Thursday, 29 December 2011

Where the doors are moaning all day long, where the stairs are leaning from dusk 'till dawn, where the windows are breathing in the light...

...where the rooms are a collection of our lives...

In my two decades of life I don't recall feeling so much significance at the outro of a year. It seems an odd quirk of humanity to attach significance to a resetting of the 365-day count down to...the resetting of another 365-day countdown.

'Obviously' - you're thinking in exasperation - 'it's not just a countdown, not just resetting time. It's resetting you. It's that indefinable new lease on life which forgives you a year of self-inflicted disappointment.
It tares your lost chances and strike outs. It's hope and a fervent amalgam of good intentions built around apprehensive clasped hands and fierce whispers of 'it'll be better this year'.

And it's beautiful.

In its inherent dichotomous frailty and strength. Perfect in its ability to strip every shape, colour and creed down to a single hushed plea for it to be better, things to be different.

Happy new year everyone.

Saturday, 10 December 2011

I'm a methamphetamine addict - better drink my own piss

Holy shit on a stick.

This was not my first thought when I opened the door to my AWOL ex-flatmate's room with a purpose rivaled only by America's free-the-shit-out-of-you-and-the-poor-oil-held-hostage agenda.

Nor did it mark the prelude to my fun-sized freak out when we unscrewed the first 2L bottle of month-old urine (of 20).

In fact I was so depressingly, sarcastically clinical about finding - in the general vicinity of every fucking thing - post-meth-cooking sludge, (what I need to believe was) facial hair, pierced lithium batteries, blackened spoons, hash bags and a delightful pink plastic bong all marinating in micturate that I would have not been surprised to find a dead vertebrate of respectable size haunting the grime-stained bedding. I was delighted that he had managed to find a use for the spare cutlery and tableware we had in one of our kitchen cupboards.

Were I to roughly time my descent into madness I would say it fell cleanly between the moment I finally talked about it (post shower, burning and exfoliating enough I could have scalded skin syndrome-d my way through A&E) to the moment I called FRANK to understand what the fuck.

Or more precisely when the fuck. I mean I knew what had just happened and when it started - judging by the colour of the urine and the rough estimation of time it would have taken to grow that much biofilm - I had no problem explaining in frankly arsehole-ish detail to my woefully innocent doctor mother what everything was, how it came into being and why urine is the beverage of choice for the tweaker's tweaker.

No, what bothered me was when the fuck he might come back. Mostly because he still has the house keys. Oh that and the small inconvenience of his owing £1000 rent money.

So in about 9 hours, the locks on the doors will all be changed and I'll be calling to get rid of the pigpen that once was a bed.

I only feel sympathy when removed from the horror of tipping open cans of urine with a huge aerobic biofilm growth down the toilet. When I allow to fade the gag reflex I managed to pummel into submission. When I force myself to see it clinically.

But it's hard.

Because this didn't happen in a hospital. I wasn't handling the 'would you like some urine with that drug' of some stranger who could be a future patient should medical school feature in the afterlife.

This happened in my house, my home. Above my bedroom. Where I eat and sleep, study, entertain and live.

Through the hatred and disgust, I might file a missing person's report after looking up where we stand legally.