The XX: Night Time (Pt.3)

Last time I used this title for a post I had a thing going with a transvestite.

A not so long time ago.

Times change, things happen, experiences gleaned, experiences which make me smile.

Can’t even remember her name.

She was well into me or so I made myself believe.

Nevermind.

I liked her.

…

Anyway.

Now.

…

Now.

Each night, for the last 6 months, I could sleep in this, my, double-bed, alone, in this, my amazing house, alone, in this, my perfect bliss, alone, perfectly knowing that she will be there on the other end of the mobile.

If I wanted her.

Sometimes joined by her little boy.

Whom I adored.

Always there for me.

Both.

Always pleasant, always welcoming (if I wanted to take a taxi to hers)

…

But not anymore.

…

Her things that used to hate me.

My things that used to hate her.

…

She is still hating.

I’m still hating.

…

Time to move on, V M Husten.

…

Not this kind of sex you want to have, she said.

Simply because of the porn sites you have been watching, she said.

Don’t make me do what you are watching, she said.

It’s not cool, she said.

…

Time for confession, V M Husten is saying.

…

I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives and now it’s happening in mine.

…

I used to be able to write a decent post once.

Not even so long ago.

But now I am just shit.

And I don’t know why.

see: http://vmhusten.wordpress.com/2008/09/24/the-smiths-that-joke-isnt-funny-anymore-pt2/

Why can’t I write like this anymore?

…

It’s happening in my, V M Husten is saying.

…

I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives

And now it’s happening in mine

Happening in mine

Happening in mine

Happening in mine

Happening in mine

Boards Of Canada: Dayvan Cowboy (Pt.3)

There is nothing like wine.

To make you feel better.

Get over another failed relationship.

There is nothing like wine.

To intensely reminiscent good times.

…

Frances made a couple of good points.

She said I was trying to avoid to talk about my work but ended up talking just about me instead.

She said I started a lot of my sentences with I.

She said it was because I could be insecure.

She said I hardly ever started a sentence with I when I had been drinking.

She said I was the funniest, most generous, most deep person she had ever met.

Under the influence of alcohol.

When sober, she said, I was too complicated and she didn’t want to go there.

Frances liked me.

I liked Frances.

She said I had issues.

She said work was one of them.

She said Milena was another.

She said she couldn’t understand why I was so different after a couple of glasses of wine.

She said my sobriety was a massive turn-off.

She said she tried and tried to understand.

But when I was not engaging anymore, when I thought too much about the money I was earning, she simply logged off.

She also said that she was impressed at first how much love and attention I gave her son, her little boy.

She said that after a while and let’s be honest here, you gave him more attention than you did to me.

She said she didn’t understand why I was shielding her from my colleagues and friends.

She said she knew I wasn’t embarrassed about her being a single mother, she just couldn’t understand why.

She said those words.

She said those sentences.

With that calm, sweet voice of her.

Never shouted, never talked at me.

She just said them.

…

I said nothing, other than to tell her to fuck off.

Just loved her more.

Will miss her more.

…

Our relationship was the Chronicle of a Death Foretold.

Doomed.

From the beginning.

…

Frances liked me.

I liked Frances.

…

Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

One of these writers that some godforsaken, failed university, academic arsehole, dr, drs, professor decided to put on a reading list that 16-18 year old pupils should read.

And we read.

I read.

And here I am, looking for a comparison, a reference point, a simile and I come up with this awful Marquez guy?

Not doing you much favours here, luv, now do I?

…

Never met a guy who liked “Cornflake Girl”, you said.

It’s a girlie song, you said.

“You bet your life it is”, I said.

You laughed so hard when I was dancing naked on the bed clutching a biro singing the lyrics, making my dick swing, expressionistly.

Another word I invented, I said.

Sure, you said.

You know, like the painters, I said.

…

Keep on swinging your small dick about, she said, with a massive smile, drinking one of those awful alcoholic, lemonady, sugary, breezer drinks from a straw, gorgeous cheeks, with gorgeous lips, sucking, gorgeous eyebrows, gorgeous eyes, sucking, gorgeous nose, sucking, gorgeous face, gorgeous personality, gorgeous outlook on life, sucking.

…

hmmm.

…

Frances was class.

Frances is class.

…

There is nothing like wine.

To make you feel better.

Get over another failed relationship.

There is nothing like wine.

To intensely reminiscent good times.

Boards Of Canada: Dayvan Cowboy (Pt.2)

Why do you do a job you hate so much, she asked.

Why don’t you mind your own business, I thought.

But never said.

…

Why don’t you give me a nice blow-job, I asked.

But shouldn’t have asked.

Why is he not liking my blow-jobs, I knew she wanted me to ask.

…

Just shut up.

And be pretty.

It’s because of you I stopped writing.

And my job.

…

Frances: What is there for me to like about you anymore?

Husten: I go down on you like you have never …

F: Don’t make fun …

H: Just shut the fuck up and go …

…

No doubt.

After that.

Another couple of years of being single.

Welcome to my life.

…

I liked Frances.

A lot.

An almighty lot.

Hence.

Probably.

Why I have been so silent on Fall On Me for so long.

She was worth it.

She was class.

…

I was as well.

Class.

…

No feeling sorry for myself.

Just.

Maybe.

Even.

If.

My dick had been 5 cm longer…

…

As with all my girlfriends.

I liked her.

Enormously.

Couldn’t say a bad word about her.

…

(the summary of a break-up)

and

(explanation of)

(my silence)

On.

Fall On Me.

…

I feel old.

And lonely.

But.

I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Rather.

Relieved.

…

I guess.

I am just saying that to myself.

Grant Hart: All Of My Senses

Hmmm.

It has been a while.

It’s because I’m using.

A lot.

Not drugs.

Don’t worry.

…

Just.

Using.

None of my senses.

It’s what work.

Does to you.

…

Using.

None of my senses.

—

Still alive.

—

Just.

Without of my senses.

—

Happy to be writing again.

—

I’m using.

I’m using.

None.

All of my senses.

…

I am so happy.

(to be writing again)

…

I am using.

(gonna have to learn)

Again.

…

(to use all of my senses)

Again.

…

To write.

Again.

(but I am so happy)

…

All of my senses