Gutless (Part Two)

The rain lays heavy on the greyed ruinous town. I try to wash down the sweet with savoury in the hope of alleviating the sickness. More than the ten pound cinema ticket my initial idiotic indulgence cost me. It’s not a revelation that the cinema prices are ludicrous but my appearance is also becoming absurd and the tumour swells in pain as I trudge towards another supplier. Water flows past me down the street as if willing me to turn back and forget this foolish notion. I’m on the brink of overdosing but I’m spurred on by the illness in all its degrading decadence.

They already know my preference as I enter and a deep shame simmers inside me as they hand me the stuff. Even the potato shards taste like they’re made of yeast and starch and the groaning patchwork sky gazes down on me with disappointment. The traditional British meal starts to taste like cardboard and the side order has substance like soft mushy shit. It’s not an appetising contrast and the desecrated meat tube falls apart in my mouth.

I don’t want this and yet I need it like I need air. The silver screen icons seduce me in memory with fantasy six-pacs and heroic physiques totally impossible to me. I curse myself for all the good it does and try to imagine myself with an appearance like them. Fantasies are all I have now.

There’s nothing more than crunchy shrapnel in the bottom of the paper, I finish the pork pole unsatisfyingly as its mild tang prods and pokes my catatonic taste-buds. I lose myself in the swirl of this pathetic cone of crap. I think about leaner, healthier times, before the addictions before the need for such meagre primitive fixes. I’ve gone too far this time, I’ve taken it all much too far. I am Jabba The Fucking Hutt. 

The film of my life would end there, but life is so upsettingly far from a film. I arrive home and sink into my own sweat and seething ulcers. The chair strains under my influence and I pitch pointless prose into the ether. I wipe the residue from my neck and feel like dying here. I want to beat myself to death and fall underneath myself into the endless dark judgeless abyss. The tumour groans and swells as usual and I pray I could cut myself clean but life isn’t necessarily progress, and my life is decidedly downhill.

This is the end, I need something to work towards and mundane normalities won’t satisfy. Filling in forms can go fuck themselves. I’m going to become the silver screen icons, I’m going to purge this tumour from my mass. I can’t stomach my own stomach so I’ll beat myself into abstinence. I’m going cold turkey from cold turkey and everything similar. There will be no part three…