A writer is one of those people infinitely more at ease talking to themselves rather than having a conversation with a separate, breathing – breeding – individual.
With that in mind (subtext included), I’d like to begin.
People say that I have been talking to myself for years. I take that as a compliment, as, to my mind (and what other is important?), no one listens to each other anyway. Certainly no one has listened to me for years. Probably not since the last time a white-coated stethoscope smeared K-Y over my mother’s swollen abdomen and cooed, ah, that’s the heart beating. Do you want to know what sex it is?
Do I want to know what sex I am? Yes please. Do tell, stethoscope. How else shall I be orientated within adult society in the years to come? Please teach my parents how to make me behave, give them the manual on indoctrinating the young who are too mute and too trusting to be able to in turn tell them where to shove their pamphlets of social guidance. Right up their arses, yes please!
I never liked my mother, much. My father was terribly sick when I was born, dying by the time I was two, and long gone before my fourth birthday. But I knew him, even at that young age. He was a cunt. Not literally or physically, of course – but still, morally, a cunt. Just as he was only morally dead by the time I was four, but that’s enough for me. I don’t see much of either of them any more, not unless I really have to.
So – there are two balls of Plasticine sitting on my desk. No, let’s contemporise – Blu-Tack. Anyway, one of them sits up, looks around, sees the edge of the desk. Ay up, he says, I wonder what’s beyond that? Then he sits back down again and goes back to sleep. Then the other one sits up, looks around, sees the edge of the desk, that cut-off point hewn so neatly in the air. He also wonders, hmm, what could be beyond that line? And he sits up a bit further, rolls himself a pair of legs out of his malleable stuff, and gets determinedly on to his new feet. He stands on his still-warm tippee-toes and cranes his little neck, but no, he still can’t see what’s beyond that line. So he sends himself on his newly-formed legs over to the edge of the desk, and he throws himself off.
Meanwhile, the first ball of ‘Tack has been watching this inquisitive vista with an occult eye. Now he sits himself up and fashions himself two oh-so-similar legs of his very own, and walks over to the edge. He looks down. Down at the way way down drop, down to the smooshed glob of ‘Tack below. They were once both the same ball of Blu-Tack, those two. And he says to himself, I shall not be so stupid.
And in ones and twos, by trial and often tragic error, in mud, in clay, in Plasticine and Blu-Tack, we find ourselves, the non-smooshed ones, alive by default and wondering why –
Shut up, mom!
She’s yelling again. Not enough for me to have moved into the attic room, those tar-encrusted lungs can still force her screeching voice sufficiently up two flights of stairs to torment and abuse my disinterested eardrums. One day, the vibrations of her vocal efforts are going to lift the layers of tar right off her lungs and up her throat and choke her to death. That day, it’ll be one down, one to go. No, not even one. Half. Morally dead, remember? And, always, a cunt.


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