Sharing Lungs - Deftones Online Community

Something woke him up – possibly the dream he'd been having, but he couldn't remember it.  Something to do with a guy with a gun.  Enough anyway to be considered a candidate for the reason he was reaching over to check the time on his apparently expensive but actually not wrist watch, which he'd found, was going to sell, but decided not to because he had found out it was worth fuck all.  Six thirteen.  The alarm was scheduled for a six forty-five arousal attempt – offering him thirty-two minutes of dozing.  He decided to take it.  The day ahead was uninteresting enough in theory to be forgotten about for the allotted dozing time – instead he decided to think about breasts and vaginas.  The usual result of thinking about this subject matter was already in evidence, so what the hay. 
The faceless yet gorgeous women danced through his mind adding weight behind the swollen member between his legs.  Masturbation had actually now grown kind of boring – which he assumed was the reason most guys finally reached the decision to get off their arse and find a lady friend.  Those who generally didn't bother that is.  Of whom he most definitely was.  There had been a strong recurring theme of failed relationships caused by a disappointing sex life in his past.  The excitement generated by the possibility of no holds barred sexual activity with a reasonably good looking girl had always without fail kindled a fire within him, that had him realising he was an extremely sexual person...he fantasized about everything.  At least up to the extreme of human waste becoming involved, cutting each other, torturing each other....the usual reasonably acceptable stuff to reasonably open minded people.  A lot of stuff performed with tongues, mouths and fingers for example.  His horniness - up to this point at least - had not been seized upon by a like-minded lady however....they had all fallen very very short of his expectations.  A vicious cycle had thus been revolving – mind-numbingly slowly right enough – up to now, with regards to a long drawn out hunt for a willing lady friend, the struggle through the early courtships leading up to gaining that first entry into the ladys panties, the overlook of the relief felt at getting some action, then the drip drip drip of increasing disappointment upon realising the adventurousness would never stray too far away from what was familiar.  i.e. not even so much as a discussion about grazing a single digit over a certain forbidden region.  Then it was the pain and suffering endured trying to end this debacle as painlessly as possible, meaning he was comfortable in his mind, she was as happy with moving on as he was.  It once had happened – she was completely amicable, which needless to say had caused several months of brain racking as to what was so terrible about him, as to warrant a happy and cheery 'sure, I thought the time with you was crap,' type reaction to the suggested dissolution.  It was cool for him to be disillusioned, not for her.  Arrogant for sure – but his whole attitude was based around a philosophy of giving barely a person reason to dislike him – even those tasteless fuckers he thought to be complete arseholes.  Eventually, he had replayed those moments where she had acted a complete cow enough in his head to finally move on.  At least enough to think about it only within his slideshow of life lows he sometimes mentally viewed in those moments where he felt crap about himself.  At this time he was at the fun crossroads – just far enough away from the last lady to be relieved to be single again, and still a good distance yet to travel before the yearning for another blind turn down the 'possibly shes up for something a little freaky naughty' trail.  He liked the crossroads – but no doubt the masturbation was still boring all the same.  The decision to crack one off anyway, brought the turning into view...shit, he thought.    The bags are packed again.

never stop writing. never stop growing. you are a shaman and a warrior of good and peace.

Masturbating first thing in the morning, was an important decision.  If there was plenty to keep yourself occupied, then sure – it frees up the mind to concentrate fully on whatever tasks present themselves.  Alas, on this occasion, there was fuck all scheduled, meaning there was a clear period of time where it was more than possible there would be some depressed reflection of how empty things were...woke up, wanked, sat around waiting for bedtime.  Not to mention, a task that he had often managed to spread out over a two hour period (mental foreplay, use of pornographic material, gentle build up and so on), had now been completed in all of 15 minutes.  A waste of a chug in many regards.  Still, it was done now, and the challenge of realising an exciting activity to quickly and efficiently do instead laid itself before him.  The duration of making and consuming coffee ought to prove sufficient.  Fully aware of how tough a task this was, what with the recent experiences that had recurred (and with that the heightening of difficulty owing to several options having now been exhausted), he prepared a full cafetieres-worth to eek out the time allotted.  A sigh escaped his down-turned mouth in time with the slow plunge through the black liquid.
Officially eight cups worth of coffee – but truthfully two and half mugs full...plenty of time would slip by whilst making the choice of the days activity(s).  The TV on switch is depressed on the way to the inviting sofa – inviting insofar as one could stretch themselves across fully with minimal angle created in the neck area, thanks in full to the sloping armrest – a sofa fully in appreciation of the lazy person.  The channel was defaulted to channel 4, after the previous nights viewing of Desperate Housewives, an embarrassing admission in truth, which was the main reason as to why no admission had ever been made.  Noone was available to discuss the craziness occurring each week in Wysteria Lane, but he cared little.  He'd grown up watching oily men in tights fake fight each other alone without problem – hot women becoming embroiled in random dilemmas both episodically and series-long was a mere drop in the ocean in comparison.  The TV shone out Everybody Loves Raymond, a choice that would have been made anyway – he smiled satisfied at the saved effort, settling in to the sharp observations made by the grandaddies and 'mas of American sitcoms.  Often he had mused about creating something – the idea of a format upon others created appealed to him greatly, mainly because there was a shedload of cash to be made from just having his creations used.  The effort required to expand on his mental money-makers always seemed out of reach.  In truth the effort wasn't the only problem, it was mentally building on the idea of creating something.  He had always seemed pre-occupied with spending the cash as opposed to the formulating of the idea upon which the cash would build.  Musing on this problem then spawned the faster route to a creation being used a lot – one song based on a popular theme that would be used every year at that special time...a christmas song, an easter song...ok just a christmas song.  Alas the general feel of a christmas song repulsed him so, that it would be a proverbial taking up the arse creating something adhering to the rules of what made a popular christmas tune.  Which then lead to how much he would be willing to receive to actually take it up the arse – not that he thought his arse was worth much, just that the fact it would take a high bid to get at it, meant those who just had to have what was forbidden, would surely create a bidding war, and thus the bragging rights to his previously forbidden arse.  It often made him wonder though – if one person offering a once in a lifetime oppurtunity to receive some money for the right to bugger him came along, what sum would it be that he would accept?  How low would he go?  He was pretty certain there would have to be a thousand in there at least – but as little as one thousand?  In all fairness this was a wondering that only occurred when cash was tight, or when he was checking the lottery results.  Consuming coffee was always something he overdid – at least half a mug too much was consumed on any given coffee drinking occasion.  Coffee was one of the few luxury food items he allowed himself – the majority of his diet was made up of food that totalled just over thirty pounds for a weeks worth.  With this in mind, he made sure that whenever coffee was consumed, absolute value for money was sought, bloated sicky feelings aside.  He felt he was at the point of no return now anyway – much like a sixty a day smoker.  His sanity was now dependant on a daily coffee consumption – it was required to see him through the trials and tribulations any given day had to offer – which whilst mainly caused through self inflicted pessimism were tribulations in plentiful supply nonetheless.  On top of this, coffee made him feel cool.  He'd witnessed many many suave bastards consume coffee over the years – and he wanted to join them.  He had been a smoker for many years too, but in truth, the coolness was negated by the lack of money and cardio he now had.  He drank his coffee black – like the all the coolest drinkers before him.  They wouldn't have been nearly as cool supping back a cinammon flavoured decaf latte.  The very hint of a thought of smoking had him reaching for the crumpled packet of golden virginia sat on the coffee table in front of him.  He looked up at the sound of the first of the ads in between parts one and two of Raymond, and momentarily found himself lost in the decision to abandon rolling in favour of urinating.  He used the indecision to gauge how desperate he was...a couple of seconds rolled by before he scolded himself for even suggesting that he postpone pissing.  Doing so would mean either, missing the beginning of part two, or even worse, having to sit through all of part two being tormented by the ever increasing discomfort caused by the pee pee progressing down his urethra.  Thus he dropped the packet and trotted towards the bathroom.

yes, don't stop writing

...but learn how to use a paragraph.

Supporting the decision to drop and go, was the unfortunate fact that he was useless at peeing under pressure.  The house was empty sure, but placed under any kind of time limit, or even more so in the company of others, brought upon the strange sensation of forgetting how to piss.  Knowing full well he had a whopping four or more advertisements to drain his body, he stood relaxed in front of the porcelain haven.  Public peeing meant cubicles – the security of a locked door, released the mechanism within himself – otherwise he was left standing in front of a urinal awkwardly trying to ignore the fact people had pulled their cock from their pants peed and zipped up, in spite of having initiated the process well after he had.  This dilemma meant forward planning – nothing worse than standing helpless in front of a open view watering hole, whilst the show or gig or whatever continued on regardless.  Worse still, was the oft had desire for a shit, but not quite yet, which meant hanging on until the last possible moment before leaving.  This of course put added pressure on producing resulting more often than not, a 'problem' shit – one that left the sort of residue that would chafe and irritate for the duration of the experience that was supposed to be enjoyed.  Often a  period of some days would follow, while the arse repaired itself, seemingly angry at him for treating it with such disregard.  It was a valuable reminder that the anus and penis deserved respect when it came to ridding the body of waste – much like the head and stomach do during a hangover.  The careful clean up process drew a close to this instance of urination – every drop was squeezed from the hose soaked up by a gratefully receiving length of toilet tissue.  Much like the angry anus, the penis too offered up a revenge of sorts, by dribbling the hastily ignored last droplets by dismissively spilling them out into the unwelcoming arms of the underpant – itself a short term reminder of why care and consideration was an extremely important component of maintaining a confident and problem free mindset.  This sort of attitude had avoided a repeat of the horror of having pissed the bed one night, caused by the arrogance of an alcohol tainted mind.  The sort of attitude that had been absent for so long, that it was almost thought to be no longer relevant.  Its relevance was hammered home via the medium of an elongated stretch of scrubbing stale pish out of the mattress that still sat proudly atop his bedframe – and thus a lifelong reminder.  Taking for granted of course he never again replaced it.  Best to play it safe, therefore offering that glorious unexpected day of unwrapping a brand new pillowtop.  He felt sorry for all that shared the bed with him, totally oblivious they were snuggling and drooling on top of his once bathroom.  It had crossed his mind to bring this into an argument – kind of a fuck you, to replace the awkward pause he often had to endure by way of not thinking quickly enough of a witty retort,  which always came after.  There was rarely a moment he could fit the fuckers in after thinking of them.  The beauty of the soiled mattress quip, was that it needed no real setup – he could slip it in at any time, maybe even atop a crescendo of abuse being aimed at him.  He always bottled out though – mainly because of the fact he would ultimately be mocked for pissing himself in his bed.  He therefore clung onto the internal knowledge the bitch was afflicted with his now few years old pee pee remants, forcing himself to be satisfied with the filthy reality alone.

He arrived back in the living room , with enough time even to have a quick glance at what was occurring on bbc 1 – the time told him the local news would likely be on, and with that an outside chance to flick over at the exact moment the strangely posh lady was telling him about the weather he wasn't going to experience.  Such was the apparent fairly sizeable difference in the weather these days, he felt a need to continuously check up on what craziness was forthcoming as often as possible...maybe the ever increasing amount of natural disasters would one day hit Scotland.  On this occasion however, it was still the stuck up cow on the sofa sitting next to the apparently fed up yet suave dude on the sofa back in London – so he flipped back over to four, mentally noting to catch the same tidbits in just over an hour.
Chuckles timed nicely with the onslaught of well constructed observational scenes littered the final part of Raymond – nicely owing to the fact he knew when they were supposed to happen having watched each and every episode at least now three times.  He was more than aware of t6he increasingly poor signs relating to how sad he was judging by how many times he'd viewed the continuous cycle of the popular channel four sitcoms.  He'd watched friends the first time round – and was still catching it now – several years later, and knew deep down he would continue to do so until it stopped.  Then he'd probably buy the box set.  Just in case.  There was something comfortable to be enjoyed in the familiarity of these feelgood jovial characters...memories rekindled in a 'where was I' stylee with each viewing...although they were kind of blurring into each other now they spun two episodes a day, repeated several times (to a ridiculous degree when incorporative of +1 channels).  He drew comfort from the fact it still was on TV – he wasn't the only one out there.  What did upset him a touch was not knowing who these fellow viewers were, which kindled images of the dregs of society being so.  Ignorance is bliss – and absolutely no effort would be made to unearth these people through fear of having to destroy these relationships over a long drawn out period.  Extra fear was brought on by the possibility these people were obsessive maniacs who couldn't let go...a touch hypocrytical he admitted to himself – but he knew he wasn't about to murder someone or stalk Jennifer Aniston.  Under no circumstances did he wish to put himself in the position where he may be implicated in the forced buggery of Matt Le Blanc.  He would never engage in that sort of ordeal – but he could always be accused of assisting the setup – and with all the fans of the Joey character out there, he feared time in prison would be spent fending off huge dont give a fuck guys, paid to saw off his toes with a pen knife by disgusted 40 year old women who dreamt of being asked 'how you doin'?'

The cafetiere read half a mug at most...and the days planning was no nearer hatched in his noggin.  This was officially now day 'too long' unemployed...the initial period of unemployment were always quite nice – away from the place that had caused so much disdain within him, that he had become dejected to the point of saying to himself 'No more!  I'd rather be sat around shitting myself that no moneys coming in and with no clue as to the duration of the drought, than endure another day of this fucking hell hole'.  But then, the fear – albeit totally expected – struck, and the desperation set in.  'I'll take my time – find whats right for me,' had become, 'Anything – lets find anything.'  Any job would do.  The realisation of where he was on this, rubber-stamped the first hour at least upon completion of the coffee egg timer.  Online with several tabs open to job search sites.  Either fuck all, or something monotonous that was merely a stopgap until he becamer frustrated again, and right back in this position at some stage in the future.  A shit proposition – but of there was always room for the dream career move suddenly plonking itself in front of him, and with a future chocka with hope and promise.  He let the fruitful fancy dissolve, and drew to him the laptop, sat abandoned on the floor nearby.
Skills had been gained aplenty over the years – alas the employing world for some reason decided to ignore these.  Enough time spent pursuing the overall goal of finding a prospected long term career solution had him question himself in pretty much every way...was he smart enough, was he confident enough, was he capable enough, was he sexy enough, was his cock bug enough, was he good enough in bed, was he in actual fact gay and so on and so on.  The one good thing was that he was single – there was no pressure to provide for someone else, or even worse, rely upon.  This very realisation was depressing in itself.  He put the negativity to one side – at least until after the likely failed search. 

Pre-job search, he did the usual – checked emails (fuck all outside of sex toy promotions and Amazon deals), the forums he contributed to (responses in forums where his posts were deliberately weighted with mock, ranged from tones suggesting he was fucked up in the head to just boldly accusing him of being a cunt; the ones he sought actual fodder for fuelling his interests and was actually constructive, had him bookmarking purchases and adding friends on Myspace), and finally racked up a few points on the 7 simultaneous games of Scrabble he had on the go.  Using the 'net in company was stripped down to checking emails – he was embarrassed by his own contributions to the world wide web, and enjoyed the anonymity.  The email checking was always just a fleeting glance on top of this owing to that weeks butt plug promotions sitting boldly in his inbox.  Best not to let anyone have the opportunity even to form a suspicion.  The usual line up of job sites were checked through...optimism turned to pessimism as predicted – he had formed a self-depricating screening system of picturing himself in the imaginary job created from the few lines written in description of the company offering the position, and more often than not found himself struggling.  He'd apply anyway, with a strange hope he would hear nothing more about it – a desire apparently listened to by the powers that be.  There were a couple there he did actually reserve a small amount of hope for, but he tossed aside the laptop satisfied he could move his mind onto different matters.  He lit up at the memory of leaving himself a small amount of ice cream in the freezer.  Still pre-ten 'o' clock, but fuck it – time meant nothing in the world of the unemployed.  He'd have a bowl of cereal for that evenings dessert to counter the imbalance.

Lots of free time was reawakening in him a desire to make his body look good – big biceps and pronounced abs.  Reawakened, because he had before...he had spent one summer going nuts...living out in the middle of nowhere as he had at the time, had drawn the obsessive nature out of him and thrown it towards actual movement as opposed to sitting about doing fuck all.  That and the fact her had no internet connection.  Rambles along country paths had mutated into, brisk walking with bursts of running, and then – actual full blown running.  Everything bad was extinguished – food, fags, drugs, drink – he woke up to smoothies, arrived home to stir frys, and fell asleep with an apple core on the table in front of him.  Running was soon joined by weights and press ups...sometimes he would stand and stare at himself in just his pants, wide-eyed and grinning at the phenomenon he had become.  The larger and fitter he got – the more work he did.  Until one day, he met a girl, and slowly but surely the effort subsided...firstly owing to time constraints, but soon because the girl had plunged him back into depression and overthought – even coupling a fabulous body with his usual sparkling personality (all that was needed before) had ultimately not worked in bagging himself a life partner.  Eventually the constant bickering and argument had him traipsing along to his dealer and picking himself up a bag of homegrown.  Such was the amount of exercise he had been able to do in one sitting, anything short of that seemed a waste of time.  Ultimately the decision was made to fuck effort and go back to doing what was comfortable and unchallenging.  The madness was so obvious that he knew if he was looking at himself from outside, he'd be shaking his head confusedly – but he also knew he was rational in general judging by the effective shoulder he was able to provide to others in need.  Putting your own good sense into self-practice was tough at times.  But as time settled things down (girl by this time was long gone), he realised his search for companionship would be hindered by such dedication to putting pop in his pecs – he had spent practically all his spare time thrusting his body in all directions to achieve the results.  Which, whilst pleasing to his own eye, was really just an alternative method of social avoidance.  Not to mention a large briquette placed on the glowing embers of the 'he must be gay' inferno.  He knew smoking pot was eventually something that had to subside  - but until such time as he felt life basically insisted stop, he was fucking well gonna.  Being stoned suited him.  He also recognised moments when it didn't suit him (feeling shit mentally was only enhanced by being stoned) and whereas he would blaze up regardless, he had now turned into a positive smoker – one who did so when the occasion called for it.  Bless the Summer of Exercise – it had drawn him out of the sofa for long enough to make adjustments.  Now all he needed was a token representing the correctness of these adjustments – aka, a hot lady who laughed at his jokes.  Thankfully the experience of life was extending the acceptance to let things flow for longer – he decidede to extend the zen with a leisurely stroll through the park – all in all an acceptance he had to start again if he was to once again at least look like he might have a chance of beating up someone semi-tough.

He always plugged earphones into his head on these walks – the plus gained from the jogs through the country was knowing meeting someone was rare...it was his in the main.  Park strolls brought home the reality of the city – even the green regions were awash with people.  Music offered him a barrier – if someone came at him for his wallet, he would in all likelihood be oblivious, and that moment of oblivion would hopefully be enough to dissuade the assailant and move on to a pensioner or something.  Not only did he want to avoid being mugged, he wanted to avoid the suggestion of being mugged, having in fact been the victim of one sometime ago. The weeks that followed were invaded with thoughts of what if – he had escaped unharmed and unrobbed (he had had no money, and the guy was quite literally shitting himself, running off muttering 'you had better not be lying').  A couple of years later had seen his flat broken into further to this – and with that a pattern leading up to a fairly obvious disdain for repeat.  Anything threatening his general sense of chilledness – paranoia, anger, fear and so on – were treated with a great deal of seriousness, steps and measures of evasion were well thought out and calculated.  The piece of shit who had let himself into his flat, whilst he sat oblivious at work, was never caught (he often wondered if a chase had even been initiated), and that wrangled.  The thought of catching the fuck in the act was one he had retrodden many many times since, the conclusion being he would beat the shit out of him.  The thought didn't end at him repeatedly booting him in the guts as he lay prone on the floor of course – it stretched to the consequences of being the fuck to a bloody pulp.  Police charging him for GBH or something, the fuck recouping, gathering up some compadres and reaping revenge on him, followed by completing the pilfering of his possessions...a whole trail of life disruption, which led him to believe it was probably for the best he hadn't caught him.  Never once had he been involved in a physical fight – he liked to believe he hadn't because he was worried he would beat the foe so badly he'd cause irreparable damage.  In reality, if pushed he would perhaps concede it was more because there were more ruthless Disney fans.

The day was pretty much perfect for walking – just cold enough to justify a jacket and a light breeze just strong to take the uncomfortable edge off the inevitable sweat.  He had living in the same house for roughly 15 months, two weeks – and the only people he knew were the corner shop folk, and the chip shop folk.  Sure he would say hello to folk coincidentally walking up or down the stairs, but that was all – didn't know names, jobs ages – just faces.  The fun was in the assumption – the body language was the source upon which to create possible stories behind these people.  He strangely enjoyed the more introverted types, those that shied away from any kind of contact – a guy he saw fairly frequently, whom he had eventually worked out stayed in the flat on floor below on the opposite side from himself.  He stayed with a fairly flamboyant, larger older guy...a pandoras box of assumption swilled from side to side.  Still struggling with his sexual orientation, comfortable only in the company of his oversized lover, living vicariously through him ,and becoming a snivelling wreck when not around him.  He imagined the poor fool was still not out of the closet with anyone other than his close family – work colleagues likely played the same game as he was himself, but without the physical ammo of a chunky piece of evidence loudly and proudly pushing himself to the forefront in his 'partners' 'definitely a gay man' trial by jury.  He revelled in the discomfort felt by him for whatever reason – there was something comforting in knowing he wasn't the most uncomfortable person in the hallway.  Not the most confident, but definitely not the most unconfident – step forward mr closet gay (as he was known).

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He would find himself imagining being in his shoes – what motivated the decisions he mad...why he chose to put so much effort into keeping the door closed on others knowing.  In light of this, he discovered there really wasn't too much difference in what he chose to do himself – the difference being he felt his choice to shut others out was because he genuinely couldn't be fucked dealing with a great deal of the people who had wandered through the front door of his life, free of official invitation.  Mr closet, was more because he was shit scared of judgement, seeing only the negative judgement, people hating him, laughing at him, taunting him.  The thought process ended when further realisation revealed, this too was similar to him.  He had mused on this often enough – obviously seeking to distance himself from a group that was dipped for a prolonged spell in the nervous sauce.  Because he didn't feel nervous – he didn't panic a lot.  He just revelled in distance. He had a strange perversion for assuming people wanted to hang out with him, and not getting the opportunity to.  Getting invited places and not going, then being told it was a real shame he wasn't there and stuff.  Being wanted, but not attending.  That often seemed to be enough – just as a confirmation his patter was appreciated, moved people enough to desire his company.  Once he had that affirmation, the decision was more about whether he wanted to hang out with them.  It wasn't a case of whether he felt he wasn't up to contributing, and being lost in the mix (well thats a lie, sometimes it was), it was more having to perform like a circus act without any  comeback.  Talking at people was ok for a while, but after that, some contribution was desired.  The flipside was obviously being cancelled out – just as bad...it was a rare and sought after dynamic, the hallowed 'each-way street'.  He'd had it a couple of times....moving home, job, whatever usually put a stop to it – and the irony often seemed to be, that the other end of the street would be occupied by a guy who was also happy to leave it, safe in the knowledge there company was desired.  That was enough.

That didn't stop him from wondering what they were doing, where they were, all that sort of thing.  Not because he felt any huge desire to track them down or anything – it was more to find out if these people who were more similar to him than most, had 'made' it, had got somewhere.  Something concrete to give him the belief that if they could, he could.  Of course there was no guarantee they had carved out there own opportunities, but just knowing that a jackass cut from the same weird cloth he was had got somewhere would theoretically be enough to justify him actually getting off his pessimistic arse and  going for something.  Trying to make things happen.  Relying on something maybe happening was getting a little annoying...his belief in fate was waning in tandem.  In saying that, maybe on this very walk he might stumble across a man turning blue; staring death fully in the face, that being until he races to him, quickly deciphers the gestures being made to him by the blue man, and proceeds to perform the necessary manouverings to save his life.  This blue man then offers his eternal gratitude, and by luck, it turns out hes an incredibly rich man who runs his own multi-million pound company, and sees it as a returned favour to offer him a position, ridding him of financial dire straits, and enough varying responsibility to make even the working day a happy and fruitful experience.  Beautiful women start paying attention, he perhaps wanders into a Porsche dealership and picks out a nice Carrera, perhaps he strolls into a designer clothes store, and receives preferential treatment.  Perhaps – it has happened to some.  He scanned the scene in front of him – no blue men alas.  A woman strolled towards him, trailing behind a dog, who was energetically retrieving a ball.  She was an attractive woman, older by say five years or so.  She called enthusiastically after the dog, bending to greet it as it sprinted towards her with the ball.

He had always been a pet fan – specifically dogs and cats, having grown up with both.  Once, a girlfriend had tried to appease his desire for a cat by bringing into their household a tortoise, which he hated.  He was far from being a person who dismissed purely based on appearance, but the judgement of the tortoise appearing to be a turd slowly oozing out of a boulder, became a guilt-free assessment, when it one day hissed at him as he attempted to return it to its plastic box home.  The experience had drawn immediate attention to its sharp looking jaws, so he had scooped the bad tempered feacal looking mother fucker, and never went near it again.  Two weeks later he had his cat.  The tortoise was no substitute – and within a few days his girlfriend had been converted to his way of thinking.  The cat had apparently listened to his instructions, and writhed on her lap, rolled on its back in front of her, and meowed in chatter form when she spoke to it, all topping up the 'convert to love' tank.  The cat was still in his life, but was now residing at his parents house.  He'd lost a few possessions during the move out of their shared flat, but the cat was coming with him – it was the one 'shared' possession he insisted on.  Having not seen her since that day, he had no clue whether the ex had replaced little Sally (he had insisted on a real person name), but he guessed she may well have.  He had thought about internet stalking her to confirm, but realised fairly quickly he didn't give a fuck.

The dog stared intensely at the outreached hand of the woman – a fit toned arm, attached to an increasingly alluring body, complimented with a warm and pleasant head, out of which grew vibrant just-past-shoulder-length hair.  The fear quivered in him a little, a little unjustly, as in truth he only had one semi-reason for ever having to experience the fear.  The classic mis-reading of the signals, whereby he on this one famous occasion, he threw caution to the wind and went for it with a girl who he had no doubt was like-minded in here lusty thoughts for him.  She wasn't, and by fuck she let him know – shrieking in laughter, and calling out to all who'd listen that this 'thing' was brash enough to utter a line ripped straight from a Bond film.  On reflection the line – something along the lines of ' This connection we're experiencing is deserving of an elongated chance of elaboration,' - was fucking diabolical, but he felt all of the aftermath was totally unnecessary.  It was all the experience he needed to pull on the reigns for every future thought he experienced of this ilk.  Alas, this opened the doors of what-if galore...he still day-dreamed about the potentially beautiful kids he could have had with the model-esque Asian girl that stared the shit out of him – and not in a spooky way, in a way where he imagined confidently she wouldn't laugh at the sight of his flacid genitals. 

The Bad Experience grabbed hold of this inane thought however and tugged him back, back all the way back to his two friends at the time – Simon and Tom – to discuss joint rolling contests in Amsterdam and  Nintendo vs Sega.  Ruing that day did taint the memory of the unbelievable beauty she possessed, so he would force himself to think well of it and realise how lucky he was to have even seen her.  She most likely was an arsehole anyway – memory of the physical form alone was actually a good thing.  Watching porn is one thing, but meeting them and finding out that, low and behold, they've got an annoyingly large appetite for uncomfortable levels of perverted sex is another.  Jenna Jameson was an arsehole, a fact he had discovered watching her getting interviewed on some stupid web show – but she was good at blowjobs, which were enjoyable to watch.  At least before becoming so de-sensitized to watching it, he actually now preferred Scrabble.

The yardage was fast heading towards the fractious, and his mind raced...he needed an action to fill the moment.  Everyone likes a warm greeting, and committed to the decision with a couple of yards to spare.  His warm smile and gentle hello seemed to be an inspired move – the first in a potential daily meeting with this girl – the stride towards each other, the acknowledgement, the growing level of comfort with each other.  As it stood now however was one of nervousness, and a audible desperation to get away out of sight.  His legs seemed to be clutching at the memory of how they were supposed to work, clumsily lifting too high of the ground, his ankles weakly bearing the brunt of his heavy treadings.  The light glaze was pricking at his forehead and cheeks,which he duly smoothed away with the palm of his hand, in turn transferred to the side portion of his favourite grey hooded top, cunning in its forward thought of remaining hidden beneath the coat he wore atop the now soiled hoodie.  Aside from all the fear and self loathing, he was happy with the occurance.  It was something aside from the usual bollocks to fill his mind with until the hopeful next time.

There was a sense of relish - relish to get inside and muse about things.  His thoughts had been filled with images of the young vixen reacting favourable to stuff he did or said....he didnt actually know what these things were - the thoughts started at the moment he had delivered the line or action that caused the mirth/intrigue, and ran through to a finish concentrating purely on her....sometimes laughing uncontrollably following up with 'You are the funniest person Ive ever met!', or, 'That is so true - you are so perceptive.  I feel so lucky to have found you!'  the sort of things he rarely heard, but from time to time felt he deserved, such was the level of conviction he had in stuff he thought, did and said.  Its impossible to guage whether the common opinion is the right one, he always told himself - all you can do is have faith, and that purity of thought will guide you places where positivity will be thrust upon you.  He didnt know whether this thought process extended to a generally negative view on many many things - the doubt always lingered behind the dismissive 'fuck it - who cares,' he would brush it off with.  But either way, he found it near impossible to ignore the passion he felt for getting furious with people who blanked him after saying hello to them, or being barged past, or being cut up whilst driving, or being partronised....shit like this would haunt him, pretty much forever.  Sitting doing nothing of consequence would often be invaded with memories of pricks bestowing one of these acts upon him.  Several minutes then dedicated to what he should have done or said, to make this fuck think twice about ever doing it again.  It was just achieving this, with out putting himself in the position of physical altercation.  The though of either being hit in the face or indeed hitting someone in the face filled him with dread.

He immediately started to sweat - the effectiveness of his jacket became overly so at the sudden onrush of heat caused by his forgetfulness turning down the heat on his exit.  He always managed to convince himself it was better to walk into a pre-warmed house, despite the overwhelming evidence supporting the theory that movement in a continuous manner generated body heat.  It did however offer the perfect fodder for finally moving onto the next tshirt and pair of jeans available at the tope of their respective piles.  He tugged off the coat and replaced it on the hook on the back of the door - correcting his turn away to reach into the inside pocket and retrieve a packet of gum for consumption after a quick snack of toast and coffee.  He paused momentarily to ponder stripping and showering first, but decided to stick with the 'snack and ponder' plan he had originally decided upon.  At the back of every move so far was that girl, dog at the end of her arm, with the added effect of wind in her hair and slow motion movements...a wide smile etched on her face, slowly but surely exchanging her gaze at the dog to him, the smile dissolving and being replaced with a soft serious come-hither look, complimented by down-tilted gently blinking eyes.  The sort of look that turns many a person fond sexually of beautiful women to lose their shit and gibber like buffoons.  Except in this instance - albeit with the assistance of make-believe - he remained cool, evensofar as to return the look causing the come-hither to be replaced by a downward side tilt with accompanying embarrassed giggle.

The sun had settled in that spot that shone right at his favourite spot on the couch.  It pained him to do so, but he reached behind the table in front of the window and tugged at the curtain, just enough to dilute the suns rays.  It pained him, because it reminded him he was more comfortable indoors, away from civilization, alone...afraid.  Open curtains represented a glimpse into what hopefully might one day be - jumping headlong into the picture framed by wood and held back by glass.  but there was no fucking way he could stomach temporary blindness, just to suspend the misery drawn curtains represented.  Sighing, he slowly lent back on his heels, returning to his now shaded favourite spot.  He allowed himself a couple of seconds of full reclination, before leaning down towards his coffee, sipping impatiently at the overly hot beverage.  Not too hot though - he'd read somewhere coffee was spoiled by boiling water...the burnt taste he'd experienced experimenting with this claim had him become a believer.  Of course now he struggled with the loss of that batch of coffee - every pot he made he told himself he could have saved for later had he not just fucking believed what he'd read.  Much like that tenner he'd lost on a bus trip a few years ago...every tenner spent should have still been his.  He'd found a tenner or two since then - but it didnt work like that, as in, he didnt see it as cancelling out.  Finding stuff is lucky.  Losing stuff is careless and preventable.

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It was a strange sense of mellon collie he felt as he sank back into the couch.  Moments like these were reminders of things in both senses...yes, that there was unparalleled beauty in the world, yes that amongst the madness there was things that made sense, components that came together at the right time in the right place etc etc....but that didnt escape the fact that there was madness, there was things that didnt make sense...bad things that meant the good couldnt be taken for granted, that meant the timing and reaction to things that were good were oh so very important.  Just that experience had taught him that he was especially good at the timing and reactions necessary, in order to take advantage, meaning with each passing day/month/year the importance grew and grew.  It was all a case of balancing frustration against experience - each experience confirmed course of action not to take, and furthered the case for those he had yet to try.  what swam around his mind more often than not, was that maybe just maybe tactics adopted in the past with individual cases would perhaps have been better suited to other cases - the incorrect component had been selected to complete the puzzle that faced him at the time.  It wasnt as simple as tossing the used component away - he had to replace the component back in the sack and give more consideration to things next time - assess and decipher the best component to use, before just whipping one out on a gut feeling and trying to cram it into place.  He knew for a fact though he had a lot of components available to him - the array confused things a lot more than the average person, who would stick by the trusty ol' component that had served them so well through their teens and into their mature years.  Sometimes he wished he was dumber, his brain offereing far fewer options to him than he had now, on top of removing the afterthoughts of yet another failed venture.

The desire to be dumber was one he often mused upon - leading to inane thoughts as to how to make the desire become a reality...banging his head off a hard surface repeatedly; becoming a boxer and not bothering to defend himself; calling a huge angry guy a cunt then laughing at his genitalia bulge...of course there was no way of gauging what level of punishment was required to make his way down to an acceptable level of dumbness, and saw the sense in avoiding any punishment to remain at the current level of intelligence rather than risk going too far and ridding himself of the capability of essential functions like talking and so on.  Plus although being dumb added up to a nicer ride out of the misery tunnel, he imagined the journey would be taken far more often owing to the lack of sustinence a dumb person could provide....unless it was another dumb person.  At least being smart meant you could 'act' dumb when getting sex was the priority - you just had to make sure that once the lass had been conquering there was no lingering, 'You know, she actually is quite nice' type thoughts.  Which was always the issue really - if she wasnt 'quite nice', what the fuck was the point.  He pondered for a moment before switching his thoughts to the masturbation aids modelled on pornstars vaginas...all the joy without the hassle - albeit replaced by self loathed in abundance.

The thought of sex immediately made him regret masturbating so early - all this free time offered too much in the way of options to fill it.  A desire to release sexually trumped them all, if it was there it would happen - the challenge then was what else to do.  He had loads of ideas, all of which required dedication...he was never one for quick easy fixes.  When it came to video games he was always more a role player than a mobile snake type of guy.  He wanted to start a band but was wary of who he was opening himself up to; the alternative to which, i.e. doing it himself always grew frustrating after a while owing both to: a) his sub standard guitar skills placed against his overly complex riffs and b) his short fuse frustration at the 1980s keyboard demo sounding pc music efforts.  He wanted to play a sport, but knew noone able to dedicate to a regular time to commit to for a one on one game of something or other, and didnt know nearly enough people to gather together for anything as involved as football.  He thought sometimes he might return to smoking pot, but his heart just wasnt in it anymore - he used to base life around it, and upon quitting was frustrated at himself for allowing it to do so.  He liked to tell himself he could combine having a life with a casual affliction with pot, but he owing to the fact he was sitting doing absolutely fuck all right now, there was a 99% chance he would fall headlong into it again.

The fond memories poured out of him as he sat...but they all seemed to stem back to when he was still hopeful.  There was many a shit memory during 'The Pot Years' too.  He discovered that, regardless of how often he put the theory to the test, smoking pot regularly alone was a little tragic...almost like admitting there was no hope left.  Of course admitting it made it a lot easier to do, but outside of the occasional chuckle at a random inane thought -  he found in the main he experienced bleak, depressing moments.  These days, there was plenty of those sure, but amongst it was a shining light of possibility - if he found the strength to turn his back on something that had such a vicelike grip on him previously, he could continue the confident stride into, socialising, regular sex, creativity, fun, excitement and so on.  It had now been around 5 months since he last smoked....anything for that matter.  The overlap was a couple of weeks from joints to fags, but eventually he saw sense in turning his back on the two fags a day habit he'd whittled down to.  Slowly the money saved was spent on cake, chocolate and biscuits - progressively moreso as the nasty taste disappeared from the back of his throat.  The lack of ability to run quickly without a strong desire to vomit was subsiding, in its place a nice round pot belly - two facts that were moving him towards seriously investing in keep fit equipment.  the main thing he desired was looking good naked; in essence visible abs, and large arms.  cardio was unimportant to him at this stage - that would come naturally via team sports he'd inevitably become involved in owing to the exposure to fellow keep fit'ers he'd bump into during his new found obsession.  He realised this was all a good few months down the line.  Just a simple case of filling the void with everything that equalled eventually being there.

The desire to commit pushed him towards reaching for the laptop in front of...then pulling back, laying the over-sized cup of coffee down, then retrying the exercise.  An incident 2-3 years ago, which cost him a lot of misspent hours initially suffering through the scald suffered, then countless hours since regretting ever putting himself in such a position.  He double checked the stability offered by his lap, before collecting the cup once more.  The lull in between pushing the button, and waiting for the screen asking for his password, prompted him to also switch on the tv (remote immediately available on the small table alongside the couch).  The tailend of breakfast tv - hopefully just enough time to catch up with events of the day before slipping casually into ordinary folks house repair dilemmas and what shit was worth something in their attics.  The picture of the airbrushed cat stared back at him as he tapped in his password - one of the dozen or so that was etched into his brain (all the same structure with alternating letters and numbers).   The additional seconds for the final stage of boot up allowed a quick browse of what he would allow to pass as background noise.  He decided upon Frasier - although was well aware of the lack of respect he would be able to show the sharp dialogue owing to the commitment he'd be showing to the task of finding previously premium but now budget fitness equipment.  He clicked the shortcut to firefox - his email counter popped up to show 8 unread messages.  8 was too many to ignore, and as such he opened a second window after clicking his amazon link, to get the ball rolling towards simultaneous email checking.  The inbox was a smattering of promo mails from casinos, updates to forums he posted in, and crash sales at an american book company he couldnt remember buying anything from.  He rapidly clicked the check box by all but the forum updates, and deleted them.  the forum update was a response to a response he'd made...a wall of text explaining how from what he said, he was obviously someone who lacked any real intelligence and general knowledge on the subject (which in this case was that the megadrive was better than the super nintendo).  A light prick of sweat pierced his chest and face - but he maturely decided to postpone the temptation to dive straight into yet another retort, and dwell on the content until after the actual purpose of logging on in the first place.

He clicked through the tabs to reach the fitness equipment on Amazon, scanning each page along the way for inspiration.  The obvious was weights - dumbbells and a weights bench, he glanced skywards - for no other reason than movies told him to - as he imagined the spare room with the addition of a weight bench.  He pondered on the extra hassle caused by continuously shifting the new apparatus back and forth, switching between using it and the dwindling promise to himself that he would pick up his bass guitar more frequently...to finally realise the dream of becoming better, and thus creating the confidence to move his arse and find likeminded fellows and fell...esses to make music with.  Well, at least to begin with, before the inevitable ego clashes over what direction to take, whose turn it was to buy the drugs, and the arguments about the fact they would have made it by now ifthey had only done what they chose not to do.  As the years dripped by, the more the dream edged towards doing something on his own - create dittys on his pc...buy expensive music applications and plug ins, then splash out more money on interfaces and foot pedals to fuse the automated with the mechanical....all eventual.  big arms and chiselled abs.  Wrist weights...he liked the thought of that.  Bulging biceps and veiny arms purely via the magic of the natural urges of arms being lifted and straightforward moving about...plus it fit in brilliantly with his notoriously slow realising of things.   The heavier the better he thought - no point fucking about.  He found the heaviest set that offered free postage, and ordered them.  2-5 short days later, and he'd be Schwarznegger-esque purely by cutting about.  The thought was accompanied by a satisfied exhalation. 

He had been obsessed with developing the body once before - successfully one might add.  The problem he found, was that once he was immersed, there was little time for anything else.  The bigger and stronger and fitter he got, the more he felt obliged to do (the satisfaction came from constantly outdoing himself), as in after a week of doing twenty push ups, twenty press ups and twenty of everything else, next week he'd push himself to do twenty five push ups, twenty five press ups and twenty five of everything else, to the point where after a few exhaustive months, he was pumping out over one hundre of each every morning and evening, as well as a two hour run after work , and several miles on his mountain bike every Saturday.  The end of the summer (coincidentally) coincided with the realisation that he just simply wouldn't be able to fit Miss Right into this sort of schedule, which in all honesty was the whole reason he'd undertaken the whole process in the first place.  Pile on top a healthy dollop of gay accusations (the tight tee shirts to emphasise his arms likely didnt help), and a diet that meant he took one almightily huge shit every four or five days - which he was convinced was doing his rectum irrepairable damage - and the decision was taken to cut back, which eventually became nothing, which eventually became toking.  The recurring waves were fast becoming evident...rather than originality there was reprisals of previous endeavours...but fuck it he thought.  I'll get original when a lady volunteers a viewing of her breasts.

This of course was the upshot of the new found enthusiasm for reshaping the biceps and accenting the abs...to enable a shortcut to a womans heart - specifically in this case a certain young dog owning lady happened upon that very morning.  try as he might the ability to muster confidence in his banter minus the body he imagined himself having x amount of months down the line was minimal to say the least.  The biggest stumbling block was binding together a yarn that explained the preceding years without coming across as a hermitised loser...as someone damaged beyond the point of repair.  The sort of person who no right minded lady would take a chance on.  He knew that a popular perception of women was that overwhelming urge to nurture; to take care of.  But he didnt want taking care of...at least he didnt think he did.  The whole premise of being looked after, having his deficencies analyzed felt patronising - one of his biggest dislikes.  The very suggestion of being patronised brought forth an imaginary sprout of hair upon his chest and a totally unreasonable mindset that scared him into thinking he was capable of mindless and life-altering actions he would never recover from.  As well as this, his inescapable need to think of others, meant he would forever protect their right to avoid the sort of bullshit baggage he brought with him.  The unbelievably lucky lady - out there...somewhere, had to want this - him - without the desire to nurture, without the desire to fix...there could only be desire for him.

He found it hard to accept however, the strong possibility it would be nye on impossible to justify the last six years(it always made him shudder when the depressingly long amount of time was rekindled as a thought in his head...not to mention the fact it was that little bit longer every single time it refreshed itself) -as an existing human being.  He was quite literally friendless, hadnt seen any of his family in over a year (his mother still called every week, which he screened for as long as possible until the overwhelming guilt cascaded over him...which usually equated to a maximum of three weeks) and his job - a stock controller on a late shift pattern in a warehouse - meant he was rarely disturbed outside of stock enquiry calls from head office, or a few moments of friendly banter with fellow late shifters who drove forklifts.  It was a position he had put himself in - he knew that - but the longer the situation was as it was the harder he knew it would be to remedy.  He often cursed himself for his fussy attitude back when he was regularly surrounded by these groups (family, colleagues, friends)...whereby he would be all in with regards to promoting contact and activity organising, before an incident (or incidents, if it was the case where he put the situation on notice for smaller infringements, which then built up to equal an incident) would cause his enthusiasm to deflate wholly, and therefore retract as much as possible to plant the fuck off seed, waiting patiently for the dawning of realisation within the perpetrator that he should indeed, fuck off.  Of course, there was varying degrees on the scale of acknowledgment hit by the numerous victims of the judgement....the memories of the biggest offenders - ie those who took the longest to allow the penny to drop - haunted him...mostly in the way in which they flabberghasted him.  He couldn't get anywhere near to fathoming how a persons perception of a situation could be so off, whereby they would gleefully continue to impose themselves regardless of the blatant 'go to fuck you madman' vibes piercing their exterior.

There was no doubt he was at the opposite end of this spectrum, whereby the slightest indication of 'gotofuck' was felt, he would indeed do just that.  As such there had been many many confused folk left in his wake, who, in spite of this confusion, never got another look in...they were all left with with the wonderment of what had just happened.  Of course, there was no way of telling how much of an effect it had left on these people...maybe they were like 'ah well, fuck him anyway,' maybe they were like 'fuck this Im killing myself' - the not knowing was a comfort in a way.  The ability to just assume they'd be cool, life would go on.  The only thing worse than thinking you'd fucked someone up, was knowing so.  In a fifty fifty good or bad, he always happily sacrificed knowledge of possible good, for ignorance of possible bad.  There was no doubt in his mind however, that one of these thick skinned, carry on with the pursuit people he found so confusing, were in essence the very type of person he would likely end up with.  Someone with the ability to fight through the constant barriers he put up, shrug off the bullshit he slung at them.  Which at the end of the day equated to someone realising, and building into how they dealt with him, the fact he was fucked up, needed help and had to be moulded into someone who could become socially skilled.  He had to be changed by someone. 

It was a strange theory to think about, and to know it had to happen if the end result desire was to be realised...just how would the overriding problem of him not wanting to be placed under a microscope be side-stepped, whilst forcedly attempting to ignore his repulsion?  The musing brought forth a memory from when he was around twenty - he'd just finished college and with that the people who surrounded him through that time, regardless of the comfort he felt with any of them.  He had decided to travel as far away from home without leaving the confines of Britain; which meant travelling to the general vicinity of Devon and Cornwall.  A day plus spent on the bus, thusly dropped him into the abyss of naivety....miles away from anything familiar - a literal lamb to the slaughter for anyone who happened upon him and realised just what he was.  Fortunately, the optimism that accompanied him in this grand venture, met with positive results (of sorts), and so it was, that after a weekend spent in a B&B above a pub in Torquay he secured himself a (horribly shit) bedsit in the small town of Newton Abbot, famous mostly for its rich resource of clay.  The serious lack of money promoted the utter desperation of then getting a job, which flopped into his lap in the form of a call centre position.  Alas, he (and those he was surrounded by) were unwittingly phoning hapless daydreamers and inviting them along to a seminar where they'd receive a free gift for their trouble....tv's, pc's, video players - all of which they'd receive obligation free, but only for listening to a dude droning on about signing up to a 'holiday club'.  The truth would out years later, on a tv show whose premise was to expose dirty evil underhanders, who preyed on peoples inability to recognise a scam.  Be that as it may, the job paid for his accomodation and enough food to avoid malnourishment, so the scale was balanced in a way.  It was during this time he met James - a brash yet warm-hearted guy, who he instantly felt a rapport with - the chemistry was enjoyable owing to James splendid ability to take his razor sharp/bad taste humour schtick and judge him for it at every turn - a double act that was appreciated for what it was.  The stronger the bond was, the more forthcoming James became with his undiluted compliments of his character, which made him more and more uncomfortable, and desirous of a way out.

The wish was granted upon James announcing he was to undergo a tour of the east, starting in Asia, before working his way down to Australia and then ending the trip with a visit to some friends he knew in America.  He wanted him to join him.  He felt humbled by the invitation, but without any doubt in his mind that he wouldn't do it.  He was also aware however, that a flat out no, would likely tarnish their current relationship, and chose to basically, lie.  The remainder of time he had with James was then interspersed with little nuggets of information for James, that relying on him taking this trip was less than likely.  The booking of the ticket was a joint effort - James (as he often did) put him in a postion where he had to commit, asking him if he was going to book his ticket now also.  He chose to go down the line of not being able to commit to the full trip owing to the length of time that was required to allow for the complete experience, and would therefore need to organise returning home to drop off belongings, assessing the funds he would require and so on.  James seemed satisfied with this, and although he breathed a sigh of relief that more time had been won, he also felt downhearted about both, the quickminded lies he was weaving to effectively free him from ever seeing this person again, who had been so positively enamoured with him, that he was wholeheartedly desirous of sharing what could possibly be the most enjoyable experience of his life.  He cursed his lack of ability to accept this responsibility.  The thought that kept running through his mind from this point was that of James, sitting on a beach in Thailand sorely disappointed at the realisation that he wasn't to be joined, and that this in itself dissolved some of the enjoyment he was supposed to be having.  He couldn't shake the likely possibility that what he was doing was purely selfish; if he just had the courage to admit to his thought process, the early closure would allow sufficient time to rid the disappointment and just get on with having fun.  But as often before, the shame won over, and the lie was maintained right through to waving James off at the bus station, on his way to the airport.  Even I'd think I was a complete prick he thought over and over, fuelled by a steady state of being completely stoned.

It was his mother who snapped him out of it to a degree - plaining putting forth the point that he was in no position to commit to such an undertaking...it was all fine and well James was prepped and ready to fuck off round the world, he couldnt expect someone else to drop everything and join him.  The to a degree came in where he told himself that it was by no means James' fault he was keeping him in the dark about not going.  Thankfully (and no doubt deliberately) his mother left these facts out of the pep talk.  It left him with a quandry however - he knew he had to move on from this place, removing him from any people who would eventually know, as in James returning and spreading the word he was left out there, alone, confused and betrayed.  The flipside, is that he had barely been away for 2-3 months, meaning there was a pretty good chance he would be viewed as a failure in his efforts to finds the gold at the end of his fucked up rainbow.  So he decided to wait whatever amount of time felt right, or to the point where he had to to leave after James had taken off - whichever came first.   The first step to seperate himself happened swiftly - within one week he had moved about twenty miles to Exeter, finding himself a grander yet still easy to improve upon bedsit to hide away in.  The shutdown of communication with those he had intertwined with in Newton Abbot started immediately...there was a few half-hearted texts received from a one person - a guy he had bought pot from - about getting together for a smoke (which he duly ignored).  Other than that it was a clean break.  So clean in fact, he didnt see anyone other than strangers during trips to the shops for three months.  He had earned himself (finally) around four thousand pounds, via being run over by a car, and patiently waiting over three years for a result.  The benefit of this it turned out, was that he didnt have to move or communicate with anyone for a considerable amount of time.

It was a strange experience all in all.  Essentially zero contact with the outside world...he likened it to something he'd seen about Salmon Rushdie, who in light of that book he'd written, basically became a total recluse in order to avoid being shot or stabbed or whatever.  Like him he spent most days perfecting video game after video game, turning it almost into a career - waking up each morning at around half past eight, to go through the allotted stints with various long term goal laden games he'd plucked, obsessing unhealthily over targets and achievements.  Of course the big difference was that he hadn't a book that was causing people to wish death upon him - it was all of his own doing...entirely deliberately.  Of course living this way, with no fixed income, meant that the resources eventually dried up.  It was left until flirtation with absolute poverty was achieved, before he got himself a job.  The job was back to the phones - this time offering lucky businesses cheaper rates on their electricity bills.  The twist in the tail was that the deals were being offered by a company who had brokered the unknowing businesses previous deals, with an electricity company who went bust.  One namechange later, and reference to a handy database of now desperate companies later, and it was onward to extracting yet more cash from the hapless.  As shitty as he felt for being involved with this, he soothed his soul by focussing on the fact he wasn't there during the original fuck over with a pinch of acknowledgement of his own dire situation.   Plus the people were nice.  Back he was to being with those who knew nothing of him.  A short while of non-judgement (entirely justified at least) to savour.

The problem was he knew it was finite - the company was small - even smaller when you took away the bosses, and elders - leaving basically three people who would by natural means place him under the microscope.  Everyone starts out friendly and formal to begin with (varying time-frames granted), but owing to the fact they were so much in each others faces for much of the day, it was only a matter of time before barriers would be broken, questions would be asked, and information would be sought.  And it wasnt only these folk - they shared a building with a larger telecoms company, from which the pool of people mingled with was increased via the smoke breaks taken atr set points throughout the day.  A friendship was struck up with a couple of guys from them - Dave and Wayne, who shared a love of pot smoking and talking random bollocks.  From the confines of his own company there was John - potentially the most brash and upfront people he'd ever met, coupled with the bombshell that he wasn't gay.  He was the very definition of a lad, who regaled the open mouthed onlookers with tales of masturbating onto biscuits with his friends....the premise being he who shot last, enjoyed a increasingly soggy snack.  Being one who tried wherever possible to keep judgement to himself, he fought almightily with urges rousing upon the revelations of John and his school buddies video-ing themselves group shagging naive girls, and watching them with other friends.  He was the kind of guy he felt certain one day he'd witness getting into a huge ruckus purely because of his version of how to live life.  Wayne was one of those he felt would sooner or later butt heads with.  Much like John, Wayne was a floor-taker, often a topic of discussion for those who witnessed his inane stories.

He found himself therefore in an increasingly familiar position, whereby he was the filling between two very different slices of bread, accented by varying situations where social expertise was forced into play by way of headbutting for his company...much in the vein of two horny stags wanting to shag a trembling roe.  He did hope this wasnt a literal comparison - he wasn't confident of being handled affectionately by either of these two fucked up maniacs.  Dave it turned out was a handy buffer to Waynes beyond recommended intensity, and found himself slotting in nicely to their dynamic...Dave's chilled outedness offering a large area of openness for him to snuggle into as the equally friendly/more energetic/less intense middleman.  As such he found himself wandering round to Daves flat, which initially was a welcome alternative to sitting and staring at the tv lonely and bored.  The flat dwelling was often precluded by a couple of hours at the pub across the road, which served as the location for his debut meetings with two other regular contributors to the group dynamic - Ian and Sam.  Both were easy guys to get along with - he chatted at length with Ian in particular from early on..it was more a case of being chatted at by Sam - but it was all friendly enough.  Two or three liaisings in, and he started recognising traits in Ian that caused him concern.  The relationships of both with Wayne was eye-opening; Wayne was the kind of guy who provoked an open and honest reaction from anyone who encountered him.  Even if that was one where reservedness took place it told him they were savvy enough to let things slide and go with the flow.  Ian possessed a ton of this savvyness - evensofar as to poke subtle fun at Wayne, which caqused him to battle nervously at the natural reaction to guffaw at the brass-neckedness of it.  Ian on the other hand talked to Wayne (and vice versa) like they were planning a war or somesuch...musing way way too matter of factly about things that would pucker the vast majority of eyebrows.  He would often struggle to contain a huge exhalation of disbelieving breath at things they'd say.

There was one particular night at the pub that served as the inevitable proof of paranoia - Wayne was eagerly keen to invite him along - pills would be on the go, and with that a long optimism-filled night.  Pill poppage was something that had escaped his free time since college - some 3 years ago at this point...and the opportunity was seen as a welcome one, despite having his internal ying and yang yell their cases at him.  He decided to go with the sneering scoffing yang, and join the crew for a night of debauchery.  The five of them sat round a table in the corner of the pub, talking excitedly and randomly, laughing out loud at the inanity of the tales being put forth.  An hour or so in the convo turned serious all of sudden; Sam was letting them in on a touch of argy bargey he'd had with his mother, over her lack of understanding during a particularily rough period he had endured recently, owing to excess in the partying genre.  He automatically assumed extreme alcohol consumption - it was now the norm he watched Sams drinking prowess in awe, unable to comprehend the level of dedication it took to reach the level of consuming so much without automatically passing out.  Promptings were offered to Sam - what sort of shit was your maw saying; have you sorted it out yet, etc etc....to which he muttered much the same things back about how unreasonable she was, how she was always doing this, and she'd never get it.  He decided to address his lack of engagement by asking how much he'd drunk to cause such a level of recovery requirement - to which Sam replied with a hushed 'bit more than that mate,' through a vacant smile.  He took in the response and filtered it into a reason for worry, but chose (wisely he thought) to push the issue no further.  Certain characters around the table would soon provide deeper insight into what was at play here, or to put it more accurately, supply the proof for his suspicions.

Maybe the mellon collie provided by the conversation acted as a catalyst - but upon completion, Wayne decided to work the room...a nightmare for the unwitting victims about to be baraged with unspeakable, aggressive bollocks, doubly so owing to the 5-6 pints of local ale settled ominously in his belly.  He watched on, cringing at the faces of those who sat on the receiving end of the tirade, attempting to force forth sympathy towards their line of vision, as they sought desperately via darting eyes for any potential escape route from the torment.  The whole episode was made more uncomfortable by Wayne stopping every so often, and staring directly and resolutely at the audience, awaiting reaction; forcing them to partake in the analysis.  The same reaction was always evident: a solid minute rapid eye movement, head-turning and panic, followed by a shrug of the shoulders which was met with disdain and mockery from Wayne, who'd then dress them down for not at least holding an opinion on the subject.  Then he'd move on.  He visited three tables, addressing a total of 11 people - by the end, only four remained.  The turn of events prompted conferences and concerned stares across from the bar staff, actions which continued for the remainder of the time spent in the pub.  He felt almost obliged to reason with the people that had fallen victim...yes he was here with the guy, but he wasn;t like that, he wasn't represented by the guy.  If he had a reputation to protect, it was one that was non-threatening - to the point where he'd endeavour to defuse threatening situations wherever possible.  But with Wayne, it was one of those where he struggled to see how this was possible.  All he ever envisioned was a fire of insanity spreading until everything was engulfed.

The mass departure has fortunately created a void of inspiration within Waynes mind, and he opted to return to his seat, instead of continuing the onslaught.  He glanced at Wayne awkwardly, who wore a glazed expression on his face, apparently experiencing an attack of the negative aspects of alcoholic consumption.  He mentally breathed a sigh of relief at the sight...finally a break from the action.  He reached for his pint of guinness in front him him, and was disturbed by a grab at his arm, prompting reflex actions of pint spill avoidance.  It was Wayne...immediately arising panic; he attempted to quell the oncoming with a warm smile.  Wayne tugged at his arm a couple of times, prompting him to replace his pint on the table.  The grabbing ceased....Wayne casually swinging his other arm round to a position hovering above his hand.  He opened his acceptingly, feeling the sensation of something dropping into the centre of his palm.  He looked back up at Waynes face, who muttered 'drop it now mate'.  He didnt hesitate...if there was one thing he had learned this evening, it was that confrontation with Wayne was less hassle than consumption of drugs.  He reached for his pint once more to assist with the wash down, and caught the eye of Dave, who offered an expression of affirmation.  He responded with a gentle nod.  Dave gestured with his eyes towards Wayne and smiled - he looked round joining in the smiling at the sight of Waynes head tilted back, complete with mouth ajar.  The table responded favourably to adjourning to Daves place upon completion of the current round.  It was announced that they'd be joined shortly by a guy named Brian, which prompted a Wayne revival; his head snapping back into place, grabbing his pint and dropping the remaining three quarters full.  ''Is he coming carrying?' asked Sam, Dave nodding in response.  Ian clapped his hands together in response grinning.  'All will be revealed' offered Ian, acknowledging his unknowing expression.

Brian arrived ten to fifteen minutes later, identified by the acknowledging glances from all around him.  Brian strode carefully up to the their table, an almost deliberately gormless look on his face.  Quite obviously fucked, he announced his arrival with a drawled 'alright boys' in a thick Australian accent.  'Alright Bri...good then is it?'  prompted Dave asking the question the rest looked ready themselves to ask.  'Fucking great,' he tittered, before offering that they return to Daves post haste...his level of fuckedness, seemingly obvious to him.  Dave extended the request with 'lets go' eyes, and they all stood grabbing their coats.  He purposely took his time, allowing the others to steal a march, so he could assess from afar.  He was fairly sure hallucinogenics were behind Brians state of mind, and he found himself making early preparations in remaining calm and serene and positive.  He'd had a great time on mushrooms and acid and stuff previously, always welcoming the experience wholeheartedly and as such venturing forth into a wonderful and enlightening experience.  He had also witnessed the flipside of the effects - people who had consumed alongside him, had thusly descended into the depths (well somewhere below norm), of despair, bringing upon miserable moanings of regret and a search for constant reassurance.  And it was more this he was dubious of, in spite of his own preparations..that distinct possibility that certain members of the group - namely Wayne - would descend into a fuller more negative version of what they were currently portraying...and with Wayne that unfortunately presented the distinct possibility of one nasty fucker.   

The outside temperature belied the 11pm hour, the balmy conditions now installed as the norm after several months of struggle coming to terms with it.  As a Scotsman, balmy wasn't really a subject he had a great deal of previous experience with.  He caught the eye of Dave ahead, looking back at him, who then deliberately halted allowing him to draw alongside.  He recognised the effort to put him at ease...he knew in spite of himself he gave off an aura of naivety, which was generally only half true...there was no doubt he was no man of the world in the purest form - but at the same time he made a conscious decision to be open and embracing of experience if it so happened to fall into his lap.  It was the hunting of it that was less evident.  It turned out Dave however was perhaps wise to the concerns regarding Wayne swimming through his mind, and was therefore the putting at ease of mind was solely regarding this point.  He Appreciated it, and the both of them were able to convey their message through minimal of explanation...he was concerned sure...but he was ready at the same time.  Nothing like numbers to quell the potential of trouble flaring - not to mention the familiarity amongst them all.  It was very much the case he was the most outsiderish of the gang, and he knew for a fact there was little chance of him swinging punches or hurling excrement towards the nights end.  Regardless, Daves knowing smile in conclusion was a comfort.  As they walked into the building containing Daves flat, Ian offered a follow up reassuring glance, playfully jabbing him on the arm, with a 'fear not this'll be fun,' tone to his 'alright mate?' prompt.  He nodded.  He expected fun, there was no doubt there - it was just whether or not he'd be forced into a battle to hang onto it he was dubious about.

The short jaunt to Daves building - a semi-high rise block of flats - was pleasantly incident-free; a short parade of twos and threes, lost in the excited conversation regarding what was to unfold.  Dave continued along the path of mind easing - highlighting the apparent joyousness Brian was experiencing, coupled with the veteran status of everyones drug use...he was in safe hands here.  The group dynamic would always quickly stifle the apple cart upsetter.   In a way it kind of saddened him a little that he never (at least up to now) had set a precedent whereby he was seen as someone who was wise to it all, there was no reason to feel concern for.  But he did his usual, responding with short warm responses in appreciation at the effort.  They reached the front door to the building, those ahead slowing and stepping either side, allowing Dave to venture forward with the entrance offering key fob.   Hands reached out in quick succession, acknowledging their turn to hold ajar the door, as they all filtered in.  Some voices hushed to a much lower decibel level, in respect of the surroundings: front doors to peoples homes all around them...that is with the exception of Wayne and Sam, who continued their own convo at the same level, making him cringe at the potential tuttings from behind all the doors.  Not to mention the subject matter of their conversation was cunnilingus.  When it became rapidly clear this was ne'er to cease Dave offered a polite yet damning, 'Guys...' accented with narrowed eyes and serious thinned mouth.  Wayne guffawed before offering a legit apology.   Dave - seemingly satisfied with this, jabbed the call button for the lift, and the group rode out the few seconds waiting in silence.

The four floor trip up the lift was punctuated with Wayne unnecessarily continuing the apologising, unmoved into ceasing by Daves sighings, and 'Its fine''s.  He casually searched the faces of everyone else - a combo of non-reaction (Ian), amusement (Sam) and fascination in the reflections in the shiny metal surfaces of the lift (Brian).  The lift shunked to a halt, Dave leading the turns towards the door, anxiously waiting to slink out through the gap as soon as he was able.  He now ignored the continued banterings of Wayne, seemingly oblivious he was again committing the crime he was so intent on apologising for.  Dave swiftly turned his key in the door, ushering everybody in, silently looking to the group to allow Wayne in first.  He looked to Brian, making sure he entered ahead of him, such was the low level of confidence he had in Brian performing everyday tasks even slightly well.  He followed after Brian, grinning at the sight of him tracing his fingers over the seventies style wallpaper, a look of astonishment etched on his face.  Sam snapped him out of it, sharply repeating his name until he had his attention, then beckoning him through to the living room.  He followed behind after a glance at Sam to share in the mirth.  Daves place was crammed high with all manners of stuff; books, dvds, records, various examples of yesteryears technologies (computers, radios, tvs and so on), resulting in a requirement for many a stance shift towards the comfort of the inviting yet ugly couches.  'Right guys, wont be a mo,' Dave announced, turning on his heels to somewhere off beyond the living room door.  Sam led the inquest into the experience Brian was having - very much playing the good cop, asking about the things he was seeing, and suchlike.  Wayne unfortunately, decided to partake in the cliched roleplay, and launched headfirst into bad cop.

The return of Dave, coincided with Wayne first blunt verbal attack on Brian, combining a threatening tone with a brief summary directed at the rest of us, meant as a way of explaining the tidal wave of abuse.  'You're a special kind of cunt, arent you Bri...Brian here, fucked some random bitch in Germany, got her pregnant, then ran here ignoring his responsiblities....isnt that right Bri?  You fucking weak weak prick.'  He fought with the urge to step forth and interject on Brians behalf, noting with ease the venom with which Wayne was fuelled up with, was toxic to say the least.  Glancing around the room, the faces told a story of intrigue, and previous knowledge of these types of event springing forth, and thus using them as an oppurtunity to sit back and take in a story they regale to others.  Unfortunately for Brian he was henceforth on his own to tackle it, with a head full of (presumably) acid.  The comments rolled on and on - he unfortunately found himself the focal point of Waynes catch up paraphrasing, and he winged it as best he could with a feigned interest and curiosity, in an effort to mask the wide eyed horror, his face was naturally wanting to project.  He took the opportunity to glance at Brian, whenever it presented itself, and the discomfort was there in abundance...he guessed the difficulty in dealing was in the most normal of circumstances was hard enough, let alone whilst contending with the mind contortions brought on by drugs.  Dave sat waiting, his face etched more with a impatient, 'hurry up and get it over with'  type strain, clasping something in his hand.  In unwitting answer to this, Brian broke the onslaught, announcing 'Im off - you're spinning me out Wayne', clearly exasparated, as he unsteadily rose from his seat.  Wayne responded immediately, ' Im spinning you out?  Its the least you deserve you fucking wanker,' offering plenty evidence that physical altercation was moments away.  Dave, sporting veteran-like instincts, stepped forth towards Brian, placing a hand on his arm, guiding him through the living room, towards the exit.  As they disappeared, Wayne himself arose, announcing 'Im going to threaten him - you guys think I should threaten him?', already moving swiftly, prior to any answer received.  Sam chuckled, watching him leave, then glancing at him, shaking his head with a look of disdain and an eye-roll to the heavens.  Un-decipherable mutterings were heard in the hallway for a few moments, then both Wayne and Dave returned, highlighted with an intense stare towards him from Wayne, punctuated with, 'Right - who shall I start on now - you I think,' gleefully rubbing his hands together intensely.  'Give me your best shot Wayne,' He retorted.

The words leaving his lips coincided with a rush of adrenaline coursing through him, anticipating a backlash.  The fear was answered immediately with a knowing laugh and immediate dismissal of pursuit however, Wayne seemingly happy that his path of misanthropy was now at a close.  He laughed back, quenching a desire to stand and hug Wayne, in thanks for not exploring the initial threat.   He stayed alert until Wayne was comfortably back sitting in his seat, occupying himself with rolling a joint.  Dave moved the passage of events onto the moment they had been waiting for - a moment they no doubt would have reached already if it hadn't been for the Wayne whathaveyous' - but that only made for a raised level of anticipation and excitement.  Dave produced a small bottle from the breast pocket of his plain blue shirt, setting it briefly on the table as he fished in his other pocket for some rizla papers.  'Who first gents? he offered, glancing warmly round the room.  'Clockwise seems fair to me,' Sam offered, generously(?), therefore putting him first in the firing line, Sam second. 'Yeah fire on mate,' Ian seconded, motioning with a nod in his direction.  He watched as Dave carefully let four droplets of the liquid in the bottle, soak the rizla paper below, moving back slightly, prompting him to pick it up with a sharp glance.  'Down the hatch mate,' he instructed, a wry smile on his face, as he picked up the soggy paper and popped it in his mouth.  He let his tongue crush the paper into a more easily swallowed snack, and gulped it down.  Sam gave a mock cheer, impatiently muttering 'me next me next'.   He looked round the room for moral support, swallowing in by the wide grinned gawp of Wayne, perhaps deliberately in tow with his utterings of 'Too late now matey' followed by an evil chuckle.  He brushed it off with a scoff, now concentrating on watching Dave prepare the second paper for consumption.  'Get a second joint built mate,' Dave then instructed, producing a lump of resin from the same pocket as the bottle.  He birghtly responded, 'Sure,' glad of the opportunity to use his hands for something other than clasping together in front of him.  The snap of a lighter sounded from across the room, as Wayne lit his freshly produced joint, followed by a question to Ian, ' So what was your mum saying to you then Ian?' 'What about mate?  Oh the recovery you mean?  Same shit she always says mate.  Thats the problem with never having done heroin - you just dont fucking understand the shit that a person goes through the other side of it.'

Of all the things he didnt want to hear, after having dropped a soggy acid dripping rizla, this was right up there.  He understood the desire to experiment with mind alteration - but never heroin.  He had no doubt there was much joy to be experienced taking the stuff - but it was rare he heard of someone leading a great life with a solid dependency on the big H.  And to be honest, there wasn't a whole heap of trust he associated with Ian without this knowledge - know he knew there'd be a struggle to maintain any composure whilst talking to him.
'Yeah mate,' he continued. 'When you feel the way you do coming off, the last shit you need is someone telling you fucked up crap like 'clear up your stuff and get out'!  Couldn't believe it...me own fucking mother!'
A concentrated level of wonderment stained his mind...disbelief at the gall of the statement.  He pictured vividly, a random made up woman (in his mind a buxom blonde 45 year old...for some reason he pictured Ians mother as a woman who had been considered hot in her day, but had been ravaged by the life she'd led...had a kid, split with her partner, raised him by herself, went through all sorts of shit as he got in trouble...etc etc) shouting frustratedly at her monged out son - lolling incoherently on a sheetless stained mattress, oblivious to the absolute torment and shame he brought out in his only present parent.  If anything, he imagined once the withdrawal had diminished, once the excuse of desperation and pain had rid itself from him, surely the next phase was seeking forgiveness...doing all he could to make it up.  But apparently, at times there were those who saw it differently.  A handy reminder that for grantedness wasn't to be fallen upon, as every now and again the pillow of comfort would have a shard of glass stuffed deep within it.  He skilfully then managed to stifle a guffaw and turn it into a cough, brought upon by the retort by Wayne. 'Some people are just cunts mate.  Only interested in number one.'  The double barrels of both agreeing with the distaste felt at not sympathising and labelling the afflicted mother the c-bomb was one only real life could provide...there was no shock tactics being sought here - this was genuine thoughts bearing their ugly face right in front of him, away from the prying eyes of the world.  And with that, the pull of the acid tugged at him, grabbing him at the very moment his mind was awash with fear and disbelief, and hurt.

It was just starting - there was still time to get positive and happy.  Bad shit happened all the time...no point dwelling.  Of course the very fact it was happening right here in front of him...he halted the thought path there and then - focus.   The conversation Wayne and Ian were having continued, evermore depressing in its tone.  He switched his attention as casually as he could between Sam and Dave, hoping to gain an insight into their thoughts of the proceedings.  Perhaps there was experience, a better poker face, a lack of caring....whatever - the evidence showed a far superior handling on their behalfs than he felt he was achieving.  Sam suddenly cut through the dark babble, and asked Dave if some tunes could be stuck on.  Dave springingly arose, full of optimistic aggreeance at the suggestion.  'What you fancy mate?', he offered.  'I dunno...something to fit the tone I reckon...dancey trippy crazy shit!'  His attention grabbed, by the opportuniy to interject, he put forward Aphex Twin as a solid named suggestion for the description.  'Heh yeah, pretty much bang on mate!' responded Sam enthusiastically, seemingly reacting the apparent mind reading he'd achieving.  'Isnt any mate sorry...I do have a couple suggestions however...', Dave trailed off as the hunt through plastic crates of records commenced, laid sporadically around the decks at the far end of the room. 'Yeah Aphex Twin - they're fucking great mate!' continued Sam nodding in accompaniment.  He smiled back in agreeance, the burden of replying taken away by Sam, who then plunged headlong into a tale about being on a French skiing holiday - where naturally he found himself going out and getting supremely fucked every night...and as it happened, Window Licker by Aphex Twin had provided the backdrop to him getting lucky with a local hot blonde - complete with a broken leg.  He chortled with increasing vigour at the memory of having sex with her, her buxom plaster covered leg placed gently on his shoulder to allow for easy penetration.  The tale proved just the tonic for him...demonstrated by the laughter overreaction - he continuously giggled at the words for several minutes after.  'Tickled you that one mate?'  a smiling Dave asked, to which he nodded back, hand over mouth in an effort to regain composure.

