Hairball’s chance in hell, that’s what they gave me when they dropped me as a bub. Crack! Right on my head like some sort of counter-cat; fucking rubbish-child, useless. A waste of satin sheets: swaddle tighter and be done with it.
They called it Blunted Affect years after they stitched my head together – weren’t there no affects blunted, just two points of a circle that never met, and would never meet. A thread: grist for the Μοῖραι mill. Foot tapping sarcasm and confessions spilt in [f]ilth had those three hags staring at my life wistfully, but they had orders, just like the rest of us.
The doc’s had got it wrong. I wasn’t suffering a lack of emotional reactivity. The opposite was true. I had come to expect disappointment, to crave it. Where others saw solidity, I looked closer and fell into the stippling, and because I had expected it and because I had found it, I rejoiced.
So it’s OK that we talk past each other. Why change tack, trim sail? There’s no escaping this. Suck it right up – what’s one more haemorrhaged breath?
Written on Thursday, 28 February 2013