Friday, 14 August 2015


I feel like  a parasite in my own body, being rejected by an unwilling host who wants to cry and scream and curl up somewhere dark and warm and safe. It wants me out. It wants to tear into its guts and destroy it, disrupt the source of pain and distress, crush that swollen, tender flesh into submission.

It fights sleep. It won't let me rest and recuperate. It cries out in the night and tells me over and over of its unhappiness. It hates me. It hates this. It fights, endlessly, futilely.

Sometimes it's as if we're on the same team. There's a job to be done and we get it out of the way. We work well those days. At other times the conflict and anguish just makes the whole process worse. In punishing me for being here, it torments itself.

It resents every mouthful of wholesome nutrition I allow and demands sugar, grease, salt and calories like a baby shrieking for a cookie. I look at a cup of decaff and it hollers for alcohol. I think of wine and it sulks. I contemplate a salad and it conjures images of fish and chips. It wants meat. So do I. Together we eat steak until suddenly it realises it has been tricked and once again takes a stance, clenching the stomach, grinding the vertebrae, pouring water into the the already inflamed spaces in the gut.

Water is too little, cola is too sweet, tea is too thin, coffee is too bitter, ale is too fizzy, wine is too cold, cordial is insubstantial; it wants to chew and claw and rage. It wants to return to its prehistoric roots. That time before me. That time when it had nothing to care for except its offspring, its food, its warmth and comfort.

It hates me for tearing it away from bed in the morning. It hates me for going to bed at night. It hates me for walking and jarring it with every pace. It hates me for being seated and crushing it. It hates me for contorting it to suit my life instead of letting it rule me. It hates me. It hates me.

And I hate it.


Take your time

Surely there are only so many mistakes you can make. Like, everyone has their allotted amount and at some point you run out of "mistakes" and start doing stuff right.

Maybe your mistake allowance isn't a number of individual mistakes but a quantity of mistake material that you work through. Maybe your big mistakes use up more, so you can have a good life with a few really huge terrible mistakes or a less good life with lots of little to middling mistakes cropping up constantly.

And is your mistake allowance proportional to your lifetime? Does everyone get the same?

What I'm wondering is if there is any point in my life when I can say: "OK, this is it! All my fuck-ups are behind me and from here on in I'm getting it right!"

Because if so that would be  awesome. 

I wonder if your mistakes count as mistakes if you do them deliberately to hurry your way to the end of your allowance.