The Relentless Bitch That Is Self-Reflection.

The Day After. 

The sun kicks you in both eyeballs, at once and almost angry about something, your mouth is dry, your head aches and struggles to snag a sentient thought of a shrub as you slide down a endless mountain, your stomach rolls like all of your senses are strapped to the north spoke of a rapidly rolling wagon-wheel.

And then you think, ‘why would you do this to yourself?’

I mean, it made sense at the time, didn’t it? It was a whole lot of fun at the time. You have made that ‘never drinking again’ pledge so many times you know it is just the red hot poker penetrating the rice paper; a small glimpse of how it could be if you were one of those pure folks. You aren’t though and tonight when all is settled, you know there is still ten beers sitting by the fridge and begin for round two.

The Mirror. 

Everyone you know seems hell bent on mentioning your weight gain. You don’t notice it, you never have. It is best not to look at old photos, lest you invite the autoimmune leech to your front door. Though you catch yourself pre and post shower in the mirror now and then.

It is likely you will never be in ‘sitting and hunched’ good shape, but this. Jesus, everyone was right. Your a fat-fuck, your old man didn’t bust his arse for you to have man tits. But here you are, with a rack to rival that of many an ex-girlfriend. 

Sure, you got a brain on you and can think critically and hold your own in conversations. But who is shitting who? If you think that burger girl with the nice legs is hanging out for a flash-fiction enthusiast or a keen Ken Burns fan it is probably time to re-examine your doctrine on burger girls.

 The Civil War Within You.

You don’t really have friends, not proper friends. In a different city they can all feel like well-wishers. In the shows you watch friends are doing things like sleeping in the same bed, you yearn for something so close. Maybe you had it once or twice, but you are forever the dunce of any relationship you enter. 

It is probably because you are kind of a cock-hole. You could’ve been better and you let that infinite question loop over you. You could still be better than you are but you wonder what kind of scene is yours, unequivocally ‘yours’?

You try to find your place and no damned place seems it. You have an almost Freudian revelation that you are not OK in your own skin and boy does shit go down the pipe from there. 

You occasionally have happy dreams of dying at work. 

Then, all that is really left, is to roll another, crack another and wait. The day after is always tomorrow, the mirror is your soul-mate and the civil-war will never reach ceasefire. 

NP.