Sam seemed to sense the onrush of the acid in him, conveying the fact with a knowing stare.  He reflected in kind, happy that he was sharing this wondrousness with someone he trusted.  The thought prompted him to turn to Dave, but instead of a grinning sniggering face, he saw a hunched over figure from the rear, busily continuing the search for the perfect mood fitting music.  He glanced back at Sam, who answered with, 'Yeah, hes up mate, the image will become clearer once the tunes are on.'  Dave, on cue, then slid a record out from the stack, and paced confidently behind the decks, expertly retrieving the record from its sleeve, fingers all edges; lightly blowing either side, before placing it gently onto the left turntable.  A thumping straight four bass drum pumped energetically out of the two tall speakers, joined eight bars later by disjointed hi hats.  He let his foot join the beat of the bass drum...minutes passing before he was aware of not having done anything other than stare at the red standby light on the dvd player the other side of the room, the whole time his heel bapping off the floor.  The standby light was far more interesting than usual of course, hence the several minutes worth of intrigue.  A sudden burst of noise in the music after a titanic build up brought him out of the trance, eyes brought away to assess the room.  Sam was smiling broadly at him, lips pressed together in a clear supportive gesture for the music.  A rush of tingly joyousness rushed up the back of his neck, in gleeful acknowledgement - the sight of Wayne somehow passed out on the couch next to Sam heightened this immensely almost feeling the urge to climb to his feet and dance.  The thought brought more laughter from him, chorused by a louder more deliberate laugh from Sam.  Ian spent the whole time staring upward, eyes squeezed shut, head gently swaying in a manner not traditionally associated with any obvious beat the song was producing, but he suspected in a way that made perfect sense to Ian.  Dave had compiled a tidy stack of follow up record to play, which brought about the desire to ditch their surroundings and hit a club somewhere.  The thought of women suddenly popped into his head, insofar as to the lack of them for a considerable period...it was this sort of mood women should be in his company - amood where inhibitions where null and void.  He spent no further time dwelling on it however - he equated that however much of an effect his verbal magic would have, the formula would always equal a negative, owing the high likelihood the amount of drugs and drink in his system, meant his johnson was practically ineffective.   

He chuckled to himself at the previous thought...never in his life ever had he had a one night stand, or for that matter sex within the first 24 hours of meeting someone...either sex.  In fact it was just with one sex over the complete history of his existence.  The musing over both sexes was irrelevant - here within the confines of his mind it was safe and harmless to throw some thought upon, away from mockery and so on.  He knew for a fact this here in front of him was no audience for the matter.  But gay sex...it never crossed his mind in a casual, and meaningful way, never had a rousing from his groin arisen from the sight of a penis - flaccid or erect - yet still during his teenage years, he would often muse on whether he was actually gay, owing to the complete lack of success he had experienced with the opposite sex.  It never occurred to him that flat arses and facial hair were actually supposed to turn him on; there was a lot more to it that sharing a convo about football or monster trucks.  It hadnt lasted long - there was too much intelect going on for that crazy angle to remain a constant...so much in fact, he'd once decided to prove to himself that giving blowjobs and anal sex werent part of his future, by actually buying a gay porno to see if an erection made itself present.  It was hard work - this was pre-get anything you want on the internet times, and involved biting the bullet in sharingh his name and address with some random sex shop worker out there who kindly posted him a movie starring several toned dudes pretending to be american football players involved in extra time in the changing rooms and so on.  His face was a crimson embarrassment when he went through the complete motion of receiving the package, pulling it out of the box, placing it in the dvd player, and witnessing the shitest acting ever, leading up to zero romance fondling and sucking.  He lasted about 4 minutes of scene one, before he realised 'its chicks for me'.  The thought of the two guys wrestling over each others solid dongs would pop into his head from time to time, reprising the crimson flush, and often prompting whoever was in his company at the time to ask if he was alright.  At least he had closure...was the price of gaining it was all.

On this occasion the musing caused him to titter uncontrollably as to the inanity of himself during the tender teenage years.  Sam joined him, asking what without saying the words, to which he shook his head shrugging his shoulders.  'You managing to keep the enjoyment going mate?' asked Sam to which he nodded enthusiatically...he had many a bullshit thought to keep himself entertained at the best of times...let alone at a time when even the most innocuous of thoughts caused mirth of the highest order. 'Actively trying to avoid slipping into a crazy thought pattern mate,' Sam continued without proper prompting. 'Tend to find when the mind wanders it opens a strong possibility of descending into the sinister...and that the last thing Im looking for.  Been spending the last twenty minutes building imaginary bricks in front of myself..kind of like a concious sheep count.'  He smiled and nodded as if to suggest he knew where he was coming from...but in all honesty the possibility of slipping into the sinister had not even crossed his mind.  Which, it struck him, was altogether quite extraordinary, what with the events of the evening, and the unknown element of some of those...in fact all, if truth be told, of those around him, seeing as how he didnt really know much about any of them, outside of his presumptions.  Ian, was away, far away in some personal world..the thought crossed his mind to enquire, but immediately thought better of it, and Wayne - by some fucking miracle of chance, was curled up apparently asleep, which beggared belief owing to the frame of mind he found himself in.  He made a point of motioning to the lumplike figure of Wayne on the couch to Sam, who responded with 'Best all round mate,' punctuated with satisfied smile.  The air was filled now with a steady chilled up tempo soundtrack of dreamy dance music - so fitting it almost seemed apparent Dave had the setlist ready in his mind from the moment the idea of picking up the acid came to fruition.  He himself was taking full advantage of the situation he himself had created; busily hunting for more and more records, on top of those he'd stacked an impressive 30-40 high.  OBviously far too many to cram into the small amount of hours the night had left, but, he imagined presenting the happy problem of selecting which was the perfect for the moments ahead.

Apparently owing to an unsteadiness in his legs, Dave then joined us in the seating area, a heavy box of records in tow.  'Lengthy number this one' he murmurred, to which he guessed he was referring to the length of the current song.  He sat down with the assistance of a stumble, catching part of Waynes outstretched leg. 'Fuck sake' Wayne exclaimed, in a short snappy manner, bringing forth a acidic tone in Dave I had yet to witness.  'Other people exist Wayne.'  There was no further dialogue.  Dave, for all his calm and placid exterior, held a strange sort of awe within Wayne...for all his nuttiness and completely un-pc methodology, there was a childlike search for permission from Dave he sought...I'd noticed on more than one occasion Wayne gently putting forth a line of questioning seemingly to seek Daves approval for his course of actions.  It was always acknowledged rather that dismissed, as if Dave felt a responsibilty towards him, to guide his misguided methods.  Dave was careful (or at least as far as he thought, witnessing the conversations) to be firm but fair with his responses, as if dealing with a horse who might buck at any second.  'What time is it?' Dave promptly asked, deflecting the negative course the incident had tainted the air with.  Sam obliged with a glance at his watch - three forty five it turned out.  The announcement surprised him...it felt as if several more hours had passed, and he duly stared towards the window, seeking confirmation from the glimpse of sky between the untidily drawn curtains.  The darkness confirmed it he thought, but he stared on anyway, discovering marvellous tricks of the eye within the confines of the curtain pattern.   

The morphing shapes within the curtain grabbed him by the eyes, jotting in ink the agenda for the next several minutes.  A fuzzy feeling accompanied the wondrous sight, forcing a smile across his face in recognition of the ecstasy.  The comfort of the feeling had him quickly assess the arrival at this moment...through which it occurred to him the joy was a result of it previously being so unexpected.  Although successful at quelling it, there was no doubt whatsoever the feeling of dread pressed against his melancholy, when Wayne was snapping the sharp nasty insults at Brian - surely a pre-cursor to night of hellish inescapable shittiness, that the drugs inside him would assure future visits for years to come.  The musing ushered in a memory of a high school teacher lecturing them about drugs - the reason for which, being a younger pupil - who, after consuming an unknown quantity of mushrooms, was found tracing his hands over the walls of the corridor at four in the morning, completely naked, laughing uncontrollably.  Flashbacks, the teacher had warned - one try and you're haunted forever.  If the young man in question injured himself in his classroom (he was the craft & design teacher - particularly at risk he'd be) as he revisited the dark world of his personal mushroom dwelling, he wouldn't be held responsible.  At the time, it was a struggle not to laugh - both because of the mental image of the boy as his parents had found him and because the teacher delivered the speech with such vigour and seriousness.  Now it was reason to ponder - not worry he hastened to tell himself, for he was having such a wonderful time.  He'd gladly revisit this place.  He'd smiled proudly at the apparent strength in mind he possessed - proven without doubt by his handling of what had preceded.

'Skin up mate,' came the order from Dave, softened by a knowing smile.  He grabbed the packet of papers in unison with the command, happy in a way to be brought back to liaising with the group - a group that he was comfortable with...he glanced up and registered Ian also, which lessened the comfort level somewhat.  He wasn't quite there yet with Ian.  Acknowledged heroin use hadn't exactly done a great deal for his relaxation around him.  However Ian now seemed to be completely shut off - stuck in a serious thought process that he for certain wasn't going to interrupt.  Dave and Sam were easy peasy in all honesty, but he still felt the pressure of impressing them; proving to them he was to be considered as he did them - somebody who was cool, who they wanted to converse with, share things with.  The pressure of impressing made itself known with pretty much every interaction - whether it be pride in a delivery, embarrassment at a awkward reaction, or even frustration at a missed opportunity.  It often passed through his mind what people thought of him, what they said to each other about him.  Those moments after departing, saying goodbye to a crowd of two or more...were they calling him a prick behind his back, tittering about how he tried too hard, thought he was funnier than he actually was...or preferably that he was dead easy to relate to, open to unfamiliar things, and introduced people to hidden gems in music or film or wonderings even.  The thought had crossed his mind many a time - prompting a self-scathing assessment of being obsessive and egotistical - but often he found, it was much much easier to act in a set way with someone, when the mystery of review was known to him.  He'd had it both sides - liking someone and being confident of reciprocation, when actually they thought he was a 'cunt', and also disliking someone only to discover they were enamoured with him.  True enough he had a lot more experience of the latter...but of course people in general are far more forthcoming with positive remarks than negative.  Which he was more than thankful for - the devastation of learning how wrong he'd been about the person who'd labelled him so vilely, hit him hard...another knock on the trail to oneness.

The incredibly strong marijuana (at least compared to what he'd spent the best part of three years smoking), worked extremely well in companionship with the now mellowing effects of the acid; tranquility washed through him as he gazed contentedly at anything colourful directly ahead.  He purposely smoked the first quarter of his chubby joint in an efficient manner, keen to address the urgency laced in the request Dave had made to him to assemble.  'Cheers mate,' Dave responded in satisfaction to the passing.  'The guy I get this from grows it in bat shit,' Dave chuckled.  'Something he read,' Dave continued shrugging at his prompting for clarification.  'Alright if I skin up too Dave?'  Sam enquired, seemingly eager to gain the pleasure extracted from the wonder herb.  'Yeah mate, fire away,' replied Dave.  He watched Sam excitedly set about the task, invertly smiling at the mutual love they had for the act of getting stoned.  It had been pretty much all he had done with his spare time since leaving home, spare for the first few weeks where he ran the course of being naive to it, being introduced, experiencing massive whiteys (one in particular brought forth fears of death), starting to smoke normal cigarettes, before moving beyond group sessions and starting to smoke alone playing video games, and watching countless movies.  His first year at college, was a year long venture of wide-eyedness; completely novice at even the base level of social interaction, let alone the consumption of drugs varying along the scale of notoriety.  That famous whitey occurred a mere three weeks into his tenure at college, surrounded by people who did all the talking - confident and opinionated, nonchalantly passing him joints and beckoning him forward to choke back buckets and bongs...come the hour of eleven he was locked in the toilet in the dark roused only by the gentle promptings of 'you alright in there?' from a girl named Lucy, concern he was loath to answer or accept, as every uttering was preceded by poorly masked laughter.  He could imagine her, the other side of the door, staring into the room at the rest of them exchanging guffaws at his plight...but eventually he caved, and unlocked the door, deciding to embrace the mockery.  Annoyingly, she adopted the tone of a concerned mother, soothingly rubbing his arm and offering a glass of water, murmurring 'better? Hmmm?' as he deliberately gulped back the refreshing liquid.  His face burned at the plight, but he reasoned it was something everybody went through, and began to envisage how he'd treat the hapless novice who would go through this very experience whenst he became a veteran of these gatherings.

Moments like those were irritating in more ways than just the embarassment of them...there was a conflicting desiriousness in there too - the pull of submitting to the nurturing he received from the person who was making him look like a niaive child.  It was a moment shared, that was best suited to a place behind closed doors; where judgement remained dormant.  It was harder than anything - at least in sense of emotional connection - for him to grasp, and when living it, he was almost immediately aware of that it was something he was going to regard as 'a shame it slipped by' once it happened...because he knew he would do nothing with it.  He was just way too aware of non-contributing eyes upon him, looking forward to being elsewhere regaling friends and colleagues with the story of the fool that needed taking care of.  He was therefore keen to engage Lucy in times ahead, and explore the potential she had demonstrated.  She was afraid not in the slightest of judgement or mocking - just saw the requirement to step in and assist when others either ignored or joked, like the samaritan who crossed the street to help.  It was a person he wanted to be - and he recognised the desire to be so, meant it was certainly possible, he just needed muses and experience.  His life had sent in him a direction whereby he was there in that moment, the recipient of kindness he had not oft witnessed - either personally or observedly.  He had always viewed tokers as hipsters up until then - he was in no doubt that many in the room were the very essence of that descriptive - in that he only knew of kids his age reaching out to the new people that suddenly appeared in their lifes offering them an oppurtunity to explore something other than just playing on computers or watching football.  They were all just doing it because it was cool to do so: because people they were in awe of did it, and if there were to be held in the same regard, then they had to too.  But that was the power of that age - money or jobs, or grades or whatever didnt matter.  This era was different - it was the first time he was aware of actual people who did these things in their stride...it was who they were.

