Over the last week at work, I decide to turn up the crazy a little bit. Some strange behaviour, a few more peculiar habits, an odd outfit, a twitch perhaps…I’m sure all these things will work in my favour at some point. I don’t know when or how, but this is what I’m willing to believe at this point. Fair enough, having the Bret Easton Ellis tattoo on my arm has given me a head start. Obviously, to most people Bret Easton Ellis = American Psycho = Mindless Explicit Violence and comments so far have included: “London Preppy is so quiet, I expect him to come in one day and blow up the whole building” from some senior accounts guy.
Not so much trying to build on this reputation, but mainly just continuing to be myself, on Wednesday I write on some girl’s leaving card (a girl who I hardly know and have barely spoken to): I’ll never forget the time we nearly got stuck in the lift together. Was it a look? Was it a touch? I just don’t know. Maybe I never will. Maybe it’s better that way.
On Thursday, I bring with me in my Ralph Lauren gym bag a very old, quite rusty but still fully functional 25-centimeter dagger (17cm blade). I put it in a folder and during the day I have it there, sitting on my desk in its cardboard hiding place, occasionally spreading my hand and touching it, getting strength from it like a vital – and at the same time lethal – source of energy. Anything to keep me going. I toy with the idea that something physical has to die, I’m tired of it always being abstract like my will to live, my faith in humankind, etc.
Later that day, back at home, I make the mistake of leaving my rusty dagger on the hallway table overnight. I go to sleep and only in the morning do I realize that if somebody had broken in, they would have had a perfect opportunity to grab it and use it against me. Letting this sink in as I eat my breakfast, I consider keeping it under my pillow from now on. Remembering that under the pillow is where I keep my head when I sleep, I leave for work still undecided.
On Friday morning, exhausted from playing mind games with myself all week, mind games that I have no chance of ever winning, I distract myself by researching the forthcoming weekend’s rock star birthdays online. And Saturday the 8th of March, apart from Gary Numan, it’s also blues singer Mississippi John Hurt’s birthday. Infuriated that 0ississippi John Hurt is a much better name than mine, regretful that I didn’t come up with this first, and working myself into a rage about having already tattooed my name on my left leg, it takes me at least two hours to remember that nothing is lost yet: there are infinite name changes I can have, and a second leg that is begging to be tattooed.
In the afternoon, I shut myself in the toilet taking my iPod with me, watch Sean Cody’s Parker, Billy and Danny for a few minutes, listen to Saint Etienne’s Tell Me Why twice looking outside the window, and for a tiny part of a second I’m almost happy.