if i wasn't your friend, i would probably hate you..

...and other truths about the characters you know

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Thursday, 16 September 2010


I love her. I love her. I love her. 

I love her long golden hair and the way that she chews the end when she's reading. I love the way she reads the Economist yet she has a tattoo of cherry blossom around her wrist. I love the way she never wears black- only colours and constantly looks like she's going to a festival. Sometimes she wears flowers in her hair and ALWAYS wears odd earrings. Her lips always look moist and coloured in that delicious kind of red that you get when you walk into somewhere warm when you have been out in the old all day. Alive. Her hands are so small and delicate, the skin so soft-looking and pale that I want to constantly hold them in mine, keep them warm, keep them safe. Oh GOD I love her. She's the most smiley person I have ever met and I've never met anyone who has so many friends. She was at a party the other day and she waltzed through the crowd like a princess or someone and people cheered and called her name and her hair swang like something out of a shampoo advert, all shiny and soft and smelling of cocoa butter. She makes you feel like the only person on the planet. Her smile is so wide and genuine and full that I want to make her happy. I want to make her mine, give myself to her, throw myself down at her feet and promise her a lifetime of happiness, if she picked Me. I wouldn't even mind if it was just for one night. To be tangled in and around her under a cashmere blanket, all cocoa butter dreams and smiley sex and I bet she has the best orgasms. Oh God, she makes me not ever want to drink again, she makes me want to appreciate every second on this earth as long as she's in it. She's probably the reason that flowers blossom, or why lambs are born or people give money to charity. God I want her, and I want her soon.


Well Mr Ex-Boyfriend-who-I-didn't-really-like-i-just-liked-the-scene-you-were-in

I noticed you ignored my last last comment on Facebook, brushed it aside like it didn't mean anything to you (even though I know you cried for two years after we split up and have only recently started having sex again). I also noticed that you continue to hang round that awful portly slag and are happy to be tagged in photos with her, BUT HAVE UNTAGGED EVERY PHOTO OF US TOGETHER!!!! I have also noticed she has conveniently moved into the  spare bedroom in your place (the place we used to share together) and someone has recently told me you guys have swapped rooms (MEANING SHE IS SLEEPING IN MY OLD BED), even though her only hope in the whole time that I knew her, was to become even a tiny bit like me. Constantly trying to copy what I was wearing, constantly wrapping her arms around you and standing closest to you in every picture, sly comments about how much I drank or took or what. Funny that you didn't mean a thing to me then, it was a drugged up love adventure which eroded the more I upped the anti, and the less you would go out and score for me.  Now though, I'd like to trip her little chubby legs up so that she falls flat on her face. Off a bridge. Onto a motorway.

I've seen your pictures and quite frankly I'm not even impressed. You lyjhang around the same clubs and pubs we used to back in the day, still the same style, the same people you used to bitch about are still there. SO WHY HAVE YOU UNTAGGED OUR PICTURES???? I'm clearly the best thing you could ever have got your leg over (in my defense, I was a wreck back then) so why deny me? It should be the other way around. I hope you know that I fucked Brian when you both came home together. You were "tired", had work in the morning and had told me during the night that  I was being "petulant". So I fucked Brian on the couch that we had bought together. How do you like them apples?

I hope you know I have lyk erased every memory of you from my mind and that when I look back I am quite embarrassed to have let you bone me. I see in your pictures now that you cover up that fucking minging tat on your leg (it used to pain me to look at it) and have started to cut your hair short (why did you insist on growing it long and combing it over where the hair didn't grow-EWWWWW!?). I hope you know I kept those pictures tagged because I didn't want to hurt you in the end, and, well it fucks me off to think that slapper is lying in the bed I used to lie in and is probably looking at all my fucking french art that I left (because I couldn't face coming back to collect it- your constant misery used to freak me out and anger me to the point I wanted to hit you and say "Move ON!"). She's eating from my cereal bowls and is probably putting her sperm-riddled gob around my favourite GIANT MUG.

Well go eat shit  Mr Ex-Boyfriend-who-I-didn't-really-like-i-just-liked-the-scene-you-were-in, because I never liked you anyway. I've moved on and I'm lovingggg my life and quite frankly I'm glad that you have untagged yourself because now we have no record of EVER being together (ha- your loss durrrrr). And just so you know if I one day go back to crack county I will be picking up my art and my antique tablecloth and my 1920's lamp and I will be collecting my favourite mug and you had better make sure there is no evidence that stumpy Sue has ever even LOOKED at it or I will post that video we made (the one when you came in the first five seconds) on Facebook and I will tag it and I'll tag it good.

