significent postage accomplished. time to actually write something maybe? see ya later.
beach break was a laugh. and a drunken mess. even though i was working. oops.
too much dashboard confessional is not good for the soul.
kiss the stars before they burn,
follow their scent to your small heaven,
and i don’t know who i am,
why i’m here,
imagine a world as a story in a picturebook,
without a clue which way to look,
which way to see,
maybe i am forever damned to miss you.
hands down.
reach down.
your kiss might kill me.
iphone train station rambles
at the train station i always pull out my iphone and write utter crap in the notes, stuff thats pretentious bullshit that sounds good and beautiful at the time but then i read it back and I’m like, what the fuck was I on? was I high? Do I think I’m fucking Keats or something?
But I’m still going to post them here, for your entertainment, so you can see me at my utter bored and shit states of life. I call them ‘a series of iphone train station rambles’ and you can find them under the ‘iphone rambles’ tag in my blog.
enjoy.
Can’t Smoke in Here Sir!
Demonic eyes shone at me under his glasses. I chocked. Who was he? Why was he here? What did he want? I stared, just briefly at the small envelope in his hand.
“What’s that?” I asked him, smelling the garlic and cigarette on his breath.
Why don’t you ever brush your teeth sir?
“It’s a letter from your mother. She says you have been complaining about me, Arthur.” His voice dripped with malice. If there was anything about Mr. Meredith, you should know before you met him, it was that he hated being complained about. His ego had a life of its own. I sometimes wondered if he had to feed it, and if he did, what did he feed it? The hearts of small children maybe? It wouldn’t surprise me.
Ever considered people complain about you because you are creepy sir? I saw the way you looked at Sarah Collins the day she came to school in that skirt, and why is it you always make the girls sit in the front row?
His mouth curled into a snarl. He was waiting for a reply. His face made me imagine a panther, waiting to pounce on his prey, his thick greasy black hair breezing slightly in the wind.
Or maybe he was a beetle, squirming his way around me, trying to get under my skin.
“I really don’t know what she could mean sir?”
“Oh, so she made it up then did she boy?”
My mother was so dead. It was funny how mothers felt they always had to get involved with their son’s problems, especially when it came to school. Why didn’t she understand that all I really cared about was what scent perfume Ellie Littleton was wearing to school that day.
“Probably, she is a crazy bitch that one. I tried to get Dad to take her to the loony bin but he seems to like having her around. Go figure.”
I grinned as I watched his eyes bulge and his face go the colour of beetroot. He heaved a deep sigh and his hand started to shake. He reached towards the pocket he kept his cigarettes in and his hand dropped.
Can’t smoke in here sir.
He’d have to dismiss me if he wanted a cigarette and just that knowledge made me feel like I had won. A cocky grin appeared on my face. I was certain there was nothing he could say.
“Stop swearing boy. Don’t you dare call your mother names like that in my presence.”
It’s times like this I wonder why I am not famous or something. Why I don’t have a comedy sketch show, or my name in lights. I’m a bloody genius. Everyone calls me an arrogant bastard. It’s probably true, but at least I’m happy enough to admit it.
“Why not? She calls you a dickhead in my presence.”
“In my day, you’d get a smack for that kind of language.”
“In your day we also didn’t have electricity and you had to lean out of a window and shout if you wanted to contact anyone.”
I swear I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“Arthur Langdon. You will go straight to the headteacher’s office this instant.”
“It would be a pleasure. Only, could you point me in the right direction? I’ve never been there before you see.”
The thing about torturing that teacher you don’t like though, by the end, he is still an authority figure. Especially Mr Meredith, you see, it turned out he was the one who was wrote our UCAS references. Needless to say I was regretted from all my top university choices. I’m 53. Living alone. Unemployed. Everything comes back to bite you in the bum some day.
