SPLURGE

The mental bilge awash inside of me...

Three young women have made plans for Sunday; plans involving some weed, a trip to the city centre and some drum ‘n bass music. They have known one another since before the world was dying so quickly and since before they had to put on the hood - the adulthood. Their way of getting ready isn’t the method that may come into the minds of many - well, it’s not the way I picture people (young women) preparing themselves for an evening out in 2017, anyway. For one, they’d given themselves forty minutes - and one of them had forgotten her make-up.

∞

I love being here. I love these girls. Am I only doing this for attention? We don’t take too long getting ready. Her hair looks nice. I love glitter…do they actually want me here? Well, she said I could get ready here and invited me without asking…they could just be including me…being nice…no. We’re having too much of an enjoyable time for this to be fake, anyway what’s their need? They’re prettier than me. Are they, and does it even matter? Should try and avoid being an over-the-top attention w***e. I’m disgusting. This goes against so much of what I preach to others, what I believe in…f*****g hypocrite, aren’t you Bo-Bells?! It’s okay to enjoy yourself though, isn’t it? Isn’t this “enjoying yourself”? Do I even want to go anymore? What’s the point of going out to drink fluids that don’t even taste palatable in situations that make me uncomfortable or angry surrounded by people doing things that I often disagree with? Don’t want to go back alone again, hate being alone so much. Then again, bad company can be worse. S**t, forgot mascara. Why did I decide to make my own top, I don’t even know if I’m comfortable.

The walk down the road isn’t much different.

Yeugh, my voice sounded so forced then, or did it come across false? Ah well, moment’s gone. And nobody said anything, must be fine. Might just stay quiet for a while since every word I say sounds f*****g stupid, forced and fake as f**k anyway, yeah. But now I’m quiet, will they mind? Am I too quiet…? But what do I say?? F*****g hell I just don’t know, this is all so self-absorbed and it surely shouldn’t be so difficult to listen and respond, to just walk the street with a few people who say that they like me. Speaking of walking the streets, I just do not know why they always stare…am I that different? That awful? What the f**k is he looking at - and her? May not even be me. I look at the pavement. I glance ahead, eyes sliding past those in front. Where can I bloody look? Watch passing vehicles as I stroll and my girls chat: that should be harmless. Ah - that’s fucked it, just saw myself in a car window and now I’m not sure if my subconscious made me look at it deliberately because I wanted to be vain or whether it was just a glance. Is it wrong of me to want to have a look at myself? Why do I want to see anyway, am I arrogant? In love with the sight of myself? And why is it that I always assume they’re staring at me, anyway? Those people could be looking at anything. Doesn’t have to be me. Look at all of the litter...do people think I'm pretentious when I pick it up? Because I like to clean that s**t, it shouldn't be there in the first place. Is that an odd thing? Oh, jesus, look. That guy is living outside of a building that could facilitate ALL of his needs, and they don't even care. In fact, they look away from him. Bet the fuckers haven't even spoken to him, bet they don't know why he's there, yet they go on as if he's scum? F**K YOU. But...what can I do? How can I help? And in the end this is all highly irrelevant, it’s just the direction of perception that is ruling my thoughts when right at this very moment atrocities are being committed across the…

∞

Hi.

I’m…well, I’m me. And that up there �' is what seems to be a pretty accurate rendition of the way my brain thinks sometimes.

Only segments - this isn’t all of it - but even so, it’s quite a bit. Considering this volume of thought can pass behind my eyes within the space of about three minutes (or less). Constantly weaving and revisiting duplicate thought patterns or individual thoughts, loping backwards at opportune times to touch upon the points of reference I have for things. I love the term “point of reference” - my examples have been bloody sharp, pointy things, poking holes in me each time I remember one.

∞

I’m not sure what to type on this new laptop, and my hands are very clammy. At least they aren’t as sweaty as they can be sometimes: warm, swollen, tingling when I move my fingers and dripping over everything I’m near. Head feels like a brick wrapped in blankets is being thrown onto the floor of it right now…where are they? Why isn’t there even one of them here? Has it all been that bad? I can’t remember. I just…can’t. But I know that I love them, know that I want them here with me. To make sure they’re ok, to take care of them and heal any broken bits. They don’t even need to care about me - all they need to do is let me be around them. Please. Please?

 

Somebody?

∞

Reviews

[Island Hippy]

Aloha Rebekah, I loved reading this piece. I enjoyed the inner chatter of constant measuring and analysing everything to death :) it's clear and easy to follow even though it's all over the place. I used to have those discussions with myself, a long time ago now thank god but I feel and know this.
The closing paragraph packed a punch and for me felt painfully sad. The longing of just wanting to apart of something more. You did an amazing job with this piece. I hope to read more. Izzy

[Rebekah Smith]

Thank you for a beautiful and authentic review :)

[Island Hippy]

You're very welcome