regrets, ive had a few. but then again...
please note this will be the last of the Self Pity Epic I post here, im not fishing for "cheer up" messages and internet sympathy, writing helps me sort things out in my head and posting here is the final part of the process.
I got stung bad this time - I try to avoid using the word "hurt" when it come to feelings, I live in fear that this place will start looking like the worst kind of emo myspace whining nonsense, but that's exactly the word to use, it hurts, a lot.
It hurts to know the only way to make things better is to pretend it doesn't
It hurts to know the two people I normally rush too for hot tea and sympathy are the exact two I can't.
And it hurts because I have no one to blame but myself.
Already the dark part of me is whispering bad ideas - making them sound perfectly reasonable and in some cases downright attractive, finishing the bottle of scotch in my cupboard being the best bad idea.
I'm at work, its practically empty and the lights are low, but it still doesn't stop me from resenting every single person here, I can see them getting annoyed with the same three songs I've put in the sound system over and over and over, but fuck em misery loves company and if Jeff Buckley on repeat doesn't bring em down, I frankly don't know what will. I've just realised the only thing I have eaten in the last two days is a biscuit but I'm not at all hungry – my stomach does a three and a half pike with twist every time I think about how bad I hurt my friends. I don't want food. I not even that bothered about sleep. All I want is stop feeling like this and everything not to be royally fucked. Is that too much to ask?
I'm home now typing my scrawl out reflecting on the fight that happened shortly after I wrote the above, in fact it wasn't really a fight, it was an attack, a short ugly red faced man, for no real reason started punching a (equally ugly) complete stranger, the stranger was on his own enjoying a quite drink and about ten years his senior, Red Face then, as a finale, threw a few glasses at the other customers for "watching" in a "what you looking at?" moment, which, I couldn't help thinking, was a bit of a cliche, but who knows, it may have been a post-modern motivated attack. He did try and smash a glass to attack the fella with, but it exploded in his hand and got blood on his tight white shirt. The stranger was all right in the end, a bit shaken and had a cut on his chin that I would have gone to get stitched, but the guy was one the old school types who would no sooner set foot in hospital than fly to Rio and dance in a parade, he also had been in trouble with the police and didn't want to report it. So I spent the rest of the night a depressed little Puck, clearing blood and glass from everywhere I found it.
I got stung bad this time - I try to avoid using the word "hurt" when it come to feelings, I live in fear that this place will start looking like the worst kind of emo myspace whining nonsense, but that's exactly the word to use, it hurts, a lot.
It hurts to know the only way to make things better is to pretend it doesn't
It hurts to know the two people I normally rush too for hot tea and sympathy are the exact two I can't.
And it hurts because I have no one to blame but myself.
Already the dark part of me is whispering bad ideas - making them sound perfectly reasonable and in some cases downright attractive, finishing the bottle of scotch in my cupboard being the best bad idea.
I'm at work, its practically empty and the lights are low, but it still doesn't stop me from resenting every single person here, I can see them getting annoyed with the same three songs I've put in the sound system over and over and over, but fuck em misery loves company and if Jeff Buckley on repeat doesn't bring em down, I frankly don't know what will. I've just realised the only thing I have eaten in the last two days is a biscuit but I'm not at all hungry – my stomach does a three and a half pike with twist every time I think about how bad I hurt my friends. I don't want food. I not even that bothered about sleep. All I want is stop feeling like this and everything not to be royally fucked. Is that too much to ask?
I'm home now typing my scrawl out reflecting on the fight that happened shortly after I wrote the above, in fact it wasn't really a fight, it was an attack, a short ugly red faced man, for no real reason started punching a (equally ugly) complete stranger, the stranger was on his own enjoying a quite drink and about ten years his senior, Red Face then, as a finale, threw a few glasses at the other customers for "watching" in a "what you looking at?" moment, which, I couldn't help thinking, was a bit of a cliche, but who knows, it may have been a post-modern motivated attack. He did try and smash a glass to attack the fella with, but it exploded in his hand and got blood on his tight white shirt. The stranger was all right in the end, a bit shaken and had a cut on his chin that I would have gone to get stitched, but the guy was one the old school types who would no sooner set foot in hospital than fly to Rio and dance in a parade, he also had been in trouble with the police and didn't want to report it. So I spent the rest of the night a depressed little Puck, clearing blood and glass from everywhere I found it.
posted by Puck at 10:55 PM
2 Comments:
You know the two stories enclosed in this posting have an amazing parallel. Two men, prob not meaning to hurt one another but circumstances such as they are it is inevitable. It breaks and is short lived but you are left behind in both cases picking up the pieces.. Babes, it will get better... if it doesn't, well, you can come to Atlanta and make a new start.....
Agreed. An intriguing parallel. But at least you were there to offer help in some way.
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