The kitten

He sings about the old familiar sting. Up till now, I haven’t forgotten how it feels. Last night’s splinter in my leg was a perfect reminder, and walking past a bike shop made me think of B.

The incompetence of this city got me home late. It’s bright now, and I don’t feel tired. I need to wear my hood to refrain from throwing biased and prejudiced rants and accusations at the British lifestyle and the Austrian accent and dialect. That close to throwing my mobile phone against the wall even though there were a couple of decent New Year’s wishes.

I forgot my cigarettes again – my Pall Mall menthol, €4,30. Do I look like I want to buy any in this country? – I don’t think so, either.

Maybe I should have listened to my dad and gone to America or Canada in 2002. I probably would have spared myself a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.

The more I think about it, the clearer it gets that I am only in love with the English language and nothing else.

When that Austrian prick tried to kiss me, I rejected him and said there was someone in my life. I don’t even know why I’d said that, as there is no one. I had B. in mind, but…

It took me a while to realize to whom I’m loyal, if not to myself. But it doesn’t make sense; nothing ever does.

Last night I realized who I am not. But I know who I would like to be. It’s like Oscar wishing he was Dorian, except he knew he was nothing more than Basil. Just Basil…

I guess my problem is my soberness. I love my reality. I’m just jealous of how a bunch of drunks achieves unison, and I’m the only one that seems to strike a discordant note in the middle of it. Of course, they are all so drunk that they only see me as a piece of arse, yet they think I belong to them.

Whatever people are nowadays, I always find myself being the complete opposite. I like it this way. The only question is whether they accept me or not. Not that I care anymore.

I am who I thought I was. I am not what I can’t be.

In fiction, I can be me and thousands of other things – a damselfly or a bumble-bee, breathe with tracheae and have Hank Chinaski save me from a spider when I’m caught in the web.

Why can I relate to writers who are alcoholics, drug and sex addicts even though none of those characteristics apply to me?

The secret is that I understand them. I am not like them at all, and yet, what connects me with these writers is the one technique that we use:

-Honesty (and indifference). But I do lie, by the way.

Lead me beneath the surface of your skin and keep me interested. Tell me more about your scar, and keep my ears peeled.

I might lick your scar.

We can talk about the weather in my next life when I’m a dog. According to my inexplicable loyalty, I had already been a dog in my previous life, and you were the kitten that I mauled.

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