yesterday i got so bored, i kept downing glasses of white wine, until i was too drunk to pour and started drinking from the bottle, getting all maudlin again, listening to sad songs, longing, achin’ to be, calling past lovers and old friends, i’m such a self-indulgent cunt, no fucking dignity, no pride, get a better job, stop shagging around, don’t hide, make eye contact, should have gotten a degree, should have been married by now, get a new haircut, seize the day, buy some new clothes, visit your mother, eat healthier, work out, stop reading those cynical novels, don’t listen to miserable morrissey, clean up your apartment, take care of your skin, dress smarter, don’t be so fucking scared, go out, be bold, be rash, be happy etc etc etc.
but i’m stuck here, in this body, in this bloody bedsit, in the grim supermarket under those cruel neon lights, in these warped ambitions, deluded visions of success and recognition, self-loathing to narcissism, always broke, still ugly, no friends, no masterplan, stuck in this class, all the working class caricatures parading in front of me, the unemployment, the boredom, the booze… they think it’s very clever to be cruel to me, my friends, my neighbours, these vicious streets, the ramshackle buildings; and although i read and write, i’m just as stuck as all these poor sods.
all the people in my life are men, and all the men in my life are pimps as well as johns as well as fathers as well as teachers as well as idols as well as idiots as well as rapists as well as employers.
the only man i trust is a coke-snorting, auto-mutilating boy with small hands, a girly voice and big brown eyes radiating innocence and vulnerability, he may as well have ‘kick me’ fastened on his sleeve.
his name is maff and despite his glass-eating, suicidal tendencies and his urge to get beaten up; he’s pure, he’s sweet, he’s a gem, he’s my island but he’s sinking; i want to save him, i could be saved by saving him, but the coke is great and his saviour all too weary and grey… i am weary and grey, but my body and mind are tingling, i’m about to burst, explode into joy? violence? genius? insanity? fire? water burn? drown?
look into my eyes, do they look dull to you? no, they fucking don’t… i’m buzzing, my heart’s racing, i’m liam gallagher, i’m on cloud nine, i’m fucking talented, i could be in love, i’ve got so much to offer. but where are my spectators? i need an audience, i crave for applause, a pat on my head… love me, oh please love me, and if you can’t love me, then at least notice me.
i want to be as smug, as handsome, as witty as my morrissey, only he isn’t mine, he’s just a picture on my wall, just a voice i listen to every bleeding day, just an idol; and if he knew how ugly i am, how i deliberately surround myself with ugliness, he’d scoff at me, he’d loathe me; but i love him all the same and i need to hear him longing and despairing. i feel so blissfully miserable right now, and somehow i know that i’m useless without my idols, i’m a fan, i’m a groupie, i’m a whore.
the retarded flemish cook came ’round again yesterday, i said i was willing to give him a blowjob if he’d pay me, and he agreed, so basically i’m a whore now, nothing new to me, only this is different cos the retard claims he loves me and i have to play along, and i ask myself why, though i try not to think about it; i’m shagging a retarded flemish cook with a pocket-sized head and a smelly crooked cock who drivels on my tits and arse and slides calloused fingers into my ever throbbing cunt, and why? so i can buy twenty cds by twenty obscure indie bands who mumble about cold-hearted women and cold war? so i can buy fancy lingerie that only old despicable perverts will wank over? so i can buy chocolate and cheese that i will binge-eat in an hour only to throw it all up again bah…
well it’s no surprise to me that chafik, my new best friend,the muslim fundamentalist, looks down on us; he only has to take one look at my life to realise renouncing the western world was the best move he’s ever made, ha ha, no really, i do feel ashamed and guilty, but i’m never gonna change my ways, tomorrow i’m sucking another anonymous cock and i’m getting paid, afterwards i’m going on a shopping spree, then in the evening while i’m getting drunk in this sleazy bedsit, i’ll listen to the smiths and i’ll feel so miserable, i could almost smile.
Delphine Lecompte has her father to thank for her French name (he hails from Lille). She was born on January 22, 1981 and raised in London where she lived with her grandparents. She is now an expat now as four years ago she met a Flemish singer/songwriter, they fell in love and she moved to his home country, dreary Belgium. They are no longer together. She stacks milk bottles for a living. Her work has been published in: Juked, Mad Swirl, Spoken War, Skive Magazine, The Raging Face, Scriberazone, Open Wide Magazine, and Bullet Magazine. She has also recently become a regular columnist for Zygote in my Coffee and Thieves Jargon.