Your phone is all abuzz on the window sill and you explode out the chair, dressing gown flailing as you rush almost knocking over your freshly poured drink. The text you’ve been waiting for has finally has arrived? Of course not. It’s just the cold relentless admin bots at 02 or a thieving electric company or a laughing landlord or a blood stained bank. Closing in. Don’t you know you pay for this life dear chap? Just a little more baby. Sweat it out. Subscriptions to your own demise.
For can you take rejection? I mean, can you actually *take* rejection? I for one cannot though have come to realise that it is just one of those *things* that must happen, like work or play or grit or sand or tears or laughter or disappearing planes or reappearing cancers or walking or falling over or running away or haircuts or shaving or eating or vomit or the suns coming up or the suns going down. You know? Or as Mark Corrigan would put it, “One of those things where a cherished dream is smashed into your face and you’re humiliated in front of everyone you know.” Exactly. One of *those* things.
My mood was dampened still by this piece I stumbled accross this morning- (http://www.express.co.uk/news/health/466751/So-fat-my-organs-almost-collapsed-27-stone-woman-was-so-large-she-got-wedged-in-caravan). I do not know who Louise Watson is, but I warmly congratualte her on overcoming her problems in this manner. I merely wish my old primary school teacher Mrs Coe could read this. In 1999 I wrote a short story for children in which I depicted a man who eats so many burgers that he cannot leave the burger shop as he has become too fat to exit the building. This was years before the obesity epidemic became such a real problem, (and it is by the way, I have worked for the NHS for years). So it seems I was years ahead of everyone. I’m joking. I’m actually normally only 5-10 minutes ahead, I set my watch that way to avoid being late. I mean, actually turning up on time would be far too complicated. I just don’t want to miss a minute of my oh so useful appointments with occupational health or bosses or doctors. Tell me I’m an hyperfunctional alcoholic again, tell me to buck my ideas up once more, you know how it turns me on. Fuck yea. But back to the story.
I even illustrated this original narrative by using a protractor to increase the anti-hero’s wobbly girth on each page. The teacher took in all the class’ stories and gave them to her young son, (in hindsight perhaps she was too much of a cheapskate to buy him a book, God forgive me I’m uncharitable this morning) and the kid hated it, apparently fearing if he ate too much that this gloomy fate would befall him also. While obviously it was suppose to be something of a parable, not to be taken totally literally, it now seems I was correct all along. So there you go. Also, so what if the story frightened him a shade? Perhaps this deterrent effect was useful? If I walked past Louise Watson on a beach I like to think I would be far too gallant to call her a ‘beached whale,’ though it is telling that in our soft squishy liberal culture while I may think that would make me the ‘better man’ how come it was such insults that finally pushed her to sort her life out? Maybe we all deserve a slap sometimes? I know I do. I suppose the key is such a shove should come from loved ones and close friends not obnoxious strangers.
But remember, overall her wise decision to lose weight was not for aesthetic benefit but for her health and so most importantly, her children. In short, Mrs Coe, if you are reading this you now must concede – I was right. And you were wrong. How does that make you feel? I personally feel no better from penning this lousy snarling script. So as I return to fully read that text I got this morning, I wonder where is my payday? And when did I become such a repellent and bitter bastard? Perhaps it’s just – ‘one of those things?…’ Yes. Let’s just say that. Let’s just say it’s one of those things.