t need to dress nicely and lure men into their web of intrigue for money and fame. If they did exist, she'd have a perfect day job and night job to supplement that. I hate her for that. She's my Ingrid Bergman.

Her brilliance confuses me. The heartache she gives me inspires me. It makes me want to write poetry and textual genius.
      She is also my muse. Breaking my routine with her lack of it. Emailing me at 11am to tell me to meet her for coffee at 3pm. That was never on my schedule for today. It is now. Her lack of routine confuses my routine but also becomes routine.

How I love routine. It makes me happy. Provides me with happiness.

Thursday 7 January 2010

Release of Frustration (Chapter Two)

"So?" She says, effortlessly.

I hate the way she says "So?" it makes me question my obsessive behaviour towards the pursuit of her. She cuts my words with what seems like oblivious arrogance. I hate arrogance. It makes me feel socially inept. Like when you're in a nightclub and everyone in your 'friend' group is dancing but you're not. Because you can't. Or think you can't. Better to stand against the wall with a glass of watered down Coke or Pepsi, for the sake of Balance.

At dinner parties I choose to argue against the well educated professionals in order to restore my own sense of arrogance. I’m not good at dancing. I am good at arguing. I initiate conversations of taboo to dictate the flow of the mood. In my perfect scenario the dinner party breaks out into a ruckus of violence; a war of class. Me, being the middle-class soldier, but fighting the cause of the working class also. I become the Che Guevara of the nicely planned out dinner party with annoying guests and canapés placed strategically in the back of the room. Designed by some social leech with the intention of forcing you to satisfy your hunger by walking past humans and making random small talk with them before your hunger is quelled by the food bites that even a hobbit wouldn’t be content with.

"Nelson Mandela was a terrorist." is one of my favourite lines to blurt out with a degree of venom. This is ALWAYS greeted with disagreement by the PC brigade.
     In this instance, the ‘oh so-liberal’ 30-something professional with his ‘oh so-fashionable' dress sense - Gap khakis, v-neck jumper and black rimmed spectacles interjects...probably a doctor.
"You can't say that, he is the greatest living human"
"Greatest living terrorist, yes" I correct him.
Another from his sort, probably a feminist novelist, mid-forties offers her unwanted opinion from underneath her glasses.
"By definition he is a free fighter..."
"Who blew things up" I retort.
"He fought for freedom. Comparative to Che, another freedom fighter. Although, he, far more commercial, they are both the same. It could be argued Mandela has achieved more. "
"Indeed - but technically he just blew stuff up in order to make a point. He's kinda like a child who doesn't get their own way so they stamp really loud, storm upstairs and slams the door really loud. I put him on that kinda level. A spoilt brat.”
“You cannot say that.” She replies, as if her words are set in stone.
“I probably can.” I say, child-like.

Conversations of modern-day politics and self-assessment tax forms don't entertain me. Neither do they touch my richter scale of knowledge. It’s easier to make outrageous and taboo controversial statements and then back them up with concise arguments using facts as metaphors. It’s a form of communication. It’s a method of mingling.

All of which leads me to my point, in main. Social ineptness. I hate that feeling of not fitting in. Even now in my later years it’s something that erks me. Neurotic some may say. I prefer to call it an indifference to indifference. Yes, it makes me arrogant which is why when arrogance is garnished on me and I'm socially inept and unable to deal with it. I feel so small.

I choose to vent my frustration on others, others who exude arrogance but don’t know how to use it properly. This is part of Happiness. Venting your frustration. Releasing it, if you will.

You didn't call me back, is what I said - hoping to have an impact on her that would rock the foundations of her world and lead her to think that she has done wrong in this particular case. Hey, it might have even made her fall for me on a deeper level. Upon reflection, it was akin to whining.
      Her reply: "so?"...so concise, so arrogant, blew my whining out the water - what may have started as anger, on my part, ended as the whimpering of a weak soul. Besotted by her very being.
       Each second in a day my sole aim, beneath all the thoughts of disease, despair, embarrassment, self-indulgence and the occasional slip into sexual appeasement, is me trying to make her feel socially inept. Make her feel the need to say to me..."Why don't you call ME anymore?"...so, in return, I can offer this rhetorical question to her..."So?"

Never mind, there are plenty more dinner parties and social situations for me to release the frustration.    
     Cinema with 'friends' tonight. Even if I do like the film I’ll say I don't...if they like it. And if they don't like, well hell it’ll be “my favourite film of all time.”