Why don’t you come back to mine, and let’s [putting hand down bra] talk about this further?” “Where do you live?” “Earl’s Court.” “Sorry. I’m working a shift in a homeless hostel tonight, and I’d rather get laid there. Bye.”
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‘To make sure you’re okay, and you don’t accidentally write your shopping-list on your arm with an axe.’
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But one day, you’ll find a version of you that will get you kissed, or befriended, or inspired, and you will make your notes accordingly: staying up all night to hone, and improvise upon a tiny snatch of melody that worked.
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So what do you do when you build yourself – only to realise you built yourself with the wrong things?
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‘Never feel this bad again. Never come back to this place, where only a knife will do. Live a gentle and kind life. Don’t do things that make you want to hurt yourself. Whatever you do, every day, remember this – then steer away from here.’
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‘On the foundation of the billion kisses we never had, I built you this opera house, baby. I shot the president because I didn’t know what to say to you. I hoped you’d notice. I hoped you’d notice me. We turn our unsaid things into our life’s work
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‘It’s not a statement – it’s a typo! Razors are very hard to spell with! I wasn’t really looking! The sub-editors will change it, later.’
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‘I would say you’re only interested in him because he’s a writer, and you’re a writer, and you basically want to fuck a writer, because that’s the nearest thing to fucking yourself. You just fancy yourself, darling.
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I am like a dirty goth bride, preparing for her bisexual wedding night.