I have absoloutely no idea how this came about.
Director's Cut
Katie found me on the floor with blood on my wrists. Her shock was overtaken by her disgust, and her disgust has overtaken by that desire all people have to help those in need, just so they can exercise their superiority over them. She helped me up and asked in her salty voice,
‘What happened?’
I tried to explain to her about the wolf, but she wouldn’t listen. She seemed obsessed with the idea that I had cut myself.
Katie decided that it would make her feel good to send me to a clinic where cutters went. She also removed all knives, scissors and Director’s Cut DVDs from the house. That way I would have to resort to using my zip, and it wouldn’t be her fault. I think I can see Katie working in a charity when she’s too old to make any money.
On the morning of my first day at the clinic, we were sitting at the breakfast table, eating (funnily enough) breakfast. I slumped there, watching Katie’s grotesque consumption of her daily fix of Shreddies. If you ever carefully watch someone eat, then you become to realise how revolting it is. The spoon plunges down into the milky surface and then emerges, somehow proudly, laden with the cereal and cow juice; some of the milk escapes the spoon and splashed back down into the bowl-encircled melee; Katie lifts the spoon to her mouth, constantly pondering the dilemma of whether to raise the spoon slowly and carefully, so as to minimise the loss of Shreddies or milk (creating an unbalance in moisture); or to lift it up quickly, so she can enjoy the Shreddie goodness sooner, and be able to dive back in for another spoonful. When the spoon reaches its zenith, Katie encircles it with her hungry mouth, and captures the imprisoned Shreddies with her tasty muscle. Katie chews; noisily, greedily and smugly. Then, she returns the spoon to its downward journey and the whole boring, annoying and thoroughly nauseating process begins again.
When I consider how revolting I find other people, it makes me realise how revolting other people must find me.
I arrived at the clinic with the scepticism of Nick Griffin at a racial acceptance conference. The hall had a smell of distant vomit. The reason why bad smells are so unpleasant is that you’re breathing them in, and somehow you’re afraid that you’ll be infected with whatever the hell made it smell so fucking awful. As I scraped down the hallway, the foul odour intensified to such a point that I wondered if my destination would just be one large room full of sick.
In the literal sense, it wasn’t; but the room full of drab, slumped shapes was as close to vomit as a room full of people can be. I sat down and started to smoke some crack.
‘Hi! You must be the new guy.’ said Ollie. No shit, Sherlock.
I ignored him. I didn’t like Ollie. I don’t think he liked me either, which was fair, I suppose. ‘Where did you cut?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t.’
I didn’t feel like explaining to him He wouldn’t have understood. Ollie was the kind of person who wouldn’t know intelligence if it came up and shat in his mouth, which it wouldn’t, because it would be wasted on him. Dumb fuck.
‘Do you want to know where I cut?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please tell me because I’d love to know,’ I answered, wondering if he knew the difference between sarcasm and irony.
‘My anus!’ he said, in a voice which clearly expressed that he didn’t know the difference between sarcasm and irony, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a fuck.
He then went on to tell me about the techniques of anal expansion, and how his was now over fifteen centimetres in diameter.
It was at about this time that I wondered how this was constructive. It was a diabolical experience, almost as bad as when I had walked in on Katie smoking my poetry. It gives you more of a buzz than prose, she had said.
I left Ollie as he started to explain that his one aim in life was to have someone fit their entire head up his arse. I don’t think he realised that I’d gone.
I decided to walk home, and the wolf sanctuary seemed a good route.
Katie found me on the floor with blood on my wrists. Her shock was overtaken by her disgust, and her disgust has overtaken by that desire all people have to help those in need, just so they can exercise their superiority over them. She helped me up and asked in her salty voice,
‘What happened?’
I tried to explain to her about the wolf, but she wouldn’t listen. She seemed obsessed with the idea that I had cut myself.
Katie decided that it would make her feel good to send me to a clinic where cutters went. She also removed all knives, scissors and Director’s Cut DVDs from the house. That way I would have to resort to using my zip, and it wouldn’t be her fault. I think I can see Katie working in a charity when she’s too old to make any money.
On the morning of my first day at the clinic, we were sitting at the breakfast table, eating (funnily enough) breakfast. I slumped there, watching Katie’s grotesque consumption of her daily fix of Shreddies. If you ever carefully watch someone eat, then you become to realise how revolting it is. The spoon plunges down into the milky surface and then emerges, somehow proudly, laden with the cereal and cow juice; some of the milk escapes the spoon and splashed back down into the bowl-encircled melee; Katie lifts the spoon to her mouth, constantly pondering the dilemma of whether to raise the spoon slowly and carefully, so as to minimise the loss of Shreddies or milk (creating an unbalance in moisture); or to lift it up quickly, so she can enjoy the Shreddie goodness sooner, and be able to dive back in for another spoonful. When the spoon reaches its zenith, Katie encircles it with her hungry mouth, and captures the imprisoned Shreddies with her tasty muscle. Katie chews; noisily, greedily and smugly. Then, she returns the spoon to its downward journey and the whole boring, annoying and thoroughly nauseating process begins again.
When I consider how revolting I find other people, it makes me realise how revolting other people must find me.
I arrived at the clinic with the scepticism of Nick Griffin at a racial acceptance conference. The hall had a smell of distant vomit. The reason why bad smells are so unpleasant is that you’re breathing them in, and somehow you’re afraid that you’ll be infected with whatever the hell made it smell so fucking awful. As I scraped down the hallway, the foul odour intensified to such a point that I wondered if my destination would just be one large room full of sick.
In the literal sense, it wasn’t; but the room full of drab, slumped shapes was as close to vomit as a room full of people can be. I sat down and started to smoke some crack.
‘Hi! You must be the new guy.’ said Ollie. No shit, Sherlock.
I ignored him. I didn’t like Ollie. I don’t think he liked me either, which was fair, I suppose. ‘Where did you cut?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t.’
I didn’t feel like explaining to him He wouldn’t have understood. Ollie was the kind of person who wouldn’t know intelligence if it came up and shat in his mouth, which it wouldn’t, because it would be wasted on him. Dumb fuck.
‘Do you want to know where I cut?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please tell me because I’d love to know,’ I answered, wondering if he knew the difference between sarcasm and irony.
‘My anus!’ he said, in a voice which clearly expressed that he didn’t know the difference between sarcasm and irony, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a fuck.
He then went on to tell me about the techniques of anal expansion, and how his was now over fifteen centimetres in diameter.
It was at about this time that I wondered how this was constructive. It was a diabolical experience, almost as bad as when I had walked in on Katie smoking my poetry. It gives you more of a buzz than prose, she had said.
I left Ollie as he started to explain that his one aim in life was to have someone fit their entire head up his arse. I don’t think he realised that I’d gone.
I decided to walk home, and the wolf sanctuary seemed a good route.