A Sad Affair

Apparently it's Friday, and it's a damp day today, sunlight intermittent on the horizon, a swell of sea mist ebbing up my road.
I am restless, feeling heartless, but that probably just means I'm feeling too much of something I don't want to, and so it turns around into nothing at all, except a quiet sense of outrage. The worst kind.

I vowed as usual to stay off this damn computer tonight, coming down, as it feels I am, with some strain of cold. And I am far from full of grace, resenting, a slight taste of malice in my mouth. I feel miserly and miserable, calculatedly fucked off with the whole caboodle, though I can't quite tell what that caboodle exactly is.

Tonight I want to be to be a raging child, telling you all what I think of you, whoever you are, slamming doors, stamping my foot until it hurts all the way up through my shocking little body. I want to jump up and down, and if anyone dares tell me, "go ahead then" in a therapeutic kind of way, I'll knee them in the bollocks, or if they don't have bollocks, some other suitably soft and tender part of their anatomy. I also want sex. Not the kind that filters through my entire body like sunlight through the droplets of rain on an open glass window. No. I want the kind that is like an engine charging up, where you can hear the revs as he turns the handlebars again and again. Vroom vroom. I want hot steel on tarmac sex, burning rubber with no trail left behind in the distance. The kind that hurts my head, and makes laughter come demonic from our throats, the kind that is acute fever.

But enough of what is elsewhere. I realise the symptoms. That desire to wear a tight red dress, one size too small, slightly vulgar. The dark sideways glance I give at nothing in particular across the room, reflected in my mirror. That longing for anything illicit, anything with the word 'Affair' in it, for anything that burns deep and scarring. That mild hatred of humanity, the simultaneous loathing and utter desire for MEN.

It's hormone time, it's a blood red moon filling up on death and chaos time. It's a particular place in my cycle where the devils come out to play, and wreak havoc on decency and upstanding citizenship. It's 'leave me the fuck alone unless it's to play The Stooges top volume non stop till collapse, or read Baudelaire until we drown in a jagged union of sorts, burned up on all manner of death and fire' kind of time. Shit.

Not the kind of time you want to be caught at your computer, alone, 9.53 at night, dressed in a green woolly jumper, the nearest dionysiac pleasure at hand being Roget's Thesaurus and a bar of raspberry chocolate. The edges of the walls are too polite and my neighbours won't appreciate the screaming. So what do I do?

I must send out a search party to the wanton overlords to save me, from my pink spotted curtains, from the tedium of pleasantry. Come on, I'm waiting.

And oh, it's Thursday.