Saturday, June 27, 2009


Wednesday, 5th March 2008

40. What could be done to make things better for you?

Better? Hmm. Give me a whole heap of money and a few nice pages of stationary and some stamps and a nice, easy-to-read book and a huge hug and an evening watching Atonement with yer man and tell all those people who have recently morphed into uncaring airheads to get a grip. And give me a stylish new haircut and dye my hair back to an actual colour and ensure that I no longer have a tinge of ginge. And bully me into exercising regularly and eating healthily. And help me learn my lines for the play. And remind me to be nice to my peers and stop looking so sullen all the time. And make me consider the implications of all the lightening-speed bad decisions I make. And show me that I can't keep procrastinating on being a nice person. And congratulate me on realising the importance of doing maths homework. And give me a month's notice before you call 'round to my house. And tell me not to waste my emotions on people whose imagination stretches about as far as what's underneath my clothes. And prompt me to go to the doctor's because of my ear. And teach me the importance of mystery. And ask me about the meaning behind my silly metaphors. And talk to me about Skins and how terrible the writing is. And how hot Maxxie is. And tell me, daily, that there is life beyond this mess of a town. And that I'm gonna get there. Lie to me - tell me that I'm going to reach the unreachable. And hand me a pile of opportunities on a plate while you're at it. And tell the most uncanny person in the world to love me. And give me a fully-furnished, fully-functional conscience. And buy me new underwear. Remove all unwanted hair from my body. Super-moisturise my hands. Hand me energy in a plastic bag, or wrapped in tinfoil. Get me on a rugby team. Unite me with a sexy Australian man with a fabulous accent. Oh, and listen to me complain about how damned painful this is and advise me on whether it's a repeat event? And tell that fucking imbecile to please stop talking to me when they still reek of superficial sentiments. And instead of me having to go to town tomorrow, go there for me and go to the library, draw up a CV for me, buy me those shoes and print off my Careers homework. And put my curtains back up as my bedroom looks nude. And, for Chrissakes, slap me in the face, tell me to grow up. Better? Perfect.


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