Annoyed Emoji

I had so much energy. I laughed more than I have ever done for a while. Drank more than I intended. Alcohol is a wickedly clever master at releasing your inhibitions. It’s chemical mix with my already sensitive brain chemistry revealed a: chatty, laughing, narcissist. Any social anxiety that was present, left. My eloquence was piqued. I was quietly arrogant. Didn’t care about being the odd one out. Didn’t care about my lack of intellect. I lost all of my cynicism; my frosted glass defence mechanism where I allow you to only see me superficially. I felt naked. Strangely however, I didn’t care about the size of my ego. I didn’t mind being in the beige, although I wasn’t comfortable. I could dim my extraversion enough to be present. But, not centre stage. I could let my clothes do the talking. Granting translucent backstage access, enough to see my substance runs clothes deep. Enough to persuade you I am as vain as I look. I thought: my disguise is working well.

Perception is a funny little old observation. Everybody’s perspective is unique; even if the colours align, the drawn picture is never the same. It’s like: your social fingerprints. You can change drawing technique but the strokes in the graphite remain the same. Perception, you intrigued me. Pique at my thoughts, made my skin tingle.

I thought about you so hard, my head was pounding to the rhythm of my heart beat. I dreamt about you. Made love to you. I kissed you, caressed you, cared for you, infatuated by you; all in front of my suspicious partner. You made it exciting! I threw us a private party behind the stage curtain. I anticipated the taste of you. The aniseed liquorish is tart on my tongue, turning my mouth and teeth black. The alcohol warming chest, irritating my tonsils. I want your black tar to coat my skin sticky. I needed to know what you smelt like. Urgh! I was giddy at the thought! Run, click my heels, trip and scrape my knuckles against the wood. I’d leave everything behind, leave the theatre doors open and runaway with you. Runaway into the dark. I knew I couldn’t come back. The stage production can only be done by me. The lighting kept on by me. I am the only director of this show. Funded by serotonin, in paid partnership with Lamotrigine. But the tempting, permanent escape. That! That feels and looks like freedom! Like: emancipation; the thing my ancestors were dying for; dying for me to have. And all of that became easier. You gave me the adrenaline to fly. I hate flying, but for you, I was weak under your spell. Strong and courageous enough to make the journey. You don’t even have to say the words; I’m ready.

I’m struggling; I thought I had it under control. Like I taught it manners and rules. Developed a new sense of resilience. I felt great for months. My volatility, reduced. Neither manic, nor depressed. There was a mew level: happy blissfully ok. Every, single, one of my fortunes however, punched my gut. I did rounds with Mike Tyson. I, representing the blue corner of … He, representing the red corner of destruction. Mike, paced towards the centre of the ring, BAM! The uppercut of: job “security”. The blow to the ribs of: income. The head butt of: home ownership. The left hook of: vacations. My eye is so swollen, I can’t see the successes of my life hurdling towards me. The cut stings, turning my vision red. I have a fat lip, I cannot enunciate my words. I rest my head on Tyson’s shoulders, exhausted. My breathing becomes laboured. I fall to my knees, trembling hoping the referee calls time on this match. I don’t hear the bell ring, though. This makes me anxious anticipating another punch. But it doesn’t come. I can’t feel the slick sweat laden skin of my opponent sliding against mine. I don’t feel his hot breath or spray of saliva spew from his mouth guard. My sweat pours on the ring’s canvas. I can hear my heart in my head. I can see black spots twinkle like stars I’m the night sky. Hear things I don’t like. Smell things that make want vomit. My vision is fading. I’m scared of the dark; please, I’m not ready yet. If I follow you, I can’t come back. I’d rather be trapped in the pain than in a place of nothingness.

“You’re a coward”.

“No-one gives a fuck about you”.

“No-one cares”.

“Stay on the floor. No-one will even waste their piss on you. And why should they?”.