Tuesday, 14 September 2010


I remember I had a party, when I was about 16 or 17, it was about the time when people had starting driving because I remember the Mini Coopers and the brand new Corsas and the Clios that lined the pavements along my humble little street and the way nobody could park properly (except the boys) so all the cars looked lopsided along the street. And it was back when nobody knew quite what they liked to drink, so there was Apple Sours and Archers and lemonade and obviously Vodka and those vile smelling alcopops that made everyone's breath smell fake and sweet. There were drinking games and everyone determined to get pissed and it was back when drinking yourself into oblivion didn't leave you with a hangover and a suicide wish so it was lairy and fun and also quite weird because EVERYONE came. The cool kids and the people who wanted to be different and the smart people and the people just interested in the weekend and it was the summer we had all bonded and became a bit of a community. A community which suffered and split when the long days started to end and the codes and regulations of the school social network ripped apart genuine friendships and thrust us all back into the stereotyped groups we all belonged in.

We played "Have You Ever" and drank until the alcohol ended and we ended up drinking leftover wine and gin and weird Mexican spirits from the cupboard and people fell asleep on couches and others fucked in my sister's room and then others fell asleep on her bed, or snuck off to my parent's room ( back when they were together) to perform amateur but very sexy oral on somebody else's boyfriend. And the atmosphere was good- there wasn't any of this weird bitchiness which used to envelop whole nights, caused by someone's jealousy or someone else's fear of someone claiming their boyfriend/girlfriend because they weren't paying enough attention to them.  Everyone was pissed and merry and we danced to bad music and we drank until we couldn't see and when I decided that no one else seemed to be leaving and most people left were going to crash, I headed upstairs to my bed where a friend I knew was also sleeping. But he was cool, we had kissed a few times and it hadn't worked out- I simply didn't fancy him but we were mates- he talked about his girlfriend and I talked about the recent split with my boyfriend and we went shopping and made food for each other and it was (naively) platonic. So as the room was spinning I lay down on my side of the bed and let the room spin as I passed out into a drunken stupor.

I was semi-awake when I felt someone kissing me on my neck.It was warm and nice and I started kissing back and was so pleased because i thought it must be Chris who I had just split up with. And the split was amicable and it wasn't weird to think he was kissing me because it was only a few weeks ago and back then, I wasn't used to him not really being around. And then I heard "Oh Anna you are so sexy" and I immediately awoke because- well it wasn't Chris' voice, it was someone else's. It was my friend's. And I was alarmed, I started to panic a bit and I looked up and realised he was actually on top of me and between my legs and my nighty had been pulled up and my knickers were pulled down and his boxers were halfway down his legs, and the room was spinning still. I tensed up and whispered "Stop, stop, stop, what is going on?" ( I don't know why I whispered, I guess I wanted him to wake up too and it all be innocent- like he was doing it in his sleep) and he gripped my arms and pushed them back and held on and I said his name. Louder this time. And I told him to get out and I struggled and the water bed beneath us, thrashed around and my head was spinning but he clung onto me for about thirty seconds before he let go and pulled his boxers up and I drunkenly scrambled out of bed. I didn't know what to do-I didn't want to tell anybody because nothing had really happened, had it? And  I was so drunk that everything was a bit blurry but I knew that at the time, I was scared. And I found a sofa downstairs (next to someone else who was blotto, but at least I wasn't on my own) and just pulled a throw over me. I pulled it over my head and I lay there, trying to remember everything in the darkness of the blanket until I fell asleep.

In the morning he was still there, and I couldn't look at him and I didn't say anything but we both knew. The remaining people went for breakfast but we never made eye contact and we didn't sit or stand anywhere near each other. And I kept thinking "But you have a girlfriend" when he was explaining his plans about visiting her and I hated the way he didn't even make an excuse about how he behaved. I hated his silence and I hated mine more.

Some times I get an email from him, which I ignore and sometimes a text, but I never reply and I have never seen him since. And I'm glad because now it doesn't seem real. And I don't want it to be.

Tuesday, 7 September 2010


I think I might have head lice.

I'm not sure but my head's really itchy and I'v been staying at Lucy's house a lot and she's got a cat.

