500 words a day

732 words - 11th August 2009

How could she possibly carry on like this? If she wasn’t suffering from a hangover and subsequent guilt shame and depression and horror at the thought of what she’d done who she’d insulted, how she’d behaved, what she’d not done that she had to do or promised she’d do, then she was feeling like this. Frightened, deadly as if there was absolutely nothing what so-fucking-ever to look forward to any more and realising why she continued to overindulge as the seemingly only way to bear existence in this miserable fucked up what the fuck is this all about world.


It seemed hopeless and every time she resolved to stop and felt it was a real and positive and definite commitment, she felt a little glimmer of hope and possibility that her new life would be on the way now. A life where hope was possible and confidence and simple pleasure and not needing to sleep with random fuckwits you met on the night bus, or drink at lunch time with that idiot from accounting just because he was  the only one stupid enough to come with you and not question you because, lets face it, he didn’t ever ever get asked to go to the pub by any girls at all, had never had a shag and would do anything for you if you just gave him the barest hint of a promise of a peek or a fondle or a kiss or a later vision of your naked body. SO he would do anything to impress including covering up for you and telling an elaborate tale to your boss, that you’d been taken to the police station as a witness to a horrific stabbing that took place in the cafe where you had lunch and you were traumatised and probably wouldn’t be ale to come back to work for a couple of days.


You could have a  different type of life that involved doing things that made you feel better about yourself, writing some more poems maybe or cooking a really special meal for your mates and not getting so pissed while you did it that you burnt everything and had to ring them all up and ask them if they minded bringing round takeaway and sobbing for hours on end on Lucy’s shoulder when most of them didn’t even come in the end apart from Dave who tried to put his hand up your skirt before anyone else arrived and you didn’t tell him not to even though you found him creepy, you were just too pissed to be bothered and it was only Lucy and Frank arriving that stopped you giving him a blow job.


Or you could finally think about going back to college and studying something you liked and just enjoy it because you were old enough now to like learning just for the sake of it and it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t get a job out of it. Or maybe just getting fit or being able to save up some money to go on a decent holiday; a holiday that didn’t just involve week-long drinking, vomiting and recovering and smothering yourself in after sun cream even though you’d been burnt so badly the hotel doctor said nothing could help apart from time and you should avoid going out in the sun for the rest of your holiday; advice which you obviously ignored.


It would be nice to spend some more time with your non pisshead friends who cared about you but had stopped ringing after so many times being put off and having arrangements cancelled because when it came round to it the idea of spending time just talking and not getting pissed, just sitting in one of their nice houses, in the garden sipping tea and eating lovely homemade food  - it made you feel sick with fear and wanting to down a bottle of vodka before you went there or just never have to see or speak to the boring wankers ever again.





It would be nice, but it wasn’t ever like that, it was always fucked up and horrible and squirm inducingly  painful and boring and mind numbing and after a while the old wine that you refused to bother with that your aunt had sent last Christmas started to look tempting to you and the hideous cycle started all over again.











** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **





Steve Wybourn





** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **