Woodern Heart

I was holding you in my arms, like in some Dean Martin film that my
dad would make me watch on a Sunday afternoon. Only my breath didn't
stink and my wallet wasn't crammed with Mafia money. I loved moments
like this, where I didn't feel like the nerd that I was and I was
whisked away to the realm of Hollywood and champagne flavoured kisses.
My arms engulfed you and you looked so peaceful and happy lying there.
I was slightly worried I was crushing you and I was being over
enthusiastic with my romantic gesture but I didn't hear the sound of
spluttering or choking so I carried on regardless. We were listening to
the Jonathan Richman tape I made you, with extensive sleeve notes (!)
and you were humming along to 'Pablo Picasso'. You were slightly out of
tune but I didn't want to hurt your feelings by telling you so. It's
good that you liked Jonathan Richman. I loved you more for doing
so.

We often spent days doing this. I remember when we first got together
and I was too scared to kiss you so I just used to lie there trying to
pluck up the courage to kiss those gorgeous lips of yours. Your lips
tasted of Cherry Cola and they shined like crushed velvet. You had this
way of smiling which made me feel twelve years old. It was a power that
you had. You little foxy witch you.

I think that was the happiest time of my life. I used to wallow in just
not doing ANYTHING. I wish I could revisit that time so badly. I wish I
could go back and have another afternoon like that. But I can't. And
that is the shittiest thing in the world. I wish I could delete my
memories of you like I'd delete files I no longer needed on the
hardrive of my PC. The person who first said the line 'At least you've
still got the memories' is a fucking wanker. Memories are like
mischievous gremlins that come along whenever you think you're getting
on okay, to remind you of what you had. Of what you'll never had again.
Memories are like looking at pictures of your Grandparents, remembering
what you had, and how much better life was back then. Memories are like
looking at pictures of yourself playing with your toys when you were a
child and wondering what happened to that 'He Man' doll or that
'Scalectric' set. Memories are wank.

In retrospect I could see what was happening. I could see that I was at
fault and that I was acting in a way that wasn't really who I was. I
wish you could have visited the inside of my head and seen exactly what
I thought of you. I wish you could of found the large area of my brain
that was your domain. Where you set on your throne and wanted for
nothing. I don't know why I didn't convey those feelings in a way that
you could have understood. I don't understand my emotions. I say things
I don't mean. I wanted you to know that you were my epicentre. The
centre of my universe. It sounds cheesy and fuck, but heck, you were my
reason for living.

I want to tell you that I'm doing terribly. I'm miserable. I'm at the
bottom of the barrel, wallowing in the filth and squalor that singledom
brings. I hate leaving the house and functioning with other human
beings. I am the bastard child of Syd Barrett and Morressy. I've
completed Doom on my PC, I've rearranged my record collection into
alphabetic order, and I've run out of ways to make Pot Noodles taste
interesting. I don't answer the phone and I don't understand what 'the
morning' is. I know things will get better, but I don't want them to
yet. I don't feel ready to be happy.

I know you wanted to feel loved, and evidently you couldn't feel like
that with me - although you did a pretty good impression of it. But why
did you go with HIM?! That fucking fucking nob cheese excuse of a boy
Don Black. I hate that boy more than I hate crumbs in my butter. I hate
that boy more than I hate 'The Sun', doing the ironing and chips from
the Chinese. He's a nob. Nob-o-rama. I hate his eyes, the way they look
at you like he fucking owns your or something. I hate the way his
leather jacket in adorned with pins of the bands that are 'in vogue'
this week. I hate the way he dances at shows. Like he's running on the
spot. I hate the way he's quite obviously better looking than me and
capable of growing a beard that doesn't make him look like a Russian
sailor.

I don't think I've ever met anyone called Don I like. I'm sure there's
a Don somewhere out there in the world that I could get on famously
with, but I've never met one. It's the same with the name Richard.
Maybe that's a issue I have to deal with. Anyway, this isn't about HIM,
it's about you. Why didn't you tell me these things before you did? Why
didn't you give me the time to change? Why did you stop loving all the
things you said you did about me? When did my analness about Jonathan
Richman turn from 'cute' to 'twatish'? I don't understand. I wish you'd
have bothered to explain.