The title reference? Not sure really.
Just feels that way, even though I had a great time at my party on the weekend and everything.
I want to live a glamorous life of cigarettes and alcohol. No colour but black. Grainy 1950's films in languages I don't understand. Dusty tailored suits and ridiculously expensive shoes that are only just held together. Waking up after noon and wandering book stores and music shops in search of that elusive nothing, in a vague haze of hangover and cigarette smoke.
Vile, dead-end jobs that never really pay enough. Stay up till 2 in the morning watching bad TV and playing cards. Sitting in a tiny little apartment, fifth floor walk-up with little hot water and flickering lights. Horrible neighbours who neither speak English nor keep less than 5 pet cats, or the same amount of children under the age of 8. Friends who wear too much make-up and too little clothing, and drink far too much. Chatting amongst piles of old books. Philosophy sits upon trashy novels, dozens upon dozens.
A life consisting of only work, home, drinking, smoking, music and books. Living off take-away and microwavable meals, booze and cigarettes. Cancer that eats you up inside. Liver failure and yellowing skin. Skin and hair and teeth that are subjected to too much. Faded tattoos and over-dyed hair. Rasping voice. You might die at any moment, she says. But the tragedy is that she doesn't.
It's 1:31pm on a Wednesday and I'm going back to bed.
Not registered?
Create an account