I joined the wrong Mile High Club

Saturday 12th March

I was going to behave like a normal person
But then I got high
I was going to look my friends in the eye
But then I got high
I woke up the next morning still in the sky
And I know why!
Because I got high, because I got high, because I got high…

I got so high that I felt like I was in a hypergalactic supermarket (or a supergalactic hypermarket) and I’d lost my mummy.

At one point I suddenly became phobic of my own voice and was mute for the rest of the evening, batting my eyelashes and blushing whenver people looked at me.

When I was about 13, I needed a wee while I was in town with my dad. He took me in a public toilet and stopped to smell the air.
“Can you smell that, son?” he asked.
I sniffed, and besides the ammonia and farts, there was a herby stench. I nodded.
“That’s marijuana, that is” he said with pride. “I used to sprinkle it on my coffee in the morning” he reminisced. “Lovely”.


Tuesday 15th March

Esther has just told me that it’s MY FAULT that we don’t have sex! Ha! My fault!

“You’re not getting any sex until you’ve had counselling” she proclaimed.
“You never want sex anyway” I sneered, wise to her game.
“I’m all better now, I can have sex whenever I want, but you’re a complete neurotic!” she stated. “And you’re getting worse”.

A small, well aimed A-bomb whistled down through my emotional cortex. As a mushroom cloud obliterated my thoughts, Esther went back to smoking her cigarette.

“Can you have this conversation later?” demands Lisa. “When I’m not here”.
We nod. But to be honest I prefer to have a witness so that Esther can’t later deny having said some pivotal, game-changing statement that rocks me to my core.

“You just think sex is a way of boosting your self esteem” says Esther.
“No I don’t”. Do I? No, that’s what cakes are for. I see it as a way of shining a spotlight on as many insecurities as I can at once: penis size, lack of co-ordination, inability to talk dirty, getting stuck in my own clothes.
“And you’re very unattractive when you’re mentally ill!” Ouch.
“You’re ugly when I’m mentally ill!” I want to reply, but then I would just be confirming her point that I have a problem.
I need a shrink.

Why does the 82 bus have carpet on its ceiling? Is it to make the next fall from an embankment more pleasant? So when it’s upside down on a train track, at least you get somewhere to wipe your bloody shoes before you crawl to safety?

I hate running for the bus because I know it must be full of people like me who are gagging to laugh at some nerd who is running for the bus and failing. It’s like I can see myself from inside the bus, and I look bloody funny. I sort of wither at that point and the bus pulls away. The me on the bus gets to work on time. What a wanker.

Last week I watched Let Me In (2010), a pointless American remake of Let the Right One In. But I fell in love.
The vampire girl, Abby, is so beautiful that I would kill for her. I would die for her. I would give her my last rolo and my last drop of blood.
She is everything that makes me weak at the knees: power, self-assurance, innocence, vulnerability, and fucked-upness.
If only life was like that- instead of being an ugly loveless freak at school, I could have been an ugly freak who got the girl. The weird, psychotic girl who kills people and drinks their blood.
She is my current obsession. I always feel guilty about my obsessions so I say to Esther, “She has an amazing face”.
Esther knows what this means and plans her counterattack.
“Yes but I bet she’ll be ugly when she’s older” she states
“Yeah” I reply, to prove my faithfulness.

"Don't look at me, I'll make your face ache"

Things that are too perfect make my jaw ache. Nancy in the last Elm Street film is so beautiful that I almost can’t look at her. She makes my jaw ache.

I ought to go and see the doctor really. I’m sure all that energy should be going to my private parts instead.
In a seminar last year, I tried to get this idea across to the other students, to see if I really was a freak. “Someone so beautiful that it’s too painful to look at them” I explained.
Everyone else went quiet. “Err, not really” someone muttered.
“I know what you mean” one girl said, “I feel like that when I look at Jason Statham”.
This takes a second to compute.
“Each to their own” I reply.
The girl left my course shortly after to get married to a farmer. I imagine Jason Statham manhandling a tractor while she grapples with udders in the next field.

"I've got a brand new combine harvester"