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Me first. This was the start of a story about an alcoholic. I wanted to take it further but left it, (went to work), and so didn't finish it. I wrote it about 2 years ago.
*********
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly, over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up and before I’ve even brushed the debris of yesterdays food from my chins greasy stubble I find myself filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to drift once more into my world of dreams, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. I remember opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now when I wake and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. Time has no meaning for me. It could be dusk, dawn or noon for all I know. I live in my own constant nuclear fog.
Each time I wake I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life, a barren war-zone in which I play both sides of the conflict.
In my dreams I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real even as I dream them. That they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them and that makes both them and the experience real enough for me, real enough to keep me going for the promise of further dreams.
I have only one real friend in this world, but she’s also my greatest enemy. She’s sweet, doesn’t judge me and makes me feel special about myself, but then she’ll turn on me in a second and reduce me to a crying mess. I’m an adult, and yet on a daily basis I’ll find myself weeping, sobbing like a child in a crowded Supermarket that has lost it’s mother and it’s all because of this, what makes me me, my one defining trait, my battle with alcohol.
*********
So post your old re-found t!t-bits here. If you want to, that is.
*********
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly, over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up and before I’ve even brushed the debris of yesterdays food from my chins greasy stubble I find myself filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to drift once more into my world of dreams, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. I remember opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now when I wake and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. Time has no meaning for me. It could be dusk, dawn or noon for all I know. I live in my own constant nuclear fog.
Each time I wake I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life, a barren war-zone in which I play both sides of the conflict.
In my dreams I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real even as I dream them. That they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them and that makes both them and the experience real enough for me, real enough to keep me going for the promise of further dreams.
I have only one real friend in this world, but she’s also my greatest enemy. She’s sweet, doesn’t judge me and makes me feel special about myself, but then she’ll turn on me in a second and reduce me to a crying mess. I’m an adult, and yet on a daily basis I’ll find myself weeping, sobbing like a child in a crowded Supermarket that has lost it’s mother and it’s all because of this, what makes me me, my one defining trait, my battle with alcohol.
*********
So post your old re-found t!t-bits here. If you want to, that is.
I have loads of unfinished stories, the one below is one from a SSC of old. Could have been good, but didn't ever have time to finish:
TRACKS
“You’re listening to Clive Miles, the only show worth listening to…” The voice came out of Clive’s mouth, but he didn’t believe the words. He just hoped it didn’t show.
Clive Miles had been DJ’ing on Top Radio for 2 years now, gaining more listeners than most of his rivals, and boy did he make sure everyone knew about it. His show was a mix of old music and the chart stuff that the station had forced upon him. He hadn’t really wanted to play it, but grudgingly accepted that he’d have to follow the station’s policy. Mostly, he played the old stuff, requests from his listeners and anything he fancied listening to at the time.
At first he was pretty happy being on top of his profession. His job wasn’t the highest paid one in the world, especially with his show being out of the mainstream, but he had a nice car and was linked to a string of beautiful girls, despite his average looks. But all that was before his luck changed. The girls never stayed long, quickly losing interest and moving on to the next celebrity. The car had been impounded when the police had caught him drink driving. Overall, it wasn’t a good year for Clive.
When the evening show finished, Clive picked up his bag and left the radio station. His usual route home took him past the local pub where he often liked to drink, but for some reason he took another way home on this particular evening. This road wasn’t populated with the usual apartment blocks, there were no people out walking dogs or joggers running past. The whole road looked deserted. Only one source of light shone out across the road and this, Clive soon realised, came from an old building with a black wooden shop front. As he got nearer, it became obvious that this was a pub, odd though it was. Still, a pub was a pub and this down-on-his-luck DJ needed a drink.
After about the third pint, Clive began to feel even worse than he did when he arrived. A strange melancholy came over him and he wallowed in the dim atmosphere at the bar. This self-pity induced daydreaming was disturbed by a hand on his shoulder and a face which attached itself to his line of vision. The face was gaunt and well lined, but not unfriendly.
“Things looking down there, friend?” asked the stranger.
“Look, I don’t need any help, thanks.” Clive shrugged off the enquiring man’s hand, thinking that he may have recognised him and wanted an autograph.
“Ah, well I think you may be interested in this…” he said, checking that no-one else was around before producing a small box.
Clive looked. He didn’t want to, but something in the back of his mind took over control of his head.
“It’s a needle.”
“It’s more than a needle, my friend.” Said the stranger, gently placing the item in Clive’s sweaty palm. “You live your life by music? Why not make the tracks you play work for your life?”
Clive didn’t understand, but he kept listening. It was better than getting up, especially since he wasn’t sure he could right now. The beer must have gone to his head.
“Play any track with this needle and the title will influence your life.” The stranger looked at Clive’s frown. “Heh. No, I wouldn’t believe me either, but what have you got to lose? Imagine, you could be playing Summer Holiday one day and find yourself jetting abroad the day after.”