The people surrounding him in the room at this moment were the very definition of this...a lot of people experimented with the extra-curricular activities society threw them a chance to experiment with, be it drugs, drink, partying or whatever...but it was where they were five years after that, told the story - judgements began, from even those who could be easily described as one of them back in the first quarter or so of this time span.  The unwritten rule of 'thats what late-teens/early twenties are for' - getting things out of your system; living life without boundary and taking advantage of the man (your mother and father) not being right there to scald you for every misstep.  But there comes a time where priorities take hold and preparation for building a future take hold....a time where letting go of the life you can never think of ever giving up, and embracing responsibility.  Of course grey areas exist....whether it be the exec who snorts coke on a Friday night, or the organic farmer who still smokes tonnes of weed socially with his or her friends...but essentially the freedom wanes, the need for moving on is apparent.  He sat here, with these people, at the ripe age of 25, standing right at the crossroads of making the choice....stick with them or move on.  The thought provoked analysing each ones prospects - and in spite of the potential front page of the paper full size photo that seemed destined for Waynes future, it was Ians future that made him most uncomfortable, even aside from the heroin consumption.  He recognised within him a different inspiration for being here....he needed it much more than the rest - outside of this room was a tragic existence - a fact he recognised with every uttering over two sentences long that projected from him.  Always bitter and intertwined with shocking eye-opening revelation...it was a rare occurance he was involved in anything whimsical, even rarer when such things where raised by him.  He just sat there mostly, introverted to the extreme, lost in his world of torment.  He glanced at Ian now, allowing several moments to pass....as if Ian was aware of what he was thinking and would suddenly explode.  Maybe not now he thought, but eventually.  That was his future....sporadic explosion.

In a way it was a good thing, he thought - the existence of an Ian type figure..someone who was there, physically in front of him actively living a life he himself loathed the thought of; even kind of took pity on the fact he had to endure it.  Whether Ian was aware of the haplessness of his apparent situation - like really - was irrelevant really...it was just the idea that there was a life being lead that was inferior to his own.  It was confidence boosting...a reason for hope.  These moments of hope hammered home the realisation that he had people in his life who were good, who were inspirational.  This was far more true of his mother than his father - but 50% of the most influential people in his formative years being 'Good People', was substantially higher than 0%.  And that in itself was again in that weird way a good thing...watching someone (his mother) struggle against the negativity that was flung at her by the very person she had entrusted her happiness with (his father), and had been burned by it.  But she remained defiant in the anguish, moved on and improved things tenfold: now remarried, celebrating anniversaries aplenty, skipping away on regular vacations and chuckling her way through repeated tellings of amusing anecdotes.  His own personal failure to maintain his relationship with his father was obviously far more turbulent than what his mother had to experience...the release of being able to move on was invigorating in her position to say the least - she had the ability to say 'finally thats gone and can be replaced'.  A father isn't nearly as easily replaced as a husband.  Years had passed since last speaking with his father.  He didnt miss it - memories of decent wholesome convos with his dad were hazy and unplentiful to say the least...but it was more than apparent to him that there should be memories there, and without them there was always a yearning for them, regardless of how much time passed.  It was all fuel for he himself eventually becoming a father (he never had any doubt about the eventually part of that sentence), his suffering and incomplete jigsaw would provide obvious parts to slot into picture his son or daughter was to complete.  He knew without being told, that every son or daughter the world over, who grew up with any sort of abuse or inappropriate treatment had exactly the same though, 'No child of mine will go through this shit,' as much as he knew that a large percentage failed miserably at the goal they'd set themselves; eventually reaching that horrible moment, where they'd be sitting alone at the family table, wide-eyedly pondering,'I'm my fucking father/mother,' throat tightening.  It was motivation enough for him not to fail when life threw him the chance to avoid doing so.  He glanced once more at Ian, vivid images of a future form of him desperately making best use of the minimal time he was afforded to see his illegitimate child.  The tragedy of it almost brought forth the formative questions of a sympathetic interview.  He wisely thought better of it however, and asked Dave if he could add to the evenings joint count.

Joint building - if available - was always 100% of the time, the outlet through which to escape potential awkwardness.  It always caused nervous mirth when thinking of a time in the future where it wasn't available to him, like, at all....a time where he'd finally let go; replaced the habit with something he took more positivity from.  Not from the viewpoint he saw marijuana consumption as a negative - he'd happily involved himself with preaching about the multiple benefits of its use...but for him personally, he knew without a shadow of a doubt it was detrimentally detracting from the next phase of growth he needed to undertake to progress beyond the life he was living.  The fact he was almost making do in a way, coexisting with the people in the room with him (granted, some far more the par example of this assessment than others), was a silent scream in his ear to stop fucking about and get his arse in gear.  It was this sort of crossroads, where there was a sort of understanding about the choice a person makes with regards to consuming the taboo drugs; the meths, the cracks, the heroins....the more socially acceptable drugs such as marijuana, just weren't cutting it anymore, and it was either delve deeper or bail.  Even aside from witnessing what he had witnessed this evening, delving deeper was never ever an option...there was always the grand plan to remove himself from it eventually.  In a way, evenings such as these were almost pre-determined in how they played out...the nervous energy to begin with of the anticipation and lack of control with how things would go, through the realisation of it was rare and lucky ultimate experiences are, then ending with maybe things without this isn't so bad after all.  Maybe the pleasures gained through common blueprint lifestyles, are in fact enough after all.  Of course the grey areas - but theres easily enough people out there who offer enough aside from potentially trouble laden paths...paths more obviously trouble laden anyway.  The realisation that people are never perfect; the people used as figureheads are never ever what they appear to be, and only exist made up of several people.  His weaknesses are substituted for alternate weaknesses, and together they cancel each other out.  The headstongedness would always begin from moments like these, the urge for change and improvement...go forward and never apologise for who you are, and let other people do the worrying - create the opportunity for choice rather than taking what you can get.  But seeing as he was here now, might as well choke down this last joint.  Oh and burn his way through the ounce back at the bedsit, that was bought and paid for.

His trance was broken by the suddenly apparent lack of music in the air - his glance round to investigate answered by the image of Dave stretching and simultaneously traipsing tiredly over to the available spot on the couch next to him.  The encroaching daylight created a warmer glow through the fabric blind.  'Twenty to six,' Dave announced without being asked.  'Anyone fancy making tea?' Dave continued.  He timed the grab for papers perfectly - in between the two sentences - and was already joining two together by the time the request came.  Sam scoffed, lifting himself in acknowledgment.  'On the condition I'm next on that.'  He glanced up, with a sideways smile, nodding in response.  Sam wandered off through to the kitchen.  'Hey nice one,' Dave said, picking up an abandoned joint in the ashtray...playfully jabbing him on the arm, in recognition of the now obvious ruse that had just played out.  Something to work on for next time, he thought, chuckling.  He knew he was overly prepared in general, and regardless of the premise, always felt slight disappointment at leaving behind damning evidence.  Of course the sliding scale applied as it did to anything, and this was one where the experience could be logged as a learning experience for a potentially more dangerous slash important moment.  Timeframes such as had just played out, left very little room for error, and as such pressed home the importance for general acknowledgement for any eventuality.  The vibe was friendly here, but there was potential for flare up...components that offered volatility; one can never be too careful.  The click of the kettle sounded in the distance, coinciding with his tongue running carefully along the length of the gummed edge of his carefully crafted joint.  The click acted as a catalyst for the rousing of Wayne, who shifted sleepily in his fetal position, face becoming visible as he craned to look over his shoulder at the room behind him.  The lesson learned from the previous altercation, immediately became apparent...the joint was now potentially going to be claimed by the awaking Wayne, and he rose quickly, gliding through to the kitchen, waiting until he was out of obvious earshot before sparking up the lighter.  Best defusing the possibility of denying Sam his rightful honour in the first place he thought...not to mention he felt morally obligated, regardless of whether Sam had said it or not. 

Sam chuckled through a ' Nice one mate,' upon hearing he'd skipped away from the gaze of Wayne before claims could be laid, turning back to strain the extra flavour from each of the steeped bags.  He appreciated the system Sam had going, hue a perfect dark tone, complimented by the solid beige taint evident upon milk addition....weak tea was for pricks.  And his gran.  The kitchen window was unprotected by a blind or curtain; offering the first opportunity to gaze upon the outdoors since stepping through the door.  Being winter, it was clear even to one who hadn't been here for the recent past, that it was a cold uninviting atmosphere outside.  It was however different to what he was used to; the north was often tainted by the most evil of evil conditions - cold, wet and windy - here, it was more just still and light, but fucking cold.  The view became a glimpse out to how far away from familiarity he was, for the moments in between Sam jarring him for the seconds.  He was fucking miles and miles away.  Terrible shit could happen, and it would take a long long time to filter back to lover ones.  Found beaten and unconscious somewhere, id free, rushed to hospital, out cold for several days, months or whatever...coming to, confused, being probed for information....vague memories arriving at random moments...finally a strange realisation coming across his frazzled brain...the arrival of kin, the images of shocked faces, frantic huggings, vows to take him away from this place: back home to repair and prepare for the mend.  In other words, what good was this doing him?  What positivity was happening right now that gave his cause for confidence that this was all worth it?  Even the nicer amongst him, weren't exactly what he'd label gateways to achievement.  He spun round all to quickly to hand Sam the joint, crossing back across the kitchen to retrieve the cup he was being motioned towards.  He tasted it, nodding affirmatively towards Sam, who then instructed him to bring the remaining cups.  A strange desire washed through him to trip Sam, slowly pacing with three cups in his hand, the potential calamity suddenly striking him as a hilarious scene to observe.  The evil side of him was seemingly trying to convince him that people would thank him in abundance for creating this mirth - an image of the room collapsing in side-splitting laughter, as Sam lay shocked, badly scalded with hot tea, throbbed in his brain, in encouragement.  By way of precaution he waited a moment, allowing Sam time to gain a lead.  In any other circumstance he'd laugh it off - but he was in appreciation of what his body was full of.  He'd heard the stories of bizarre Tourettes-like compulsions afflicting people from nowhere.  He would remain vigilant in his efforts to fend it off.

As predicted, the claims on the joint came thick and fast from Wayne, laden-heavy with references to the fact he had been out cold, and therefore was due big time.  Regardless, it was a conversation he was glad he wasn't a part of.  Sam held a healthy disregard for Wayne; embracing the opportunity to engage with him on these types of scenarios whenever it arose.  'Hardly my fault you can't hack the pace mate,' a punctuated toke in between every word, prompting Wayne to leap to his feet and make a grab.  Sam playfully tilted his head away holding the joint at arms length.  Comically, Wayne took the bait, one step away from having a palm placed on his forehead whilst he swung wildly at a just-too-far midriff.  'Sam.'  He looked round at Dave, his gaze instructing the hand off.  'Alright mate, chill,'  Sam said begrudgingly handing it towards Wayne before taking it back for one more spiteful toke.  He laughed at this, predictable but ballsy final fuck you.  It was expertly done...Wayne was reduced to a wound up infant in the space of five minutes.  To his credit, his face changed completely to one of satisfaction upon receipt, accepting he had the final moment coming to him with his antics.  Sam nodded towards him as he retook his seat...address the lack of smoking going on.  He sipped at his tea and began the process once more.  Ian now was out cold himself - slipping away completely unnoticed.  He felt a slight vibration in his pocket; the recurring eight am alarm on his phone.  So rare these days was the conscious witnessing of the hours outside the regular professional persons...it was almost a confirmation he was missing out on these precious days of youth.  Missing out based on what though?  The evening he had just experienced?  He was happy to endure such experiences, if for nothing other than having the memories placed into his head for evermore - but nothing about it clawed at him to pen it into his diary to do anytime again soon.  Quite the opposite in fact; he was already forming potential outs for himself, allowing him to seamlessly peel away from the group unnoticed...not just now but slowly but surely for ever, controversy-free.  Nothing more than a random musing each of them might have in the future.  None of them possessed anything that he saw a deep rooted friendship forming from.  A night like this was more than suffice to gain enough knowledge of such things he thought.  So definite were the people in this room, and the lifes they lead, that if anything, they'd be a hindrance in finding those that were better qualified to meet this criteria.

This was night too intense and noteworthy to begin the process however - it would give too much away refusing the inevitable invite after.  He immediately recognised the arrogance he had exemplified; what made him so special he was a shoe in?  He altered the question in his mind so it read as 'in the instance of'.  He was hazy in fact just where this ended and the countdown to the reunion began; it seemed apparent to him, that each wasn't set to disappear onto their respective destinations as the next move.  Or maybe this was the fear talking - the one thing he did know was that he couldn't be the first to leave.  He sipped on the tea contemplatively...suddenly irked by the potentially lengthy duration it would take to remove clothing and adjust into the fetal position beneath his bedspread.  It was one of those moment a higher power seemed to work in his favour; within moments of the quandry appearing in his thoughts, Sam announced his intent to leave, with a pronounced double thigh slap.  He jumped on the in, accenting his mutual intention with an acknowledgement hinting at his inferior ability to cope with the long haul, comically adding he did not think the same was true of Sam.  Sam laughed, before offering his company for the leg of the trip pre-split in each others abode direction.  He nodded graciously, knocking back the last of his tea.  He rose with the empty cup, grabbing the other empties within reachable distance, manoeuvering through to the kitchen.  He heard the mumbled conversation of farewell between Sam and the rest, rejoining at an invite to contravene at the pub later in the afternoon, once cobwebs had been clearing and the second wind had caught gust.  He accepted without contemplation, nodding affirmatively at the confirmation of a text being sent whentst they all would be en route.  He grabbed his mary jane paraphenalia and coat, extending his own farewells to one and all, then followed Sam towards the front door.

He felt a strange intense pressure on the journey back down through the building, upon now finding himself alone with Sam; the buffer had always been Dave, and in a way, Wayne - the two through whom he originally found himself part of the ensemble.  Wayne - much like many a group dynamic he found himself in - acted as the common target of abuse slash ridicule...although to him it was more wide-eyed disbelief (maybe as time went on, and the effect diluted it became ridicule).  Dave was the glue; the one who made the conscious moves to ensure comfort and ease of transition between newcomer and intergration.  The in building leg of the return home wasn't deafening in its silence - even in the elevator no words were exchanged, which was an uncomfortable experience for him...he needed transitional chat.  In the absence of, he stared around the inside of the lift, the sheer wretchedness of his current physical condition hammered home by the grainy shaky vision he took the view in via.  Every now and again he'd snatch a glimpse of Sam, who stood there, arms folded, staring down at his shoes.  He searched desperately for something to satisfactorily remove his focus from the awkwardness, which was offered by way of a small characture of a buxom lady with legs akimbo.  He deliberately laughed gently, looking back towards Sam for recognition, but he continued the inspection of his well worn in trainers.  He felt the warmth of a blush flood his face, the second look at the picture proving not nearly as funny.  He scalded himself for the desperate act of neediness, and attempted to sooth his own embarrassment.  The blush drained as he switched focus to now internal comedic thoughts of elderly women entering the lift and gazing upon the drawing.  They reached the bottm, and he deliberately made motions for Sam to depart the lift first, following him through the corridor, catching the door he loosely held open for him.  The fresh cool breeze felt revitalising, immediately bringing about thoughts of the immenent comfort and joy his pillow and mattress would offer him.  'Which way mate?'  Sam finally offered.  He motioned off to the right, stopping to allow for confirmation of whether he'd be joined.  'Ah right, well I'm this way.  Maybe see you this after then yeah?'  He answered affirmatively, struggling to hold back the relief he felt.  He waited a couple of moment s before moving off, to further de-emphasise his desire to get the fuck out of there.  The simple act of waling always suddenly felt awkward and clumsy in moments such as these, where the burning desire to rid himself from a situation loomed large over him.  It was far more prominent in his youth....walking by groups of older boys, he suddenly felt like his legs weren't working properly, and at any second he might bizarrely find himself in a heap on the ground, legs intertwined in a mangled mess.  Thankfully, that moment had never arrived...but the fear of it stuck with him - never take walking for granted.   

