Shut your mouth.
No, seriously, shut your damn mouth, you look retarded. That’s right, RETARDED.
Friday Night Office Girls in Friday Night Office Uniforms; midnight tights running down the front of a leg. Nuggets and fries and half on the floor. Alcoholic grins, my new best friend, a slump, the sharp screen light, ‘are you OK? You left without saying goodbye!’, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, I’m getting off, she’ll be fine.
With your Monday Morning People in their Monday Morning Gear; polished shoes, optimistic gym kit after the weekly conference call with the head office. Make up application from foundation to eyeliner flick. And emails, and emails and, ‘Yeah, I’m on my way in now’ and ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon’ and ‘I’ll see you tonight, love you, we need milk’. How was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, fuck, we are already here, how was your weekend.
And your average and your underwhelming and amateurs and idiots and fuckers and drugs, prescription and otherwise. With your, ‘Doctor, I’m feeling stressed’ and ‘Fuck, I hate that fucking job so fucking much’ and ‘I’ve got a date on Wednesday… and one on Thursday’. Roaming the streets and ‘Evening Standard!’ and the smell of everything all at once and it smells of nothing, pointless nothing. And maybe a film and maybe beans on toast, I can’t be arsed to cook, can you? Not pizza again and cold hearts and cold hands and sorry, sorry, sorry, EXCUSE ME, sorry, (fuck off, cunt), thank you and I’m sorry.
Oh, London, my fucking London.
You fuck me and you fuck me up and you have killed me and given birth to me. You hold my hand and squeeze it too tight and you punch me in the face and I apologise. Your long, humid nights, your blanket of grey wrapped around the worker bees that work and go home to a home that’s not their home. And then the rain… and it licks my face and it makes my trainers wet and it makes you look so pretty and new.
Oh fuck you, London.
You’re not my friend, you’re not my lover, you’re not my parent, you’re me but not me. ME. You’re alone and ‘Sorry, love, that’s going to cost you a 50p charge’ and sing to me, you there, the cunt in the Mercedes, oh please do sing the songs of your people, because I’m sorry, I don’t care about you and I should.
The stars. Where are they? And get a tattoo and bye a t-shirt and suck my big fat floppy cock of loneliness.
What happened to you? To me? You are blue and you are red and you are black and dark and tender and never, ever sweet. Voices. Everywhere. All around me and under me and in me and above me and get me THE FUCK out of here and home to where I don’t live. The flick, the Standard, the screen light. And trains and planes and wheels and animals gnawing the bones of yesterday’s KFC bucket. Let’s get high and smashed and fucked and fuck. Let’s smash our teeth on the pavement and smear blood down our dresses and hang from the ceilings, swinging in our pointless, out-of-fashion ties. Grow up, grow out, grow into yourself. Put the shutters up, draw the blinds, scream in a stranger’s face in your mind. By GOD, headphones in, always.
Read more of Laura C.’s writing at 5 A.M Decisions