Baby I've changed, please come home

I am clumsy. My hands shake. I lack fine motor-control when it comes to using my flippers at the best of times, and I've always had a problem with bras. Some guys, they can be drunk, they can be high as a satellite – as bent and fucked up as two refugee converging parallel lines from the trans-euclidian horrors of dimension X, they could be a goddamn quadruple amputee and still have more luck with bras than I do.

Generally I throw my hands up in frustration. Just... can you? Would you? Do you mind? Do it. Just do it for me baby. Oh yeah. That's the stuff. Yesssss.... yessss.... ok... ok... ok!, less! motherfucker! less teeth! Sweet jesus I'm bleeding like a fire hose.

Upon proper thought & considerable genuflection, this has been a very strange time for me. Breaking up with Erin, moving to Auckland, new job, new drugs, possibilities opening up like cracks in the shell of the earth, universe spreading her thighs like some coy wet schoolgirl, everything, everyone gone mad and crazy and senseless and sensual, the stench of sex and raw ink.

I managed to cut my drinking back to “not everyday”, which I guess is some improvement.

I tried to not let it affect me, the effects get to me, I wanted to become a hot pan full of oil, and let you be the water. Let you splutter over me, fizzle over me, burn and evaporate over me, and I remain steady, a constant temperature. a self-sufficient variable of independent means.

So yesterday I asked Erin what the chance of us getting back together was.

Slim to nil on a good day.

I am a horrible, terrible person. What with Lucy and all. And liking her. But yet still holding a candle... terrible. But I had to *know*, it was eating at me, it was nibbling at my intestines, gnawing at my guts, tearing chunks from both hemispheres.

I guess now I can move on. Hopefully.

- - -

Drinking heavily, that sounds like the ticket.