Jealousy is an ugly, ugly creature – especially the lesbian breed. It’s a dirty vulture poised ready to swoop at the slightest hint of decay (even if both bird and rot are so fantastic as to be beyond the realm of Walt Disney).
Surprisingly I’m a classic case (not quite a basket, thankfully). Take today, for instance. The slightest mention of anything remotely predatory and my back is up – I’ve now taken on the form of a human Stegosaurus Rex (the meat eating sort) which is tramping around indiscriminately in a bid to bring the temperature of its head back down to something resembling normality. Talk about Metamorphosis. Tomorrow I’m hoping that Shaz will awake from unjealous (and thus unrestless) dreams to find herself transformed (back) out of the verminous form. The cheese-heavy pizza I just scoffed isn’t boding well.
Anyway, I won’t bore you with anymore of the (embarrassingly non-event) details, but I can assure you that even by the most hysterical hysteric’s standards of pre-hysteria, it is really nothing to get one’s whalebone in a twist about. And I’m not really wound up – I just needed something to write about. (Note to self: when reading Sylvia Plath be sure to dilute with Viz, Heat or the like, at all times, to prevent potentially damaging mind-altering tendencies – she was certainly on to something with those Poppies)
The annoying thing is that my brain has engaged itself with something that it’s not used to – or at least, hasn’t had to be used to for a while. Last time I checked I was most definitely an island. Yep, cliche. But, fact. It was all about me, me, me, my cameras and football. And my friends. Everyone knows that islands almost always come in clusters. What would Guernsey be without Alderney, Sark and Herm? Lonely, that’s what…
Despite me not being lonely in the slightest I’ve spent the past year operating on a permanently busy basis – to ensure I have had little or no time to even think about girls, let alone actioning any thought that might have slipped through the web-of-activity net. As I said, friends, cameras and football. Oh, and work – to pay for two of the above. Not the friends, thankfully they don’t charge me. But now there’s a girl. Not such a good net, afterall. And so of course the mainland is looming, I’m passing the football a bit more and my pals have been introduced. Don’t get me wrong – it’s all good. Very good, in fact. I’d even go as far as to say ‘splendid’ – but that wouldn’t be in the spirit of The Blog, so I won’t say that (here).
The trouble is that now I’ve had my first taste (in ages) of the light, I’ve stupidly allowed myself to nibble at the unhealthy dark side (of the moon). And, I can’t shake that image of the omnipresent predator – the vulture that hasn’t seen carrion for months and stalks you from not-so-afar, saliva pouring from its sagging odaemic jowls, as it searches frantically for food to feed its dirty mouth. Ugh. Talk about war wounds. Good thing I’m being rational and reminding myself that even the most ravenous scavenger would not feed off something that isn’t dead, much less something that’s [insert inappropriate Blog content here]
That said, I should really stop reading Sylvia Plath’s poems:
Poppies in July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.