Blog dedicated to:
- Christ.
- OSR-style TTRPGs.
Late ā80s world snooker champion Terry Griffiths.- Water features.
- Basketball.
- Cuisine of the Indian subcontinent.
- The works of comedian Nicholas J. Mullen.
- Uninteresting pieces of short fiction, poetry, screenwriting.
- Cocaine.
- Cocaine.
- Cocaine.
- [Insert amusing subject].
- HOT JAZZ MUSIC BABY OOH YEAH SKI DIDDLY DOO WOP BOP BEEEEEE BA BA DOO POW!
- The brave Mujahideen fighters of Afghanistan
Recent Shite
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The Crying Doorman
The literal meaning of life is whateverās stopping you from killing yourself. Right now I donāt know what that is.
Iām nine-hundred and seventy pounds into my overdraft, and itās only the tenth of the month. I have over three-thousand pounds of credit card debt, plus countless thousands in student loan. Accrued by studying film, a dying art in a dying world. In two hours I have work at a bar where I sit on my arse and do nothing for hours at a time, with a boss I canāt stand. When I do work, I deal with people that are drunk, violent, perverse, argumentative or just plain cunts. Iām a doorman, donāt you know?
My girlfriend of a month, whom I have declared my love for already, sits on the sofa beside me. Weāve had a strange, psychosocial episode where Iāve tried to understand why she feels the way she does. Iām still none the wiser. Iāve cried twice and now I feel numb.
She left to do some shopping a few hours ago, came back in a much better mood. Not before she tended to me like the baby I am. Iāve always got to make it about me. Maybe she went out and got some dick or pussy on the side. Her phone hasnāt stopped buzzing since she got back. Text messages too, not the usual Instagram notifications from her group of gay friends, some of whom think Iām likely to hit her or worse. Iāve been swinging from pangs of bitter jealousy to utter dispassion, all in my head of course.
We had a cigarette and tea outside on the balcony. The rain spattered us from the balcony upstairs. Hard bullets of rain keep landing on the slate grey metal of her balcony. It slopes slightly upward, obscuring the below. I can see the parked cars (Audis, Ranges, BMWs) lined up neatly along brick wall and fence. Just beyond them is the back of a chain pub and a takeaway called āThe Goodfatherā. Sometimes the employees of both places emerge from the back doors, backlit in tooth decay yellow, and haul empty kegs or swollen bin bags to the end of their alleyways.
Iām not sure what the point of all this living is right now. Iāll figure it out in the morning. Iāve got uni at nine. Short Film 02 I think.
āWhat if it all works out?ā was a favourite saying of an ex-thing of mine. Never a girlfriend. Situationship just isnāt me. It was love. Real, genuine love. Sheād say that phrase whenever I told her my fears: that Iād be stuck in Blackpool forever doing nothing. That Iād never make art for a living. That Iād never be understood, or loved, in the way I wanted.
Weād lie on the floor of my one bed flat, right above my letting agent, wrapped in blankets and candlelight. Noses inches away from each other. Eyes locked. Hers were green, wreathed in freckles, stray brown and copper hairs trapped in her lashes. Mine dark and blood shot, plum-purple bags drooping down under them. Sheād look right at me and say just what I needed to hear. It was a comforting, intoxicating feeling to be validated for nothing.
Validation comes the hard way. My insecurities and fears creep up on me, snaring me in the same cycle that destroys all of my relationships. Iām certain I love my girlfriend more than she does me. As is always the case.
I just need to find a reason not to kill myself.