I'm phoning my mum


I wake up and it's light, like that in-between harsh white light when it's early morning. When the clouds are so thick they won't let the colour in. Everything looks cold and fucking miserable. I flick the covers off my naked bod and lean over the bint I lay last night- not as bad as I thought, actually. High five, B-dawg. Even so, I hop out of bed and quietly scramble around for my clothes. No fucking awkward convos. No I don't want to go for breakfast with you and no I don't want to pay the bill, knowing I'm never going to call you and you are never going the call me- because dear, the number I gave you is wrong. To be honest, I only fucked her because it saved me getting a taxi home and I've done enough Walks of Shame in recent years that the disgusted looks don't really bother me anymore.

It's cold and the room's spinning and it smells of stale fags and, weirdly, like old roast dinner. My breath fucking stinks too. It's kind of a nice room- drapey things and arty shit on the walls and candles everywhere so it looks a bit like this brothel me and Nathan went to in Prague. Oh God, I get this flashback of this girl doing a sexy dance for me in the candle light. Love, it ain't working for me if one of your tits hangs down five inches lower than the other. Still, God loves a tryer. Jeans; on. Where are my...? There's posters and pics of all these models on the walls, I'm not talking  Kate Moss or Giselle, but model-models.Ultra scrawny ones. All bones and no tit. Weird, considering this chick is a bit portly. She's stirring but I'm missing a shoe, and I'm scrambling around the floor in a panic, please don't wake up, don't wake up. Can't find it on the floor so I look under the bed and there's a million plates all stacked up, half eaten take-ways, boxes of chocolates and McDonald's fucking happy meal boxes all stuffed under the fucking valance or whatever it's called. Gross. I'm talking sausage sandwich crusts and this weird sticky stuff and empty ketchup bottles and it fucking stinks. Chicken bones and errrrr, empty bread wrappers.

I find my shoe and I sneak over to the door but then I check my back pocket and realise I haven't got any money. I find this chick's bag amongst the clothes on the floor and dig out her wallet. She's loaded. I think about taking a tenner, but there's seventy quid in there. I take sixty, leave her ten. If I ever bump into her again, I'll tell her I was wrecked, don't remember anything and probably buy her a commiserations drink. Serves you right for being a fucking tart. I'm outta here. I've even got enough to get a taxi home. Fucking mint.

Thursday, 29 July 2010


2 X Dark Rye Rivita = 2X 38 cal
1 X Small spoon of low fat hummus = 43 cal

Half tin of soup = 104 cal
cup of tea no sugar = 13 cal

3 X  Dark Rye Rivita = 3X 38 cal
2 X Carrots = 2 X 13 cals
1 X Banana = 95 cals
1X cup of tea with sugar = 29 cals

I probably shouldn't have had the sugar in the last tea but I was just so tired, that I needed something to keep me awake in work. I walked the long way home anyway, so I should have burnt that off.

Thursday, 3 June 2010


Some people are so dumb. The other night I was out with the guys and this girl asked me if we had "been to a mourning". Been to a mourning? Been where? Are we in mourning? Do we look like we are in mourning? I was wearing a shirt and tie (obviously too smart for the shit hole we were in). She then asked me if I would like to buy her a drink. I felt so embarrassed for her, I bought her two. She then attempted to lapdance one of the boys- he is gay. I cringed. hard.


I'm at Goliath's and I'm well smashed. I've had like a bottle of wine here, two bacardi breezers, four shots of sambucca and I've got some vodka in my bag. My mum always says you shouldn't mix your drinks, but I do- i like don't get hangovers do I? All the girls are here except bloody Evie-she's like scared she might bump into Brian or something. I told her, I was like "Who cares? All he's seeing is what he is missing " (but that wouldn't be true coz she's like on this downer at the mo and losing the weight has made her look like...deformed or something). So anyways, tonight is pretty packed, I think like maybe there has been like a funeral or something coz there are lyk loadsa people in suits. Maybe they have been to a mourning. Some of them are quite fit though- I see this smug-looking guy with a girl on top of his lap- must be his girlfriend. Whateva. I bend down and fiddle with the strap on my heels and I see his eyes bulge as he looks over ( still with his tongue in her mouth-oh yes!). I'll be seeing you later. I give him my filthiest wink and he smiles back and the girlfriend is till on cloud nine or whateva and doesn't even notice.

