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Thursday, 1 December 2011

Blog 27: Living It Up

I know how it came to this. I’m nothing, nothing yet. I thought something would come along for me. Maybe I had my chance, or maybe a few. I never had far to fall so I thought I’d be fine. I’ve only ever looked up. I thought my life could only get better. Now I live in a shit hole that I managed to make worse and I make the rent by robbing ticket machines with a crowbar. To everyone else I say I make my money playing guitar. We are the worlds worst band and it’s not just my fault. The gigs were always a con. Each venue we get kicked out of becomes a reference for our next show and we play another shit set before we’re booed off stage.
The flat smells like the washing I should have done months ago. My once white towel is a putrid shade of brown from the blood I wipe from my fists every time a bill falls through the letterbox. I don’t want to turn to drugs, I don’t have the money, but brain damage would be blessing right now. I started selling my epilepsy medication to the local drunks months ago but they’re getting wise now. I didn’t really need the pills anyway. My recovery if you can call it that is the best thing to happen to me in a long while.
I’ve got my girl. For some reason she hasn’t walked out on my poor excuse for a life and for that reason alone I’ll always run to the shops when she stats moaning about juice, even if the nearest open store is half a mile away.
I radiate an aura of criminal. Something about me puts all the right people on edge, all the people who would have been my boss. Old people keep crossing the street to avoid me. It’s so sad it got funny, I have to laugh at it. A grey haired woman will clench her empty ragged bag and drag herself across the road like I’m drenched in blood and holding a family portrait with all the other faces cut off.
On the flipside of that coin every junkie for miles has offered their help if I’m ever in a fight. As if, I run from anything that has a problematic odour. That’s probably why I’m in the sinkhole situation. If I ever get another shot I might strangle it by holding so tightly.
Until then I will endure the hatred of the crowd as my girl dances alone before the stage listening to her own music through earphones. Maybe if we can keep the façade up long enough we’ll be worth something one day and she’ll take the earphones out. Maybe I can get a job in some criminal fraternity, I know I have the look. I could fool the police, probably, I get new barmen to believe my band can play weekly. That wont last.
The girl looks at me sometimes with expectation, like I’m her shot at getting out of her own hell. She’s crazy if she thinks I’m on the road to riches but she can hold my hand in the gutter forever and I wont mind as long as she still believes in me. Someone has to believe in me.
People keep telling me to go home to run back to the parents who had the good grace to bring me into the world. Why would I stain their lives with my crap? I’m scum but it’s not their fault. They gave things a go with me and they’ve stopped asking how I am. I send them a letter now and then to let them know my hearts still beating but other than that I try to leave them to their quiet life.
I found my yearbook amongst the crap in my room the other day. Most likely to murder someone, what kind of premonition it that? No one had high hopes for me so I never really had any for myself. I keep letting life make my choices for me. I get swept along with whatever happens and it’s never the right thing for me. I’ll make an effort and make something of myself, if I can be bothered.

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