Bernard: Where's my cure?
Manny: It's not my fault you're hungover.
Bernard: It is your fault! If I lived with a normal person, there wouldn't be so much to blot out.
I had a good weekend at the Eyrie and in the Trinity’s company. There was applewood sheesha, coffee, cocktails, giftings, conversation, art supplies, silliness and film watching. My only complaint is that I didn’t do anything I was supposed to be doing (which actually doesn’t make me that happy, I feel even more tired and fucking useless than usual in such circumstances, like I’ve been bunking off and letting people I like down). Other than that, very lovely.
Bernard: [to Fran] You! What have you been telling Kate? She thinks I'm the Renaissance. I have to go along with all this 'reclusive genius' stuff... She's going to be very upset when she finds out I'm a reclusive wanker.
I have a bunch of neurons at the back of my skull who are rather convinced they’re Bernard Black - only less Irish, less witty and without mushrooms growing in their hair. Not that neurons have hair. I feel a need to spend my (oh-so-numbered) days wrapped in a freshly laundered but sodden bedsheet and coughing cigarettes into a half drunk glass of wine whilst downing slug pellets and oven cleaner and talking to myself in a semi-nonsensical and deeply acerbic manner.
It’s not like any of that would be hard to achieve either. If I wore a dark suit and shuffled I’d almost look like Bernard Black whilst I did it. (Well. Minus the stubble, generally slightly smaller and more female.) Also it’s not like it takes much of a leap of the imagination for the Shamblyland flat to be Black’s Bookshop/Flat - I’ve got binbags, and many books, plus empty bottles an’ fag packets. The only thing lacking is the jam-toast on the ceiling, and really that’s only set dressing - how hard can it be to make it stick?
Then again, I don’t want to be Mr Black. I mean, if this is as good as it gets then given the choice I’ll be Mr Black because at least he doesn’t care, owns a bookshop, is a viciously funny utter bastard and impervious to slug pellets and oven cleaner - all of which give him better prospects in this world than me.
I’m not happy with my life right now. Oh sure, it could be worse (bits of it have been worse, bits of it will be worse, etc etc) but that doesn’t stop me kicking about in low grade misery in the meantime. Kerrist. Being at the flat is starting to feel like being at school. (All right, so I stuck that out for seven years but it crippled me somewhat in the process.) Do I mean all that? I don’t know. I just find a feeling of déjà vu in the whole sense of a petty purgatory I don’t have the means to escape without making everything so much worse for myself. Wheeeee.
Yeah, well, Raven, you’re a picky bitch, aintcha? List of what you don’t like would fill not just a book but a damn leather-bound set.
True. I could go live with my parents maybe, uninvited, and watch my mother 24/7. I could hook up with any one of several boys I like but don’t love and pretend that didn’t scour out my insides like I was necking bleach. I could rent somewhere else - anywhere else, money be damned - until they threw me out into the gutter. I could get a job and earn a wage. (Er, could you? Hmm. Ed.) I could go live with a friend and then just ignore the fact I claimed I was only staying a month as a temporary measure. (Until they called the police. Or just killed you and cooked you in soup. Ed.) See? Really my options are limitless. I should stop bitching - there is no problem here.
Manny: I want the weekend off. I want a life.
Bernard: This is life! We suffer and slave and expire. That's it!
Manny: We have needs! Fran wants to learn the piano, I want some time to myself, you want to go out with a girl...
Bernard: Don't make me laugh... BITTERLY. Fran will fail, you'll toil your life away, and I'll die alone, upside down on the floor of a pub toilet.
Bernard: It is your fault! If I lived with a normal person, there wouldn't be so much to blot out.
I had a good weekend at the Eyrie and in the Trinity’s company. There was applewood sheesha, coffee, cocktails, giftings, conversation, art supplies, silliness and film watching. My only complaint is that I didn’t do anything I was supposed to be doing (which actually doesn’t make me that happy, I feel even more tired and fucking useless than usual in such circumstances, like I’ve been bunking off and letting people I like down). Other than that, very lovely.
Bernard: [to Fran] You! What have you been telling Kate? She thinks I'm the Renaissance. I have to go along with all this 'reclusive genius' stuff... She's going to be very upset when she finds out I'm a reclusive wanker.
I have a bunch of neurons at the back of my skull who are rather convinced they’re Bernard Black - only less Irish, less witty and without mushrooms growing in their hair. Not that neurons have hair. I feel a need to spend my (oh-so-numbered) days wrapped in a freshly laundered but sodden bedsheet and coughing cigarettes into a half drunk glass of wine whilst downing slug pellets and oven cleaner and talking to myself in a semi-nonsensical and deeply acerbic manner.
It’s not like any of that would be hard to achieve either. If I wore a dark suit and shuffled I’d almost look like Bernard Black whilst I did it. (Well. Minus the stubble, generally slightly smaller and more female.) Also it’s not like it takes much of a leap of the imagination for the Shamblyland flat to be Black’s Bookshop/Flat - I’ve got binbags, and many books, plus empty bottles an’ fag packets. The only thing lacking is the jam-toast on the ceiling, and really that’s only set dressing - how hard can it be to make it stick?
Then again, I don’t want to be Mr Black. I mean, if this is as good as it gets then given the choice I’ll be Mr Black because at least he doesn’t care, owns a bookshop, is a viciously funny utter bastard and impervious to slug pellets and oven cleaner - all of which give him better prospects in this world than me.
I’m not happy with my life right now. Oh sure, it could be worse (bits of it have been worse, bits of it will be worse, etc etc) but that doesn’t stop me kicking about in low grade misery in the meantime. Kerrist. Being at the flat is starting to feel like being at school. (All right, so I stuck that out for seven years but it crippled me somewhat in the process.) Do I mean all that? I don’t know. I just find a feeling of déjà vu in the whole sense of a petty purgatory I don’t have the means to escape without making everything so much worse for myself. Wheeeee.
Yeah, well, Raven, you’re a picky bitch, aintcha? List of what you don’t like would fill not just a book but a damn leather-bound set.
True. I could go live with my parents maybe, uninvited, and watch my mother 24/7. I could hook up with any one of several boys I like but don’t love and pretend that didn’t scour out my insides like I was necking bleach. I could rent somewhere else - anywhere else, money be damned - until they threw me out into the gutter. I could get a job and earn a wage. (Er, could you? Hmm. Ed.) I could go live with a friend and then just ignore the fact I claimed I was only staying a month as a temporary measure. (Until they called the police. Or just killed you and cooked you in soup. Ed.) See? Really my options are limitless. I should stop bitching - there is no problem here.
Manny: I want the weekend off. I want a life.
Bernard: This is life! We suffer and slave and expire. That's it!
Manny: We have needs! Fran wants to learn the piano, I want some time to myself, you want to go out with a girl...
Bernard: Don't make me laugh... BITTERLY. Fran will fail, you'll toil your life away, and I'll die alone, upside down on the floor of a pub toilet.