December 5, 2011 § 84 Comments
You can’t help but feel, what the fuck is the matter with you?
I am no longer eating chocolate or drinking vodka because that isn’t the solution to anything but, after so carelessly letting two twinkles slip through the fingers within a matter of days of each other, and there being not one other in the entire galaxy, I am left with a sense that I am some kind of freak. Roll up, roll up, I shall be featured soon, just along from the circus, as the top attraction in the Hall of Curiosities, inside a vast glass bottle, my yellowing, distorted body dunked in sour formaldehyde for all to come and stare at in horror at tuppence a gaze.
I have a beautiful friend, just in the process of getting divorced, and the whole concept of planktonhood is one beyond her imagination. As I say, she is beautiful. And she has legs. And she is warm, she is funny, she is cool. Within moments of being separated from her husband, she has had a number of lovers and more than anyone’s fair share of suitors, and she now has a delightful, charming, kind, successful, well-balanced man in her thrall with whom she is rapidly falling in love. One doesn’t have to understand quantum physics to glean from that that I must be physically repellent and poor company in the extreme not to have had any such real success in all this time. I am not fishing for compliments here because none of you has met me and so, bless you, are not in a position to disagree. And this is not about a certain morbid self-pity beginning to set in here. I am just thrashing around for explanations because I am so profoundly puzzled. It seems that a person’s “bad luck” over several years can no longer be deemed to be bad luck when it has gone on for as long as it has with me, but a complete and whole and utter absence of erotic or any other sort of capital to the point of becoming a definite female casualty and failing to function as an ordinary member of the human race.
Any normal person’s bad luck would have run out long ago. Bad luck just can’t be this tenacious.
I soothingly conclude therefore, very simply and logically and without self-pity and because what else can possibly be the explanation, that I am goose-arse-ugly; fat and vulgar as a bouncy castle; thick as pig-shit; pavement boring; sheep-stupid; petty-bureaucrat-humourless; Scrooge-parsimonious; psycho-weird; withered as an old apple; clip-board-Nazi-unpleasant; hybernatingly-lazy; drain-pipe-dull; stinking as a ewe’s front bottom; playboy-thoughtless; unsexy as an elasticated slipper; graceless as a binge-drinker in the centre of a town of a Saturday night; toothless as the three witches; spotty as damp wall mould; grunge-greasy; frog-lumpen; inelegant as Jeffrey Archer’s prose; Birkenstock-earnest; beanbag-obese; ugly (again) – I mean deep-sea monster ugly ; lacking in vivacity; full of shit; brainless, dangerous, and morally repugnant as a fascist.
Otherwise, how could it be that almost every single man I ever come across gives me a wider berth than some Russian oligargh’s oil tanker?
From now on, I want to stay indoors in my vacuum of hope. To go outside is to dally with the stuff. When there is none.
I am bottle-bound. Formaldehyde, not vodka.