What kinda person does this?

What kinda person spilts up with a woman they would happily have kids with and laugh with for the rest of his life because he doesn’t like her complexion and the way she smells?

What kind of person feels worthless?

What is worth?

Well, it’s the kind of person that wakes up at six thirty in the morning and wanks to images in his mind of a girl from the night before. A girl so drunk her knickers were constantly on show, bending over the pool table, being taken to the toilets by her mates and given a conversation I can only imagine held the words pull yourself together. The type of girl who dyes her hair and gets men-old lecherous men- to buy her drinks and doesn’t understand words that form a perfectly reasonable sentence. It’s all grunts and innuendo and laughs and waheys. pool cues and pints. This girl that was left to her own devices.

It’s the type of person who wakes up and thinks about those navy blue and white striped knickers and wanks himself almost to orgasm then stops. Gets out of bed. Goes for a piss and thinks about the girl he loves and what he’s done.

What type of person buys a bottle of the cheapest whiskey in the off licence, a two litre bottle of ginger beer and a king size bag of cheese puffs?

It’s the same type of person who forgets to buy small blue rizlas, who hangs around the cold meat section of the express sainsbury’s and goes home to realise he has no rizlas. The type of person who doesn’t buy any cold meats for the bread he has at home because the fat security guard was eyeing his beard since the moment he walked in the air conditioned, brightly lit pocket of late night consumerism that straddles the wasteland around the train station.

It’s the type of person who gets home, looks at his baccy, opens his baccy, realises the lack of Rizlas and goes out to the all night Tescos just around the corner from the Sainsburys and buys reduced pate because it’s reduced- fifty four pence, about the same as a Mars Bar except its minced meats and goes well on bread. Glad he didn’t pick up the cold meats when at the counter asking, yeah, some small blue Rizlas too.

What kind of person is this?

The type of person who looks back on their past and remembers Isla McKerry’s tits all soaped up as he walks out of Mr Jones’ room- she screams and ducks beneath the bubbles as this boy blushes and rushes down the corridor, down the stairs and can’t wait to tell the other boys he’s seen Isla McKerry’s tits. He sees more than that later- but who knows who is laughing- it’s like something went wrong but the images won’t biuge- the scenery is stuck and won’t come loose and the people behind are sniggering, they must not have oiled the joints right. It’s just a suggestion. maybe nothing happened behind this point. The past is just that.

What knd of person thinks like that about the life they have led? Can’t hold onto the past because what proof do you have?

What kind of person?

Well it’s the type of person with scars on his wrist. White, ugly scars straighter than any ruler, straight as pain, straight as a scream in the dark when no one is listening and you hope.

What type of person is this?

You tell me and each voice that raises in answer will be different in content and tone.

What kind of person imagines dead people on every street corner when they are six years old, maybe younger, maybe older, but definitely not ten- by then this person is at boarding school repressing memories and kissing Simone Walker behind the changing rooms, drawing pictures of men with no heads and chainsaws for arms. This person with his fantasies of dead men on every corner because his mum lets him read the backs of video cassettes as she shops for the cheapest bread, the cheapest jam, the cheapest milk that may or not not have seen a cow- we have no proof except what we are told. This boy who watches cartoons full of toys he will never own. Every Christmas is a disappointment, a way to look at what his brother has and wish for that even if he got exactly what he wanted.

What kind of person thinks about killing themselves everyday?

What kind of person doesn’t kill themselves when they tell themselves they hate the world so much?

Is that person a liar?

It’s Ketamine in large doses put up the nose to stop the heartbeat. It’s finding an unshaven homeless man and asking him where to get the heroine- you have the needle, you havee the syringe, the spoon, the bile, the copy of naked lunch and watched Trainspotting enough times to have memorised the montage. It’s buildings and sky diving- but that will never happen- it looks like it hurts too much- there has to be a painless way of doing this.

What kind of person prays for brain tumours and lung cancer- lumps in their testicles because that way everyone expects you to not care- to hate and feel revulsion and betrayal with each breath- they accept you may be pissed off. What kind of person wishes that on themselves? What kind of person wants to justify their own inadequacy with a terminal disease that will let others feel sympathy? Who wants sympathy for just being alive? What kind of person is that?

What kind of person won’t smoke weed because of a promise made to not do it for a year? A promise made to themselves? What kind of person buys the cheapest whiskey in the store instead? Are the cheese puffs going to soak that up? The reduced pate? We’ll see.

