Friday, 23 July 2010

Thursday 22/07/10

(This is in tribute to a friend )

Sunday, 11th April 2010

I turn the key, push the door, walk in my apartment.

On the Blackberry screen in my right hand as I turn on the lights, I’m reading a message from Porter:

“Sorry for the ridiculously long delay in replying. It skipped my mind on the day and just remembered now.

Thanks for liking what I sent you last month. I guess the way I write has changed a bit, yes. I actually can't read old London Preppy at all. I cringe. I almost understand why the haters hated. Anyway.

Is your job upsetting you still? Do you have to work weekends all the time?

Everything is going well in my life if I were to write things down on a piece of paper, but I'm feeling very melancholic. I haven't felt sad like this for a long while. I can't see the point in anything. See? I end up having ridiculous clichéd thoughts like that. "I can't see the point in anything". I'm sure actors turn down scripts on the basis of them including this very line, because it's so trite, predictable. But this is how I feel.

Maybe it's the spring. Maybe that's what's getting me down. Warm spring nights with the windows open, listening to music, nothing to do. I have money and love and relative youth and I don't know what to do with any of it. What do people do with their lives?”


I walk into the kitchen, put the phone down, open the refrigerator and take out a bottle of Krug Grand Cuvée, one of several resting on the top shelf.

Minutes, a Xanax, and half the bottle later, I’m writing back to Porter:

“All I can say in response to your question, "What do people do with their lives?" Whatever they fucking want. There are no guides. No answers. Just theories, some of which are paranoid, or disciplined or reasoned or just plain insane. All I can say to you is do what makes you happy. And if that sounds trite, I apologize for it, but I don't see any other way”

It’s now 7pm in NYC, midnight in London and Nathan instant messages on my Blackberry.

Nathan: Good night, love of my life x
Narrator: Night babe. I'm grumpy again. Argh. Oh well Sunday night I guess. Love ya!
Nathan: You are a funny man. Please don't work yourself into a state for tmrw. This week will be much easier than the last and things are gonna work themselves out.
Nathan: Culminating in me arriving Friday.Yay!
Narrator: Thanks babe, I love you :)
Nathan: Love you too x
Narrator: Night x

Over the next five hours, I:

take more Xanax, watch four episodes of 30 Rock back-to-back, am unable to rest, have three lines of coke, inject my left glute with Winstrol, log on, log off, log on, log off [ad infinitum] to at least four social networking sites, consume 6ml of GBL (in three separate doses, one after each line of coke, diluted in Krug [even though I almost recognize I shouldn’t be doing that]), play the Crookers album twice (repeating Royal T twice through each album spin), panic, come down, shave the sides of my head, panic, panic.

By around midnight I’m starting to feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pacing around, restless, shackled to, mainly, my own state of mind. To set myself free, I have to tie myself up. From a closet in my room, I take out: full body latex suit, gas mask, quick-release metal handcuffs. I put the bodysuit on, do another line of coke, wear the mask, climb on the bed, move my arms behind my back and force the handcuffs on. On my knees, bent over with my head on the mattress, the mild struggle I created myself straining me to a peace of mind, I get a head rush which finally helps me relax. As my chest tightens…

I sense my heart skipping a beat, I fall to the floor, I sense it skipping another, and my mind goes to Nathan: save me. As my heart skips the third beat in a row, I can sense no more.
____________________________________________________________________________

In other news, I've got a book out. Why not go and buy it here? (Don't answer that)

Thursday, 15 July 2010

Thursday 15/07/10

Me: I have to call a cleaner today and talk to her about doing my flat. I am scared of this phonecall.

A Girl: Who are you calling? We had a cleaner for years at our Swiss Cottage flat. She didn’t speak English, I have no idea how we communicated; I don’t think we did. When we let her go we gave her double her amount or something like that, and she left a note saying something like:

‘Thank you, I hope you be happy’

I almost kept the note; she seemed to know more about me than I thought.

Me: Did she write that in blood?

A Girl: Could have been, it’s too long ago to remember now.

Saturday, 3 July 2010