I'm not vain, I just know I'm hot. Actually, whateva, I don't even care if I am vain. Guys like me because they know what they are getting with me. I'm not lyk those gurls that wear support pants under their shortest skirt so that when you get em home a wobbly belly and muffin tops spring out. Gutt-ed honey. With me, I'm not false advertising anything- what you see if what you get. Like my arse? Pull me and the same sweet ass you're looking at now can be sitting on your face in a bit (and no extra lumps, bumps or support marks). And because there are no false pretences, the guys are not gonna be false either. They make it clear they want my legs wrapped around their head, so I play the game...

I go up to the bar and stand near a group of lads- all into their 6th pint. I don't even look at them but I know they are eyeing up my brown legs, paying particular attention to the tattoo that sneaks out from under my dress. They want to know where that leads. Better play dat game first eh boys? I know they are looking at the way I arch my back as I lean against the bar, they spot I'm not wearing a bra too. These bad boys hold themselves up, fellas. I'm looking around the bar as if I've lost someone, checking the time, my phone, time again then I'm applying lipgloss as I slowwly turn to face the guys.
"Been stood up love?" the cutest one is saying and I put my most blasé face I can imagine on and say "Yeah, looks like" They all look shocked- total dismay, agreeing with each other that the stander-upper is a dickhead. Now they're all buying me drinks, all competing for these long legs and a glimpse of the tat that slides up my thighs, and all I gotta do is look coy and give one of them a a little lapdance later on.. and shit, they are so drunk now they'll end up staggering home, alone and with a kebab.
Life is sweeet, and tonight's gonna be very cheap xxxxxxxx

Thursday, 27 May 2010


I've just woken up. It's Thursday. I went out on Saturday. What is my life?


We were lying on his bed, and somehow we started to talk about stuff which had really impacted on us. I'm not sure why, but I wanted to know, I wanted to see what sort of stuff really riled him, made his blood boil y'know? Surely if he was able to write the kinds of songs he does, the type that makes my stomach knot with hurt and anguish, then he must be motivated by some kind of heartbreak. I began to think of possessive ex-girlfriends and crazy Freudian-want-to-fuck-his-mother kinds of theories, fights with mates and schoolboy errors. But instead, he really surprised me.
He told me that his ex-girlfriend used to be in a violent relationship. He said the boyfriend used to beat her, scare her, stalk her and mentally abuse her. He started to sweat and I thought he might cry as he said this. He seemed pained as he went through it, as if he actually was there. I saw him clench his fists as he spoke of how this boyfriend used to lock her out of the house if she was home late. I just sat there saying "Poor girl, poor thing", like a fucking idiot- what do I know? There was this long awkward gap after he finished and I lay there, looking at him; aggravated with this hurt look in his eyes. He said that one night his girlfriend had told him he was in the area, that she was scared. And he had found out where he was and in the pissing rain he ran to the guy's house, with a hammer and no shoes on his feet, overcome with rage, ready to brake the guy in half. Luckily he wasn't there, but he smashed the guy's car windows through and every downstairs' window of his apartment. But he didn't even run, he posted a note through the door saying it was him. And in the morning the police took him into custody.

Although I understand it- I understand the anguish and the pain he would have felt, and the bravery and the fierceness he had displayed, I feel gutted. What he did was the most selfless thing he could have done- he threw caution to the wind as he jumped in head-first, arms flailing, anger everywhere. Revenge and passion. I feel sick and winded by the actions he displayed in an uncaring truly romantic fashion... but before me and to someone else.

I feel truly devastated because I know he wouldn't do it for me.
Four days of depression follow. I cannot even tell him why. 

