Thursday, September 14, 2006
It's the old routine.
Falling to work in the morning there is a tasty pile of orange sun baked vomit on the pavement. Birds have already done away with anything nutritious. I lift up my knee-length skirt just in case it drags through. Nice. Someone had a not-so-very good time last night. I nearly drive myself into a wall. Can almost feel my cheek scraping down the rough red bricks. Can I fit into the seam between the pavement and the buildings I wonder? It looks so comfy to be lying face down with my nose pointing into the 90-degree shape. Maybe I’d disappear. Become a rubbish bag. Maybe I could poke my fingers out like bits of chicken bone for foxes to chew on. Or I could live in a drain for a few days. I want to pour myself into the gutter and down through the cast iron grates. Throw the smoking fag butts back out at passers by. Tiny children flash brightly past me like tiny race cars cutting me up on corners. I’m getting my tubes cut. Don’t shout like that. My warm morning bath is still pulling my skin; I didn’t give her enough time this morning. I’m depriving her of my body. I’m sorry Miss Bath I will buy a herbal bath soak thing and together we will make soapy love for hours on the weekend. Folk smile past on electric scooters. Give my best half-arsed grin and notice the luridly coloured tat in charity shop window. My reflection always disappoints me in the morning.
¶ 7:25 pm 
