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"Confessions of a cheat"

This is me trying something new, disjointed reflective dialogue, see what you think - feedback would be nice
-----------------------------------------

I’m falling.
Have been for a long time.
Forever gliding downwards in an eternal spiral
Not literally, of course.
That would be impossible. It would defeat all science had ever achieved.
Everything ends.
Eternity is fictional.

I wasn’t always depressed. Just inadequate.
I never really understood myself.
“You’re out of your depth.” My mother would say.
Never could swim.
Contrary to depth I’ve always been something of a shallow person.
Face value was what mattered to me. I don’t care if a woman has a nice personality, if she can cook or clean, or whether she gives up her Sunday afternoons to spend time with the elderly in a nursing home. What matters is how much makeup she wears, the size of her breasts and if she’s willing to go down on me.
A night wasn’t a good night unless I had drunk sex with a woman I didn’t know.

This lifestyle was marvellous throughout my late teens and early twenties.
Then I met her. She claimed to be the one.
’Billy Jean is not my lover, she’s just some girl…’
Got a place, a flat by the sea.
The best houses were always along Tide Point Drive and the upper class street known precariously as The North Wall. It was “The posh area” to us commoners.
So me and the girl rented a flat on Tide Point Drive; it was a step up for us as we both lived in the grimy Ocean ditch estate before.

We met at an oh-so glitzy Torquay nightspot, ‘The Ball’. I bumped into her and told her “Nice top” – “Thanks” she replied, flattered. “It’d look better on my bedroom floor” I grinned. I bought her a drink and she was mine. Usually they put up a bit of a struggle but not this one. It almost seemed too easy. We progressed to a couple, fiancés and, in some probably drunken escapade we got married. I don’t remember much of the service except a large black man with an Elvis-like accent married us and we drove away in a yellow taxi to the hotel we were staying in. I felt sick, when I woke up a realised.

But marriage didn’t limit me. In fact it made my will to go out and pull new women stronger.
It’s more exciting knowing you’re doing something a bit wrong.
Fidelity is a thing of the past.
A worn out Victorianism
Live and let love. Make love. That’s what I say.
It was fun, for a long time, I did this until I was thirty without her even finding out I was cheating on her.
‘The fox is the most cunning of creatures’
But then, disaster nonchalantly struck in the contemptible form of crabs.

I scratched until I bled
I bathed in bleach and disinfectant to rid myself of these vile little creatures.
Eating away at my skin, tickling and wriggling and never going away.
Little parasites doing whatever they want without so much as a flicker of concern for anyone or anything else. Feeding their dirty habit, day and night without cease.
Then in a moment of crab-induced agony I had an epiphany. The crabs reflected myself, their greedy little self-indulgent lives mirrored my own.

I left a little note on her pillow saying sorry and confessing to my cheating ways. Telling her she could do much better and that she deserves a good life. Then a drove into the rainy night looking for somewhere to stay.
That’s what I do nowadays
I drift.
Without motive, without commitment, without womanising
I’m falling.
Deeper and deeper into self pity
Into depression
Collapsing into my own existence like a neutron star expiring
Ridding the world of myself as I rid myself of crabs.
It’s better I’m not here.
Just another greedy parasite.
I’m sorry.

I liked this.

Conscience catching up and cracking the guy.


It's good doing something new.
It keeps your work fresh.

Paradox: wrote:
> I scratched until I bled
> I bathed in bleach and disinfectant to rid myself of these vile
> little creatures.
> Eating away at my skin, tickling and wriggling and never going away.

*cringes*

Anyways, that was different, and it was great too. Congrats, I hope to see more strange and obscure pieces of writing from you.

You should've just toddled of to the Docs and he'd have given you some stuff to clear the mites up. But you didn't, and now you're just another mangy tramp roughing it in sodden woods. Foolish.

paradox:

do you have any problems at the moment you want to talk about?

Are you dissin' da Torquay club scene?

You die under the wheels of my Nova.

Great, if a bit itchy

*itches*

Loved it.
And I couldn't be bothered giving much more of a comment than that.

This is me trying something new, disjointed reflective dialogue, see what you think - feedback would be nice
-----------------------------------------

I’m falling.
Have been for a long time.
Forever gliding downwards in an eternal spiral
Not literally, of course.
That would be impossible. It would defeat all science had ever achieved.
Everything ends.
Eternity is fictional.

I wasn’t always depressed. Just inadequate.
I never really understood myself.
“You’re out of your depth.” My mother would say.
Never could swim.
Contrary to depth I’ve always been something of a shallow person.
Face value was what mattered to me. I don’t care if a woman has a nice personality, if she can cook or clean, or whether she gives up her Sunday afternoons to spend time with the elderly in a nursing home. What matters is how much makeup she wears, the size of her breasts and if she’s willing to go down on me.
A night wasn’t a good night unless I had drunk sex with a woman I didn’t know.

This lifestyle was marvellous throughout my late teens and early twenties.
Then I met her. She claimed to be the one.
’Billy Jean is not my lover, she’s just some girl…’
Got a place, a flat by the sea.
The best houses were always along Tide Point Drive and the upper class street known precariously as The North Wall. It was “The posh area” to us commoners.
So me and the girl rented a flat on Tide Point Drive; it was a step up for us as we both lived in the grimy Ocean ditch estate before.

We met at an oh-so glitzy Torquay nightspot, ‘The Ball’. I bumped into her and told her “Nice top” – “Thanks” she replied, flattered. “It’d look better on my bedroom floor” I grinned. I bought her a drink and she was mine. Usually they put up a bit of a struggle but not this one. It almost seemed too easy. We progressed to a couple, fiancés and, in some probably drunken escapade we got married. I don’t remember much of the service except a large black man with an Elvis-like accent married us and we drove away in a yellow taxi to the hotel we were staying in. I felt sick, when I woke up a realised.

But marriage didn’t limit me. In fact it made my will to go out and pull new women stronger.
It’s more exciting knowing you’re doing something a bit wrong.
Fidelity is a thing of the past.
A worn out Victorianism
Live and let love. Make love. That’s what I say.
It was fun, for a long time, I did this until I was thirty without her even finding out I was cheating on her.
‘The fox is the most cunning of creatures’
But then, disaster nonchalantly struck in the contemptible form of crabs.

I scratched until I bled
I bathed in bleach and disinfectant to rid myself of these vile little creatures.
Eating away at my skin, tickling and wriggling and never going away.
Little parasites doing whatever they want without so much as a flicker of concern for anyone or anything else. Feeding their dirty habit, day and night without cease.
Then in a moment of crab-induced agony I had an epiphany. The crabs reflected myself, their greedy little self-indulgent lives mirrored my own.

I left a little note on her pillow saying sorry and confessing to my cheating ways. Telling her she could do much better and that she deserves a good life. Then a drove into the rainy night looking for somewhere to stay.
That’s what I do nowadays
I drift.
Without motive, without commitment, without womanising
I’m falling.
Deeper and deeper into self pity
Into depression
Collapsing into my own existence like a neutron star expiring
Ridding the world of myself as I rid myself of crabs.
It’s better I’m not here.
Just another greedy parasite.
I’m sorry.