Monday, 26 April 2010


Dear ex-housemate,

Congratulations! You moved out. I hate to say it, I really do but this couldn't be better timing. Your incessant whining and shrill voice was starting to do my fucking head in . The way you paraded your fat stomach around in the mornings put me off my bran flakes and every Friday when you got your chubby biscuit-coloured legs out made me want to chunder.
Even from the first moment I moved in I knew I could hate you. You had been drinking and were dancing on the kitchen table like something out of an American teen film, except you weren't hot. You looked ridiculous and I cringed. I cringed harder than ever before.
Your fake black hair next to that orange skin looks horrendous. You used to leave your door open so it was impossible to get away from the noise that religiously blasted from your bedroom. Cringey pop everyday. Back street Boys. Once I heard the cheeky girls.
And every time I see you, you ask me fucking ridiculous questions, but always start the sentence with a little kid's remark, "Ummm Thom, I know I sound stupid but....?". Yes you do sound stupid. If you don't know how many days February has- go look it up on the fucking internet, bitch. And don't try to hug me when you are drunk, you make my skin crawl.
Harsh, yes. But there's only some many times you can push the boundary between inquisitive and damn right nosey. I don't want to tell you about my life, that's why I pretend I can't hear you, why I don't make it to events you are going to, why when you saw me upset that one time I pretended I had fucking chilli in my eyes. And I don't want to hear about your life either. It's mundane as fuck. And you dramatise every single thing. Going to get chips is a big deal. An offer at Tesco's doesn't interest me, because the food you buy makes me want to have an eating disorder. The freezer was constantly full of your microwave meals and pizza and chips in a box. And you wonder why you have acne? Really? But let's not forget you were proud of your body..
However, what really has scarred me is the sound of your voice. I can hear it still. That city twang even though you are from the country..and how you started every sentence with "urrrgh/ummmm/errrrrr.." as loud as you possibly could, as if desperate to be heard. We CAN hear you. Pipe down slut.
I am sorry you are having "family difficulties", but perhaps this is a turning point in your life. Maybe this experience will change your selfishness, ignorance and arrogance. Perhaps you will learn to speak to people like a human being. But probs not. I'm just glad I wont ever get the chance to walk in on you and your chavvy boyfriend doing doggy ever.again.

Seeeee ya


p.s. i think i might just turn up to your leaving do

Sunday, 18 April 2010


I caught the bus home tonight, and I sat on the top deck where people were sparsely seated, quiet. Sunday afternoon blues and contented tiredness. As we pulled off, another bus pulled up alongside us. I looked over; the other bus was rammed, people leaning over to other seats, laughing, shopping bags spilled over handbags and people squished into tiny seats. Black people sat next to white people, next to Asian people, next to mixed race people. Mothers, boyfriends, lovers, friends, fathers, daughters, enemies. All Newspapers and talking on telephones, headphones, eating quick substitutes to a meal. Everyone's own worlds colliding together in a moving rectangular box, all oblivious to each other.
As we rounded the corner, the buses split apart, and in one split second, one last look, I saw a lady with her head in her hands. Amidst the silent noise and the static rush, one face stuck out to me,a picture of grief. Unnoticed by her neighbours, she sat the stillest, the quietest. A statue of despair.
And she was crying.

