I’m not going to freak out. It’s my party and I’m like just gonna be cool and chill.But it’s just like…why? You know? Like, why? Why? Why does he do this every year?
But, whatever. I’m chill and I’m zen and I’m 23. This isn’t even a problem.
It’s just that I carefully organised everything and then this goddamn, fucking-
Oh my god, I’m fine. It’s whatever. I just want to be cool and let my hair down and enjoy this carefully orchestrated shindig with my friends who can read a fucking invite! Like, shit! It said clearly, in bold: strict-dress-code. Don’t even bother coming otherwise! And this prick-
It’s fine. I’m fine.
He just- He does this every year. Every year. Last year, for cops and robbers, he came as a fucking suicide bomber. The year before that, for little shop of horrors, he came as Frank n Furter from the rocky horror picture show. The year before that, for great gatsby, he came as Huck Finn and then the year before that, for Marvel Heros, he came as Rose Bolton. I just-
I’m fine. Which is why I’m not saying anything- but like I’m pissed because I don’t invite him and yet somehow he always turns up and it’s crazy! One of you arsewipes keeps telling him and I’m not going to investigate because it’s fucking petty but you should absolutely kill yourself!
Oh no. Don’t thank me. Thank you. Thank you for your pushiness and reminding me that even in my lunch hour I can’t escape people. It’s great. Really. It’s fantastic. Grounding. Because you’re entitlement reminds me that there are people in the universe so far up their own arse that they can impose their desires on other people. You selfish piece of shit. And I mean that in the most positive way. I’m so glad. Because I often think that my life is terrible, but it’s good to have that confirmed by someone typing on a fucking mac book out in the street. You wizened middle aged Sasquatch. Go home if you can’t handle the great outdoors, and the people who need to abate their anxiety with a tiny white stick of fucking pestilence and cancer. I am so sorry that my constant state of fear and nervousness is bothering your picturesque roadside meal, you absolute fucking shit stain. I hope you get mugged. I really do. I hope that someone holds you at knifepoint because I would love to see you politely ask them to go away. Arsehole. Arsehole. Arsehole.
Fight me. Fight me, Aiden. People fight. People fight to let things…to let things out. So let’s fight. Let’s fight, Aiden! I want to fight. I want to fight you. I want to be close to you again, so we have to fight. We have to. I don’t want us to hide things anymore. I don’t want us to sit opposite each other and just feel nothing. I don’t want- I don’t want you to- if this ends, if this is going to end I don’t want it to be undramatic. I don’t want to look at your body one day and feel nothing. Feel sad for feeling nothing. I want to feel real sadness. I want to feel real anger, Aiden. So engage in it with me. Engage in it for me! Please! Please.
People ruin things. People change things. You tell people about something and it instantly becomes theirs. Their relationship, too. They’ll snip at it with their words, with their questions and before you know it, ‘our’ relationships becomes ‘the’ relationship. Takes on a different shape. They’ll point to a hole in the fabric and we’ll either stick our fingers in and make it bigger, or patch it up with someone else’s truth. We’ll start to think: maybe so and so is right. Maybe we shouldn’t be living together. Maybe he shouldn’t meet my parents. Maybe I should start asking him to chip in with groceries.
And so it goes until the relationship, the relationship that was originally just us two turns into 4 or 8 or 12. Multiplies until we’re seperated by a gulf of other people’s ideas. We won’t recognise it anymore. Won’t recognise each other. What we have will soured, spoilt. Mangled. And it all starts so innocently: This is Max. He’s my boyfriend.
You know why they have that bamboo fence around the nursery? It’s cos of pervs. When I was younger the fence was the same as the primary school one. Wrought iron. Now all the nurseries have them. To stop men standing across the road, jerking their gherkins. Their cocks.
It’s true! Anyone used to able to walk into the playground and take you. Now the kids have to stay with their teacher until an ‘authorised adult’ comes to get them. Don’t know what my mum would have done back then. Without my nan? Without me? I don’t know what she would have done at all, nowadays.
I guess she’d have to quit her job. Be a stay-at-home mum or let the state take care of us. After school club, breakfast club. Adventure club for the half terms, work crèche for inset days.
It’s bleak, man. When you think about it. I go to work and by the time I get home I just sort of…switch off. I turn into a zombie. Autopilot or something. I literally shuffle shuffle from my room to the kitchen to the living room. Then bathroom, then bed. If you blocked my path I’d probably try and walk through you. I have no energy. Sometimes, when Seth and I- don’t say anything! But sometimes, when we’re- and it’s not all the time! But when we’re getting down to it, sometimes I’m just…not there. I’m awake and I want it- I love the dude, you know? But I’m also just like… Did I lock up before I left? Could I put a wash on and have it finish before midnight? I know. I know. It’s awful. But when else do I have the time to think? To really think about anything?
Now imagine that and chuck a baby in there too. A squealing wailing ball of confusion. Imagine that while you’re on autopilot. On your own. Drained from work. Drained from the baby. Maybe one day you snap. Walk out of work, into a busy street. Or worse. Get you cock out in park cos you’ve forgotten what appropriate behaviour is. It happens. I’m sure it happens. And that’s why we need bamboo fences. To keep the pervs and the parents out.
I blitzed- I blitzed it. I blitzed through it. Why can’t you?
Sure, everyone feels down. Feels a little- a little wobbly. Eventually, you wobble on out of it. You become better for it. Get thick skin. Struggle is good for the bones, I say. For bone structure. Who likes chubby cheeks, really?
Really? I’ve always been a fan of a sharp cheek bone. High, haughty, like you’ve got something jammed right up your arse. Yes. Yes. I’d take stiff upper lip over wibbly wobbly pockets of sad boy fat, any day.
Sorry, a man. Do you understand that you’re a man? No body wants or needs a sad man. They might take a couple of ’em in. Buff them up, make ’em all shiny. But they don’t want someone who is forever sad. No one wants to fuck a Forever Sad. And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Not getting to French or- or and fist the girl of your dreams.
Don’t be a prude, now. After that song and dance at dinner! I swear- I swear if one more person in this house tries to hide something from me, I’ll burn the place down! With all of us in it. Roasting. I mean, we’re almost there anyway. Might as well arrive in Hell in style.
So don’t be prudish, Elias. I’m your mother. If you can’t be free with me, who can you be free with? You’re so skittish all the time. So lacklasture and somber. But I know, Eli. I know deep down that you love me. You love me more than anything else in this world. And it’s just hard for you to say. You’re sad, so it’s hard for you to say. But you love me. And when I die- because I will die, Eli- that’ll really give you something to slit you wrists about. So shut up about the sadness already.
Every single day is the same. Every single day. Every single one. The exact same. The words are different. Yes. The words are different, sometimes. Sometimes, the tone. But the feelings- The feelings. The feelings don’t change. The feelings are always, always the same. Same depth, same breadth, same place. I return to that same place, same bristling-
Even the clothes are the same. The steps I take in my shoes. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right, trip over own leg, right. Is that right? The exact same thing- everyday? Why are we here? Why am I here? What do I want? Why does this matter?
I don’t think any of this matters. I don’t think anything matters. We only care about the things we care about because…because they give us something. Meaning. Meaning? Is that what I mean? I don’t know. But I know that I don’t care about anything the way you do. I don’t think I know how. I don’t think I can let myself. Let myself feel-
Shush. Shush now. That was almost too much. You’re starting to feel…that was entirely too much.