The Window (exerpt)

He doesn’t know it, but I live across the street from him, and he doesn’t even know it. I wish he’d just shut his old smelly curtains once, but secretly I'd love it if he caught me looking at him when he tries to turn on his gas for that every day shower he has at 10. I mean, I have work at 10.30, but by the time I get to work and the first meeting starts with the whole administration is around 11.30, and it only takes me half an hour either by my bike or the train to get there.

Catching him set on his gas heater sadly enough is my pick-me-up. And he doesn’t ever get ready until 10, so I wait to see him hum and sing into the bathroom. But, then as I get a mere glimpse of his existence my dickhead of a hubby grabs my stomach, tickles and makes grunting noises in front of the kids. “Troy! Stop it, you dipshit!” He then asks me the most moronic question so many husbands across the country do every fucking morning, as if I’m some sort of a slave. “Hmm…What’s for breakfast, hun?”

I sigh, pick up my iPhone, keys and bag, tell him to make it himself, and try to finish my already cold cup of coffee. Ugh. How I detest the non-existent sludge that is decaf. How it’s so bland and tasteless I never know, but anything that can wake me up from this futile life nowadays is considered a good thing. Also, husband fucking dearest will probably and deliberately forget to get the groceries, so I guess that means I have to drive and I have to pick up a bag which he could easily get within twenty minutes of walking distance of his work place. What a total and utter loser. Why I married him, i never will know.

So, still looking for my keys, I spot a small glimpse of a shutter sliding upwards and then get what I wanted: my wake up call. God, that’s a good body. Glad I got to see it for the last time. I get in the company car outside my drive, find a bunch of empty latte cups, and just sift my way through to the wheel. Then when I get inside fully, I turn the ignition on and reverse, parking it inside the car garage.

I close the garage door with the button to the right side of the wall, then get back inside and close my car window with the pipe inside it. It’s time to leave, but I can’t for the life of me see myself putting another foot on the pedals again. I stifle a little cry, surprised as how easy it was to look at myself in the car mirror and then I see: It’s too late. But I don’t care anymore, I’ve been numb for quite some time. Some bitch, who’s sick and tired of being sick and tired, of being stuck in my own little perfect world. This life is no life. It’s time to breathe in and tune out.

Throw Me

Throw everything and yourself away
Into the vortex again,
Be ready the rush of pain,
Yours is nothing but a memory of yesterday,

I need to lose this life’s dress
So, rip me apart by the strings
Of my precious fallen wings
And make something of the bloody mess

To be destroyed and reborn,
By something beautiful
Is remarkably horrible
And grotesquely scorned

The first month.

What a month.

That’s the one phrase I can think of right now to describe what really has happened. Truthfully, most of it wasn't a blur, or a haze, it was as vivid as the sunlight starting to creep inside my room as I blog. I've managed to already secure a nickname known by a majority of people inside two or three halls, I've managed not to throw up in any toilet, sink or bed, I've been seen in places I for the life of me wouldn't have been seen dead a year or two ago.

I've successfully evaded the homesickness that over 60% of students have suffered, I've had Fresher’s Flu, I've been seen wandering and running around in toga and boxers around 4 o’ clock in Southsea, I've chirpsed girls I didn't see the next day, and I know I'll attest to Tesco's Microwavable meals for the next year or so.

So, five weeks now have passed since I dropped my bags and banana boxes inside my room, and near every night something remarkable has happened. I’ve witnessed the weird, the funny and the emotional. The drink, the kebabs and the chunder. I’ve become a journalist, I’ve worked at a fast food restaurant, I’ve washed clothes, cooked meals, and most importantly, I’ve started to write a lot more.

It’s been a hell of a long wait to start, but from the get go, I’ve endured and enjoyed near every moment. I recently mentioned to a course mate that the structure of an atypical Portsmouth student’s conversation goes as follows, in three stages: Sex, alcohol, and Fresher’s Amnesia. She laughed a lot at my Venn chart analogy, but agreed on the spot.

It’s hilarious how structure of time is sort of lost as each day an intake of nicotine, coffee or drink causes the generic student to forget the smallest of things, like milk, bread, or their keys left in their flat door. Of all these things, I know I’ve done at least one. And names! So many people’s names to remember, I don’t think I would be able to tell you who from who if Facebook didn’t exist.

Fire

A source, of life, of death

Unstoppable at times, power it emits

Of beauty and devastation

A mesmerising sight of something uncontrollable

Its passion should be met by caution