For people who kill themselves

July 07 2015

I was falling asleep on the train coming back from Victoria which seemed to humour two dudes sitting opposite. So I layed dog eye for a bit, slowly filling my lungs then screamed as loud as I could. Everybody on the train jumped and it frightened those two so much that a part of them may never recover.

Before that I was seeing Flo off the couch terminal and she bought me a flapjack. I had been looking at her in awe, wondering if she was real. How did she know I love flapjacks? Seeing as I’d known real happiness I figured it would be the last time I’d see her before she died in a bus crash.

She was hopping, so it didn’t feel right to look deep in her eyes but I made her promise she wouldn’t die. And seriously why we won’t be together forever? Unless the bus crashes or I die of strangeness because I’m way older and live a double life around snack stands.


I came home and ate a litre of cheap ice cream which I had to hide from my housemates who hate Nestle. It was so bland I had to put 3 bananas in it and heaps of Flo’s honey which I’ve been banned from touching. Then I ate the chocolate which I found hidden at the very back of the cupboard from me.

I sat ashamed on my laptop and played with the cat as Finn clanged around with a mop and bucket on her morning off. Then Jack woke up full of phlegm and left a puddle of tea on the clean floor.

I went into his room while he was away in Barcelona. It was a shocking mess, a bulging black bin liner being circled by winged insects. Finn and Flo had been in there and cleaned it for him, which was most kind considering he’s a brat and refuses to wash his own dishes. While they were in there Finn called out to me to come look. The room looked fantastic and they’d written him a poem. Finn guided my attention over towards the shelf where standing upright stood both of Jack’s rubber dildo’s. With a cheeky smirk she pointed closer to the smaller one which seemed to bear some remains with hair stuck in it.

Jack and I weren’t talking. He’s a pig and I’m not paying rent. When I went into his room to retrieve my shorts, I found myself sympathetic and intrigued. This was his first time living away from home and he’d obviously had no domestic responsibilities before.

For a gay kid growing up in Essex I assume the only way to survive was to become efficient at devaluing criticism. Problem is he applies it to things he doesn’t understand or hold importance to. He got smacked out the another night by some guy in a Peckham fast fued and you have to give it to him old Jasper, he’s good at getting under your skin. They did call him chubby however.

I saw almost our entire collection of bath towels on the floor, empty booze cans, all sorts of grime and debri, evidence of independant sexual activity, scattered change, his drawings on the wall – one which looked a fine piece of draftsmanship done without lifting the pencil from the page.

He complains about being the only single person in a house of eight and at least was, spending a lot of time on grinder. Since I’ve known him, his increasing sexual exploration has entertained my own curiosity, his frankness around homosexuality is refreshing since it’s not typical of my upbringing.

He came into our room the other night and woke us up crying and saying he didn’t want to drink anymore, then denied it the next morning.

There’s no denying the allure of a self destructive person, but it’s a lot less irritating from a distance and when you don’t have to wash his frypan just to cook.








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  1. July 8, 2015

    Reblogged this on Recked with Finn West.

  2. Estela #
    July 7, 2015

    Nicely written, Chris!!!! Writing gets better and better. Look at your Facebook I sent you a youtube vid. My best to you and Flo. I am so glad you take the opportunity to tell her how beautiful she is!!!! A lovely, lovely act and characteristic.

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