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I'll Be There For You, For £100 Grand A Show - Quantity Over Quality
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Monday, December 20th, 2010 11:45 pm
I'll Be There For You, For £100 Grand A Show

I've lost a lot of friends this year.

Some I jettisoned knowingly, realising there was no room for compromise and less for feeling undermined at every juncture, others I've let drift, realising we've grown apart, and some, well, some I just can't tie down.

The old adage (or possibly song lyric or truism or fridge magnet, they all amount to the same thing, surely: words that through repetition undo every chance of original thought you've got), if you love them, let them go, is supposed to be a one time thing. You're not supposed to have to do that twice. You're not supposed to even have the chance.

So I'm sat here. Feeling guilty. Knowing that all the growing I spent five years doing: all the grief and petulance (God knows you've all been exposed to that) and the fvcking (metaphysical included [and I don't mean cybersex]) and the anger and the Goddamn relationships were a waste of time: I'm still as juvenile as ever. What was it someone called me on The Forum once? Puerile? (That phrasing was a bit Romanesque, apologies: Semper Bufo).

So I'm a child. And the worst of crimes in my head (let's take the legal ones out of the equation) is to declare your faults aloud and then say, "But that's just me." But. But what if this is just me? What if I'm a fool for life? And not one of those witty, erudite fools with their own sketch show and a gym membership they don't use, but one of those actual fools who shouldn't have survived this long and it's only the modern fad for extensive carpeting which has saved her.

The only thing that makes me think I have at least some OK brain smarts is I have such lovely friends (they were worth whittling down after all I guess) who in their presence in my life reassure me I'm not getting it entirely wrong. This blog is all about my selfish head and my selfish life, but it's dedicated to all those who have told me when my skirt is tucked into my pants, the people who fetch paper towels from the bar when I spill my pint, the people who laugh at my stupid jokes (as well as my clever, well-thought out ones) and the people who even when I've neglected their company for months greet me in the pub with a warm smile and an ancedote they've saved up for me about zombies.

And those people should be the ones I write about. Not the ones who abandon me at my darkest hour. Not the ones who somehow lead me into that darkest hour. Not the ones who make my life like some gut-wrenching, missed chance in some mawkish Ian McEwan novel (they ARE mawkish: they just have covers that make men feel it's alright to be seen reading them on the bus).

So here I am, feeling like I'm on a bike going downhill with the chain just come off, wondering which poor friend is going to pick up the pieces when I hit the curb at the bottom, while distraught that once again, no one saw which friend gave* me the bike in the first place.

*Simile-cum-metaphor falls apart at this precise point. Which is bizarrely at exactly the same point as I do.

2CommentReplyShare

nudejournal
nudejournal
The Nude
Tuesday, December 21st, 2010 03:53 pm (UTC)

I've lost a lot of friends this year.

And yet you still have me. 0wned.


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jalirious
jalirious
Second Prize
Tuesday, December 21st, 2010 10:58 pm (UTC)

Haven't been on here for a few years. I forget who you are, but that was an interesting read. I hope your future bike analogies allude to sunny days, wind swept laughter, etc.


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