Tuesday 27 July 2010

Nicola.

Then you wake up.
The girl of your dreams isn't mad at you, she doesn't even exist.
A figment of your imagination that has fucked off with as much rapidity as the ones that are real.
But you can't help but feel, if she was real, not just some assortment of various memories from some deep crevice of your otherwise defunct mind, she would of forgiven you by now, for whatever it was you did.
You have not been travelling on the night bus home, fighting with travel inspectors whose fists are easily twelve times the size of your head.
You are not a ballsy mother fucker who would fight with people who have fists twelve times the size of your head.
Soon reality sets in and the desperado/perfectly content person fades away, leaving this mere shadow of what happiness could be, but it isn't all bad, as you write anonymously to a readership of most likely less that one, pieces fall into place and there is some shred of hope for a half decent day.
Just don't fuck it up.
Don't panic.

.....that last part sounded like a trailer for a really shitty movie.