How are you? We haven’t spoken in ages, well not since we had that chat about you never EVER falling in love with ANYONE. EVER again. EVER. Remember? It must be at least a year ago. Anyway I just wanted to see how you were doing and if you still meant what you said. You see, I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now. I know I lied to you and nodded and said all the things you wanted to hear but I was trying to protect you. I get why you said it. Your heart was in the bin. That tiiiiny bin you keep next to the sink with shitty food waste in .. that gets crammed to the top daily, that starts to stink but you can’t be arsed to empty it and you’re doing your bit for the planet so .. sue me. You? Me? Whatever.
I heard that you officially registered yourself as ‘Dead Inside’. Do you get free parking? Clever to diagnose yourself with an ailment nobody can suggest a cure for. Sore throat. Have you gargled? Bad back. Have you taken Ibubrofen? Jetlag. DON’T go to sleep yet. The only two things that can’t be offered a cure are a broken toe and Dead Inside. Good choice. Especially if the diagnosis is delivered with a smile and on occasion, a laugh. How are you? Dead inside. Ha ha ha ha haaaa. HA! There is normally a welcomed silence where you congratulate yourself for not having to discuss possible cures. Because you don’t want one. Vou have signed the form and that’s that. Sent it in registered post. Boom.
So I was told some good things happened. Moved back home to your wonderful friends. Got an incredible job. Regained your independence. Shame you couldn’t enjoy it without a constant glass of wine in your hand and sobbing at random. God forbid you felt something. Dead. Inside. No joy from anything. Apart from maybe your seven year old niece whose innocence and love for you raised a smile and a sense of her future having limitless opportunities. A feeling of love and overwhelming pride. For her. But not you. Replace the joy with melancholy? Oh Ok. You’re still childless. Probably always will be. Yeah go on, a healthy dose of overthinking never hurt anyone. Go oooon. Have another glass while you do it.
So to the cause. She left. Again. They always leave. (Except the times you left. Remember? Yeah, you do but it’s not important now.) Hurt, dissappointment, shame. Passed your best. Your last shot. Gone. Broken. Can’t repair it. Don’t want to. Done. See ya. Booked it packed it fucked off. Bye. Adios. Dead inside. That’s obviously the short version.
So here we are. A year later. Did you have a party to celebrate? A couple of bottles instead of one? No? You didn’t? You acknowledged it but just carried on? That’s amazing. Well done you.
So corne on big bollocks. Where are you at now. I know you have recently felt something. For someone. I felt it too. Don’t fight it. It doesn’t need to be in next week’s Bella or Chat, it can just be. Without projection or expectation. Like an avocado left in the fridge. Sometimes they go a bit brown. Are you gonna throw it out before it does? No. Course you’re not. Because you my friend are me. And I would never let a good anything go to waste without trying.
Message me back. I know you’ve read this. Fucking Whatssap. Xxx