Monday, 12 April 2010


I go to the cash machine, only to find I've got £9.77 left in my bank. Can't draw any money out, can't go to the bank. It's Saturday. I look through my change in my right pocket as I role the skinniest, driest roley ever. Hard time. It hardly smokes. Four quid. Fuck. I'm supposed to go to Charles' tonight, but I owe him money for the coke last night, so I abandon our Pro-Evo sesh and head to Liam's.
There is no doorbell and no-one answers the knocks so I climb around the back of the house, and in through the kitchen window. He's home. It smells of oven. It's quarter four on a Saturday afternoon, but he's sat in his massive, bare living room, doing lines off a Fisher Price plastic mirror. Each snort echoes twice round the room. He moved in five months ago but all that is there is a sofa, an upturned bin, a forty inch telly and a cardboard box; the content of polystyrene bones spilled across the carpet.
"Alright mate?", he doesn't look up. Sweaty pikey fuck has the same thing on as Saturday; creased shirt with stains down. On the left hand side of his lip hangs a "coke-bogey", like those luminous white balls snotty kids have in the playground, and it's sliding half towards the mirror, half towards his open mouth. The other one, Jew, is in the kitchen, cooking God knows what. What exactly do these people actually eat? I'm here because Liam is company and he gets some pretty good blow from the Albanians he knows. Plus, the longer he keeps on going, the more generous he becomes.
"Hold this", he hands me the mirror, "I'm going for a piss, help yourself".
I start grinding it up with a Sky card, the fatter the line; the cheaper my night is gonna be.
My girlfriend hates coke. She said that she always imagined it would be some sort of glamorous, sophisticated experience but she never tried it cos her mother (who was a groupie with some fucking awful band in the 80's) used to be a dealer and used to hide it in my girlfriend's dolls house when she was a kid. When she finally did it, she said it was like when she had tried Karma Sutra; hanging on, hanging on, but when she was actually allowed to come, she couldn't. For me, coke is like stepping onto a double decker, only it is really fast and once you get on, you can't get it to stop. Time passes you, flies by, and you are ringing the bell to stop, but it won't let you off. So actually...both our analogies are pretty much the same.
Liam comes back; he's smoking a fag now, but it's not even lit. Fucking druggie. And he's inhaling it, flicking the ash but I don't dare light it- cokeheads get very fucking nasty. I'd rather jump in front of a police dog, jackets full of fucking smack and pills than insult a fucking cokehead. Definitely the more deadly of the drug user.
"Pro, mate?"
I'm Barcelona, he's Madrid. I let him win. I get a "commiserations" line. Who'll be fucking crying when the Albanian hands him a massive fuck off bill. Not me Son. The coke makes me more aggressive and I beat him 3-1. Not bad, but when I beat him again he asks the Jew what the sharpest thing in the kitchen is. Lucky for me, it's a tin-opener.
We plug the rest of the coke and head to the G's and it's the same as usual; drugged up dick heads and dolled up slags. We head to the bar and Liam buys me a drink. He tells me he hasn't been to sleep in three days, so when he buys me a Stella I don't dare tell him my usual is a vodka.
Christ it's busy. Some fat girl in this elastic pink number is trying it on with this gay guy in the corner. Evie's friend is here, the hot one, doing this sort of sexy slow dance with this guy my ex cheated on me with. Fucker. Does look pretty hot, except the music is the Prodigy. Hardly high-class romance. Bored, and not nearly as fucked as I want to be, I grasp a near full pint near my wrist on the sticky bar.
Swig, gulp..Ahhhhh...
The Jew comes back from the bog, his eyes bloodshot, not fixed on anything, dilated, fucking oblivious as fuck to what he's been doing. Yet he still manages to pull. Bastard. This place is a fucking dive, mate. You wanna wash her face before you put your tongue down her throat, pal. I meet a friend from my old job who's into selling MDMA now apparently. I give it a tester, persuade some girl to buy me a sambucca. Raaaaaaay! It's now my birthday..a drink on the house please Sir. It gets a cheer and another free beer. It works. Perhaps I'll get a birthday shag and all.

Fuck me, if I spent my birthday like this, I'd fucking hang myself.


I lie and watch him whilst he sleeps, and under this light, the kind that comes through the curtains from the streetlights; yellow and artificial, he looks so statuesque, flawless, beautiful. The shadows create such a defined figure, accentuating all the right places; his cheek bones, naked shoulders. I don't know what or how this makes me feel, these deep violets shadows of the summer night, but I get up to grab my pen and paper- I have to write this moment down.
But it fails me. As I go to look for a pen and paper, I have to unwrap the protective arm around me, leave the warmth of the bed and tip-toe down the stairs. Plain, unromantic blackness, forcing lined school paper from under the phone-book, digging around for a pen...The moment is lost, never to be found again.
When I return to bed, a coldness has taken my place and squinting eyes of the man beside me. He fumbles and struggles with the exercise book, alarmed such a hard and solid shape has made it's way into our nest. He looks at me confused, "Bored are you kitten?".
And even though I am, I don't tell him so and shake his wild, sleepy hair, kiss his moist head and pretend that everything is normal, fine. Pretend. I pretend, because I think I'm depressed. I'm not sure whether I really am, whether I would even qualify in a medically assessed situation. I don't think I would like that label, I don't want to be burdened with a title, to be overcome with something I have no control over, so I keep quiet.
My history teacher once said that if you want to know what "depressed" feels like, you should read "The Bell Jar" and I did, but I'm pretty sure it was about anorexia and not depression. And if I was on a scale of one to depression, I couldn't be that depressed because I haven't stuck my head in the oven, yet.
But anyway, sometimes I get this sense of hysteria which completely overcomes me; deep, shuddering ripples of self-doubt, anxiety, fear and the most definite self-loathing I could possibly imagine. I can't help but cry, cannot help but be drowned in my own tears of self pity. And I can't help it. I cannot look forward to anything when I am like this, there is no point in trying. But I do try to feel better, yet I cannot face the outside, I cannot let people see how wasted a life is on me. I can't face more guilt at being me. And it lasts for days.
He rolls over and I hate him. I hate him for not being able to understand this feeling. And I hate myself for not feeling better. I lie down, hugging the book, and as I face the wall I am taken over by floods of silent tears.