:learn to say the same thing:
Not this time. Oh no. No way. I'm not fucking stupid. I'm waking up and yes, everything's okay. Check the mirror. No Hitler moustache drawn in permanent marker on my upper lip. Good. Check my slippers. No mousetraps, no clingfilm bags of water, no drawing pins. This is getting to be tiring. Every bastard day, check, check, check. Where are my clothes? Still where I left them? Yes. Good. Unrumple every sleeve, inspect each pocket. Check. Okay. Get dressed. Bathroom. Sniff the toothpaste. Examine my toothbrush. Toilet? Make sure there's no clingfilm stretched over the bowl. Have a shit. Unroll the toilet roll for at least ten sheets to check for insulting messages. Nothing. Okay. And now I'm going to have breakfast. It will take me a while to go through the cornflakes, so I elect to have toast and Marmite instead. It's possible there will be something in the Marmite, but I can't be fucked, to be honest.
Post! It's the postman. Or is it? Fucking hell. I just want to get on with my morning. Warily scout the hallway. Looks like three letters on the mat. Approach said letters with caution. Doesn't seem to be any cause for alarm. They're all for me. Two bills, one request for a charity donation which includes a free pen. Examine the pen. It's a normal biro. Head back to my breakfast, ensuring that the hair I left laid across the plate hasn't been disturbed.
The phone rings. Deep breaths. I've got caller display, but I don't recognise the number. Oh, right. I've seen the adverts; wind up your mate! Irate tax inspector! Oh yeah. Fucking bring it on. I answer. I hang-up.
Fucking hell I tell you! It's just exhausting. So I have a coffee, after making sure there isn't salt in the sugar bowl. That one, I tell you, is so passé. It's quiet now, and I luxuriate, lolling my head back over the chair and breathing deeply. Check my shoes, check my coat, and never, ever forget to check the pockets! Prime territory for all sorts of business, the pockets. Never forget.
The doorway in the hall is a likely spot too. Examine for tripwires, buckets, threads, and even these days those red laser pointers.
Right, I'm out. Should be okay at work.
Uneventful day. Looking forward to a rest though. Get home. Nothing's changed, nothing's changed. Stare at the phone. Go into the kitchen. Flip a knife this way and that way. Wish I had something to do. Wish I didn't live alone. Go to bed.
Post! It's the postman. Or is it? Fucking hell. I just want to get on with my morning. Warily scout the hallway. Looks like three letters on the mat. Approach said letters with caution. Doesn't seem to be any cause for alarm. They're all for me. Two bills, one request for a charity donation which includes a free pen. Examine the pen. It's a normal biro. Head back to my breakfast, ensuring that the hair I left laid across the plate hasn't been disturbed.
The phone rings. Deep breaths. I've got caller display, but I don't recognise the number. Oh, right. I've seen the adverts; wind up your mate! Irate tax inspector! Oh yeah. Fucking bring it on. I answer. I hang-up.
Fucking hell I tell you! It's just exhausting. So I have a coffee, after making sure there isn't salt in the sugar bowl. That one, I tell you, is so passé. It's quiet now, and I luxuriate, lolling my head back over the chair and breathing deeply. Check my shoes, check my coat, and never, ever forget to check the pockets! Prime territory for all sorts of business, the pockets. Never forget.
The doorway in the hall is a likely spot too. Examine for tripwires, buckets, threads, and even these days those red laser pointers.
Right, I'm out. Should be okay at work.
Uneventful day. Looking forward to a rest though. Get home. Nothing's changed, nothing's changed. Stare at the phone. Go into the kitchen. Flip a knife this way and that way. Wish I had something to do. Wish I didn't live alone. Go to bed.