What kind of person thinks what is the point? Have you ever thought that? how often? And what was your answer- truthfully? Have you ever thought about it? Are you the type of person who wonders what the fuck this whole world is for?

What kind of person thinks they are merely an animal trapped in a cage that offers them cappuccinos and freeze dried goods, salami and eggs and rice and chicken and ten types of smoothie all lined up on the same shelf? What kind of person thinks this is normal, that it is natural to have large metal boxes full of concoction upon concoction, five types of olive, sundried tomatoes and dried herring and bunches of bananas and chocolate peanuts?

What type of person has never killed an animal to eat meat?

What type of person finds their friends on their doorstep with a cat in a bag? Fourteen years old and the bag is writhing like a living thing but without the sound effects. There are grins on the faces of the captors and no one is happier than me- until the plan starts to unfold and the bag is taken to a bit of wasteland next to an old folks a home and the reality begins to set in as you watch. What kind of person watches? What kind of person looks on in horror and disgust as the cat is kept in the bag and beaten and beaten and beaten, listening to the wood snap bones and make noises that shouldn’t be heard beyond a cinema screen- that should never be heard but entertainment is entertainment and there were thousands at the coliseums. What kind of person punches their friends and tries to let the cat escape when it is too late? What kind of person feels responsible for that, for making it quicker, for making it end?

It’s the kind of person who mixes ginger beer and cheese puffs after eating pate and creamed cheeses sandwiches without sitting down. It’s the kind of person who lives in bedsit- one bed, one desk, one sink and two hobs where only one gets used because it only takes one pan to boil rice, the same pan you fry the onions, celery, peppers and whatever veg was cheap in Lidle.

What kind of person gives up a promising career in to live in a single room and recite poetry to crowds made up of people who are less listening than reciting their own poetry, their own lives inside their head? What kind of person gives up twenty five grand a year to buy the cheapest whiskey in the store and split up from the woman they love because of her bad complexion?

It’s the type of person who recites the same poem a hundred times to the same walls until it sticks in his head and echoes inside his skull so he’ll never forget the words that got him here. To become this type of person, the type who questions who they are and why.

What kind of person is this?

What kind of person stabs at the keys on a ten year old laptop to the point where the spacebar hardly works and the keys that aren’t loose slip and cause the sentences to fumble into half grasps at truth, the only honest tool of a wayward victim of his own need to pass time and feel loved?

Who wants to feel love? What kind of person is that? I don’t know, but I choose to carry on trying to find out, at least for now, at least until you run out of words to read.

What kind of person addresses an imaginary reader directly?

Well, I’m talking to you, this is my letter to people I don’t know. I don’t know you and you barely know me, so far, but by the end of this you may and you may find that I’m just another soul lost on the road or just lost or just here, trying to gather attention while I can with each mispressed key, each unheard line that I repeat to myself over and over in these four walls.

What kind of person is this?

What kind of person looks in the mirror and likes what he sees?

I learned a long time ago thar I could not change my face, only time would do that and I did not realise the extent when I had this epiphany, when I realised that though I could not change my face I could change my body. I could lift weights, go for runs, eat well and swim and ride bikes and jump and run up stairs instead of riding elevators- I could drink water and not sugary flavours carbonated, I could control this beneath , but my face would forever hold the sins of heritage and birth. I would always have my fathers nose and my mothers cheeks and the rest, but these limbs were mine to sculpt- I like what I see because I took control and drove the fat and laziness from my bones. I like what I see in the mirror below the neck, and that is my one sin. My pride. And what kind of person does not have pride in themselves?

A great writer of one book once said “people in their right minds never take pride in their talents” and I don’t take pride in my talents, but I do take pride to the shell of myself which lies in the mirror to every passing soul. I take pride in my body-my muscles and my skin. I take pride in that one part of me that lies beyond talent and god-I have chosen this body- it is my choice to be able to run and jump and swim and do them well, but that it not a talent, it is merely respect for the body you were given-my face is another story-it is unchangeable except by time and by accident-and my mind is something else altogether.

What kind of person takes pride in their mind?

What kind of person fills themselves with cheese puffs and whiskey and still swims a mile a day? And who is this that cares?

Who is this?

Who is this?

Who is this?

What kind of man still hasn’t told the whole truth after all these words? We’ve only just begun. I’m here until the rest of my life.

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