TRACKS
“You’re listening to Clive Miles, the only show worth listening to…” The voice came out of Clive’s mouth, but he didn’t believe the words. He just hoped it didn’t show.
Clive Miles had been DJ’ing on Top Radio for 2 years now, gaining more listeners than most of his rivals, and boy did he make sure everyone knew about it. His show was a mix of old music and the chart stuff that the station had forced upon him. He hadn’t really wanted to play it, but grudgingly accepted that he’d have to follow the station’s policy. Mostly, he played the old stuff, requests from his listeners and anything he fancied listening to at the time.
At first he was pretty happy being on top of his profession. His job wasn’t the highest paid one in the world, especially with his show being out of the mainstream, but he had a nice car and was linked to a string of beautiful girls, despite his average looks. But all that was before his luck changed. The girls never stayed long, quickly losing interest and moving on to the next celebrity. The car had been impounded when the police had caught him drink driving. Overall, it wasn’t a good year for Clive.
When the evening show finished, Clive picked up his bag and left the radio station. His usual route home took him past the local pub where he often liked to drink, but for some reason he took another way home on this particular evening. This road wasn’t populated with the usual apartment blocks, there were no people out walking dogs or joggers running past. The whole road looked deserted. Only one source of light shone out across the road and this, Clive soon realised, came from an old building with a black wooden shop front. As he got nearer, it became obvious that this was a pub, odd though it was. Still, a pub was a pub and this down-on-his-luck DJ needed a drink.
After about the third pint, Clive began to feel even worse than he did when he arrived. A strange melancholy came over him and he wallowed in the dim atmosphere at the bar. This self-pity induced daydreaming was disturbed by a hand on his shoulder and a face which attached itself to his line of vision. The face was gaunt and well lined, but not unfriendly.
“Things looking down there, friend?” asked the stranger.
“Look, I don’t need any help, thanks.” Clive shrugged off the enquiring man’s hand, thinking that he may have recognised him and wanted an autograph.
“Ah, well I think you may be interested in this…” he said, checking that no-one else was around before producing a small box.
Clive looked. He didn’t want to, but something in the back of his mind took over control of his head.
“It’s a needle.”
“It’s more than a needle, my friend.” Said the stranger, gently placing the item in Clive’s sweaty palm. “You live your life by music? Why not make the tracks you play work for your life?”
Clive didn’t understand, but he kept listening. It was better than getting up, especially since he wasn’t sure he could right now. The beer must have gone to his head.
“Play any track with this needle and the title will influence your life.” The stranger looked at Clive’s frown. “Heh. No, I wouldn’t believe me either, but what have you got to lose? Imagine, you could be playing Summer Holiday one day and find yourself jetting abroad the day after.”
Me first. This was the start of a story about an alcoholic. I wanted to take it further but left it, (went to work), and so didn't finish it. I wrote it about 2 years ago.
*********
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly, over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up and before I’ve even brushed the debris of yesterdays food from my chins greasy stubble I find myself filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to drift once more into my world of dreams, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. I remember opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now when I wake and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. Time has no meaning for me. It could be dusk, dawn or noon for all I know. I live in my own constant nuclear fog.
Each time I wake I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life, a barren war-zone in which I play both sides of the conflict.
In my dreams I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real even as I dream them. That they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them and that makes both them and the experience real enough for me, real enough to keep me going for the promise of further dreams.
I have only one real friend in this world, but she’s also my greatest enemy. She’s sweet, doesn’t judge me and makes me feel special about myself, but then she’ll turn on me in a second and reduce me to a crying mess. I’m an adult, and yet on a daily basis I’ll find myself weeping, sobbing like a child in a crowded Supermarket that has lost it’s mother and it’s all because of this, what makes me me, my one defining trait, my battle with alcohol.
*********
So post your old re-found t!t-bits here. If you want to, that is.
*********
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly, over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up and before I’ve even brushed the debris of yesterdays food from my chins greasy stubble I find myself filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to drift once more into my world of dreams, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. I remember opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now when I wake and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. Time has no meaning for me. It could be dusk, dawn or noon for all I know. I live in my own constant nuclear fog.
Each time I wake I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life, a barren war-zone in which I play both sides of the conflict.
In my dreams I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real even as I dream them. That they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them and that makes both them and the experience real enough for me, real enough to keep me going for the promise of further dreams.
I have only one real friend in this world, but she’s also my greatest enemy. She’s sweet, doesn’t judge me and makes me feel special about myself, but then she’ll turn on me in a second and reduce me to a crying mess. I’m an adult, and yet on a daily basis I’ll find myself weeping, sobbing like a child in a crowded Supermarket that has lost it’s mother and it’s all because of this, what makes me me, my one defining trait, my battle with alcohol.
*********
So post your old re-found t!t-bits here. If you want to, that is.