By Monday morning I’m over this week already so I decide to go to work to punish myself a bit more, I deserve this, I know it and I won’t even pretend that I’m worthy of a better fate.
At lunchtime I go in Urban Outfitters and buy a pair of white plimsolls for £10, then I walk past French Connection and I see an Incredible Hulk t-shirt in the window, then I go in and try it on, then I go to the till and buy it (£25), then I participate in some small talk with the guy at the till (“Are you a fan of the movie or do you jut like the retro look of the t-shirt” / “I just...” and then silence), then I go back to work.
By Tuesday morning this week is not bothering me anymore, I’ve crossed a new threshold of not caring, I’m this guy who saw a bomb explode near him, miraculously got away without any injuries, but lost his hearing forever. Now everything’s quiet (peaceful?) but everyone around him is dead.
On Tuesday at work another birthday card is going round and this time I write:
“___ it's your birthday again, I am trying to be surprised by that, but I’m not – I’ve learnt my lesson well by now. I was hoping your birthday wouldn't come this year, and you could stay [insert age] even though I know better. But I like to punish myself like that: hope for the best and build up my expectations, only for them to be inevitably shattered, sometimes in a spectacular fashion, sometimes slowly and painfully reducing themselves to nothing. Happy birthday”
Part of this is lifted from a previous blog post (you may recognise it) but these people don’t know that, and I’m not gonna come up with original material for every birthday card I write.
On Tuesday afternoon, I consider different ways to customise the Hulk t-shirt (a rip from the neckline down? symmetrical tears on either shoulder?) and run them past A Girl. A Girl can’t decide – they all sound too good or she just doesn’t care – but when I decide on a tear on top of the left shoulder along the stitching she says yes, yes that’s the perfect way to do it, there’s not other option, and if I change my mind about this she’ll have to fight to her death for it, I’ll have to pull this idea out of her dead, cold hands.
On Tuesday many other things happen and these things concern “love”, which is something that I need to talk about but certainly not on this blog, so I just talk to ___ and ___ instead. It doesn’t help.
On Tuesday evening, around bedtime, I’m making a list of the current obsessions in my head, obsessions which don’t connect with my intellect, as alternative to counting sheep to help me fall asleep.
And at number one comes my current obsession with ___ (a guy I’m not talking about here at the moment, but might do in the future), and I try to plan a conversation in my head, to find out where he lives, next time I talk to him. And the conversation goes:
Me: Hi, how are you?
Him: Hi, alright thanks, you? (or something)
Me: Good thanks. Listen, where are you from originally, I can’t tell accents very well.
Him: Blah blah blah
Me: Oh and can I have your home address please? I'm planning to spend the rest of my life working on scientific experiments trying to make myself invisible and when I've done that I'll turn up at your house and take turns between watching you in silence and raping you.
And almost happy with a plan in my head, I fall asleep.