As he sat on the couch, staring blankly at the hotmail logout screen, he remembered the overriding thought in his head during that unsteady walk home....relief.  Relief that he had made it through.  It was immediately obvious that relief wasn't the cornerstone of an enjoyable fulfilling frinedship or friendships.  He knew then as he did now that if he was to recant the tale to the majority of folks he knew, they would be sympathetic to why he would be desirious of an out.  It wasn't even of a malicious or superior nature - where he was better or too good for these people; it was just about the chemistry.  If you stuck him and them in a petrie dish, they'd immediately retract and find solstice at the farthest points from each other.  He didn't doubt the curiosity he felt about exploring the deeper details of what made up Dave or Sam - but deep down he was well aware of the nagging doubt he had they were potential lifer.  Further investigation upgraded this doubt to concrete belief that they weren't.  He daydreamed about what was being said or thought about him, by each of them.  Possibly nothing, but the chance was high that something was uttered.  He homed in on 'quiet' which as a possibility always frustrated him - because he wasn't quiet.  Maybe subdued, if the company was overbearing - that was the problem with overbearers...they never see what stares them in the face, i.e. they subdue others.  Of course this might in itself be bullshit, i.e. they subdue, all the while taking mental notes of every reaction, every utterance...not much to remember after all - wouldn't be too hard to pull off.  At the end of the day, he wasn't lost in the water...he was alive, still seen as a potential - even the most blinkered would be appreciative of the fact that he was the newcomer; the one with least information to draw from.  He had held his own, which in itself was worthy of further investigation.  It would be the immediate future occasions that would prove to be the clinchers....and what fun they had turned out to be.  The amusing irony wasn't lost on him now looking back at the blatant conflict in his thoughts back then...initially, 'How the fuck am I going to slink out of this?' through to, 'What methods can I use to increase my presence within the group?'

It was a constant conflict he became a part of....yet more as a result of the specific situations he found himself a part of, as opposed to a general rule of thumb.  Many a time had his face culminated in becoming a deep shade of beetroot at coldly turning his back on people only because he observed others doing so, others he viewed as being preferable people to associate with.  Situations where he would naively dive headfirst into conversation and socialising with individuals without first doing background checks, only to discover they weren't the idealised pinnacle of humanity he had allowed his mind to conjure.  Other people on the scene would expertly demonstrate cold-hearted disdain for this individuals shortcomings and thus wash there hands of them forever.  He on the other hand, had set out on a course of friendship and trust, so when the time came to mimick the others dismissal, the effect was far more devasting on the hapless victim...he was now someone they would turn to...and instead he figuratively told them to fuck off.  He thus became an enemy as opposed to just someone not worth bothering with.  On one occasion he remembered such a scenario playing out, after which he felt invertly awkward and guilty for his actions - as he always did - yet the person was still on the scene...steadfastly refusing to budge from the social dynamic that had arisen (whereby he was the butt of the groups jokes/was discussed mockingly when he wasn't there etc..), but now after his shunning, this guy was now hungry for revenge, choosing to turn the mockery on him.  He made no effort to return fire owing to his guilt, and as a result was the one left standing looking like an idiot.  Thevirus spread, and soon he found himself the new butt; the one the group openly mocked.  The difference of course, was that he wasn't willing to practice this role daily, instead choosing to dissolve his involvement in the group.  The lesson wasn't lost on him.  He repaired the scars by systematically convincing himself he was better off - they were a bunch of pricks anyway etc, demonstrated by the ease in which they turned against him.  As he sat now, he was able to reflect positively on it.  Although the victim of his poor execution wouldn't admit to it, he was to thank in the whole situation.  He didn't need the group...he merely convinced himself he did.  The victim however - he needed the group - big time.  Why else would someone be willing to put up with such blatant disdain en masse?  Because they couldn't operate by themselves.  They knew it all too well.

It was with this in mind that he knew the fascination with the girl in the park was dangerous; in all likelihood a pendulum more on the side of failure.  Physical beauty - although extremely enjoyable and alluring - is a mask worn by many many an ugly person...as he had no doubt countless people would testify to.  Not to mention it brought out the nervousness in him in abundance...instantly turning him into a wreck, dribbling and sweating and babbling (at least far more than normal).  Although generally confident in his ability to be coherent, the ratio of things said to actual interesting comment, plunged in the company of pretty people.  Of course, this was a common and universally shared dilemma, but it made it no more easy to deal with.  What he also found consistently occur was embarrassment caused by actually witnessing the shortcomings of a pretty person themselves - planting the thought in his head that this person, whom he imagined would be oft in demand of attention, would completely bely the hope and promise she offered on initial glance.  He would fluster immediately when met with stupid gibberish put forth by said pretty person, and desperately seek for something he could spew forth that would rescue the conversation from unrecoverable awkwardness.  He knew he could always just let this pretty fool squirm in they're own idiocy with a perplexed brow furrow...but if the hope remained intamacy could be gained, he was there to help; there to bear the weight of the beautiful idiots lunacy.  Of course - much like the unfortunate situation with the weak link - the recouperative actions he took would bite him on the backside...the pretty idiot would turn out to be a pretty asshole into the bargain, throwing the very furrowed brow he had so kindly endeavoured to avoid using himself.  Then the self-loathing again peppered with cringeworthy images of the pretty bastard regaling others with tales of what a weirdo he was.  Cunt.

Things got easier - and very quickly into the bargain - during some very memorable times in his life.  The downside of course, was that they ended...which did more to press home the point that losing something was hard to endure when the capability to cope was fragile.  Or to put it another way (because he did cope in a way), the raw feeling of idiocy haunted you when you were so susceptible to such things affecting you.  The secret was (or his secret at least) was get the fuck out.  Escape trumped loneliness every time.  The benefit of his youth was that he had suffered through solitude and boredom for so long, there had to be an attempt to break free, even to say 'I tried...now fuck off' to those who would break his balls in the future.  College had ended, and for the first time proper he realised, that home with the folks,back in the place he'd spent so long forlorn, was not the answer...it was time to spread the wings - fledgling they may be.  His grasp of foreign language (any) ruled out a foreign land; he didn't fancy England (blamed in part, on his mothers overly negative take on the natives...promoted in no uncertain terms by the nationality of his dad); but he wanted to cross water.  He knew nothing really of Northern Ireland, other than there was a fair amount of divide...so he opted for Eire - and the one obvious place for an outsider looking for action was Dublin.  He planted the seed, which after 3 months of summer work waiting tables punctuated with nightly, often lengthy hitching sessions home, had grown into a fully bloomed flower once time came to leave.  He wanted to tick the box of epicness at every turn, which started with the journey itself - and opted for a bus/ferry combination rather than a flight.  The route he chose omitted Northern Ireland (owing to the aforementioned divide), and so an overly long, night time trip was undertaken down through England (via London and Wolverhampton), then into Wales, and finally on the ferry into Dublin.  Each stop involved a couple of hours minimum wait, for the switch onto the next bus leg; of which he was admittedly glad for, regardless of how much time it was adding to the journey.  With the arrival time being unimportant, the lethargy remained under wraps during the trip...in a way he was glad of the lengthiness of the process, just so he had time to think about the possibilities and adventure that potentially lay ahead.  His plan to sleep through the trip was ruined on the first leg of the trip, mainly due to paranoia...thanks to the sizeable lump of hash he had in his pocket, and the intense confrontation he'd had with someone on the bus due to the believe the guy had that he had stolen his seat.  He clearly hadn't (proven by the still evident toilet cubicle he was sat opposite), and the panic rose in him as to how he would remove himself from the situation.  He was saved by a thick english voice calling from behind him who announced 'You were sat back here mate.'  The shadowy face of the accuser unsurely trotted wordlessly to the location of the voice - a full third of the bus as it happened.  The blatant error that had been made, convinced him that the guy had deliberately created the scene because he was intending to mug him or something of that nature, and thus he sat wide awake for the remaining five hours to the next stop.  Leg two had started simultaneously with the break of dawn, making it impossible to achieve the sleep his body yearned for, and so by the time leg three was complete and he was in the ferry terminal, he felt as though everything was now a dream, what with it being a solid forty eight hours since last his brain was non-operational. 

In spite of the exhaustion, the arrival at the terminal initiated the true realisation of where he was and what he was doing...in short, a total stranger miles from home, where he knew noone.  This isolation was to lessen to a degree upon arrival in Dublin - previous to departing he had met the Dublin-based brother of a be-friended Irish work colleague back home, whom had offered his services as tour guide upon arrival.  But until that point he was naked; easy prey for the attentions of psychos aplenty...a young naive idiot slowed down considerably by the telltale huge bag he struggled to and fro with.  A certyain peace came with the terminal - uniformed Welsh people milling about carrying with them a security that everything was safe.  The five hours untill ferry departure was to be filled with something; anything other than sleep....his paranoia not allowing his brain to switch off away from his belongings.  That plus the quarter ounce piece of hash in his pocket.  The timing of when to implement his plan - offered to him by his dad of all people - was weighing on his mind.  Not huge certainly, but sizable enough was this lump that uncertainty invaded his mind as to whether it was do-able.  His dad had offered forth the method as if it was childs play: consume five or so pieces of chewing gum, allowing a concealing material with which to wrap around said lump of ganjie - and hey presto, wander suspicion-free aboard, nothing more than a travelling gum chewer setting sail for lands unknown.  It was a plan settled in his mind for many a day...but now fondling the lump through his jacket pocket, the image of himself wandering past security doing a bad impression of the Godfather filled him with dread.  Concentrate on being normal he had told himself.  Don't focus on such things.  He needed something else to focus on.  As if a gift, he then noticed out of the corner of his eye the giggling attentions of a group of three girls.  The gift turned to embarrassment pretty quickly as the realisation that in the five hours there was a good chance he'd have to engage with them - and at the best of times he made a fool of himself in female company, let alone three of them, whilst struggling to cope with sleep depravation.

He snapped himself out of the daydream far too late, all the while staring absently in the general direction of the three young ladies.  The realisation brought forth an abundance of dread...dread in the speculation these girls now believed him to be some sort of deranged pervert intent on causing them harm; would then alert terminal security, who would then apprehend him, search him, find his hash, then pass him over to police who would throw him in shared cells with an advantage taking homosexual, who himself was a deranged pervert intent on doing him harm.  Instead though, he heard giggling coming from their direction, which experience had taught him usually didn't mean fear of deranged perversion.  He glanced up at them; this time the eyes of the one sitting in the closest vicinity of him was ready and waiting with a return stare, and offered a quick wave at knee height.  He cracked a smile looking at his lap, wishing in its purest form that he had reading material of any sort to focus on.  Instead he was staring directly at his crotch - again not exactly the act of a smooth sophisticated ladies man.  If the engagement was inevitable, fuck it - he may as well do it sooner rather than later.  He looked up again - this time at three sets of eyes - and held a steady fixed hand in greeting at them, smiling perhaps overly broadly to begin before relaxing into a more natural example.  He gently shook his head at the sequence...nothing reeked inexperienced virgin more than the shift of awkward facial expressions.  It seemed to do the trick nonetheless - all three exchanged giggly glances and were lead by the nearest girl over to his seated position.  He tried as naturally as possibly to side-stare at their approach, forcing rythmical breathing from himself in order to hopefully avoid the all too familiar glaze of perspiration across his forehead.  The lead girl was there far more rapidly than the others, arms folded across her chest, gradually leaning at the waist in his direction.  He met her advance, sensing the expectancy he was projecting...keen to end the suspense and have the ice broken.  'Hi - do you mind if me and my friends sit here?' 'My friends and I.' he responded almost inaudibly.  'What?' 'No problem sorry,' the crimson flushing his face and ears immediately, unstoppable.  She turned swiftly to her friends, giving the affirmative it was ok to join.  He scalded himself for the initial response.  No wonder, he thought.  No fucking wonder.

It was apparent quickly, this would be a conversation had mostly with the first girl; she who had made the initial move.  He inwardly judged she was roughly the least physically attractive of the three - roughly only because one was the clear winner - ironically the one who was furthest from him, sat shly semi-shielded by the similarly appealing third girl.  The talker was short, short haired and plain faced, with a smile way too big for her face, further emphasised by the fact it was always there regardless; almost mockinging everything around her.  Her conversational style was overly inquisitive...she had blasted through the formalities of 'where you from' where you going' and was already onto 'you got a girlfriend' and the like.  Over her shoulder grinned the face of the third girl - copper ginger hair, her face an explosion of freckles.  She sat saying nothing, constant grin and fixedly staring at him...the support for the talkers endless bullshit.  So concentrated was the onslaught, he found no way of taking in the beauty of the shy third girl...a light fear embraced him that he would be picked apart for taking his gaze off that of the other two, so deciding to patiently wait for the chatty enthusiasm to ooze slowly away.  He operated well under fire - it was mainly when left to his own devices he struggled; offered the muse of rapid fire crap to bounce off of, he was fine.  He brought forth titters and impressed glances from the two girls, punctuated with 'ooo nice!' and other such over-the-top playful tease lines.  The chatter found fascination with his geographical maneouverings, why he was, when he decided to, where he hoped to end up, moving onto what if you got mugged, what if it doesn't work out, your crazy haha and the like.  It all made him feel quite self-important; someone who was impressive; a muse for inquiry and to be discussed in depth after the fact.  A solid half an hour passed before he was able to finally start peppering the chatter with questions of his own...do you girls live here; are you travelling yourselves; what sort of general crap do you like and so on.  It came to light they were there waiting on a friend returning from Dublin.  He asked why they were here so early when they lived there (it struck him as odd a half hour plus the time he hadn't spent with them had passed), to which the chatty one retorted they had nothing else to do - so boring was the activities on offer.  He chuckled to himself at the mirroring reflections he had had growing up, stuck living in a place that apparently didn't want him.  He made no attempt to enquire further, content enough kindred spirits existed.  Chatty noticed the chuckle and accusingly asked what was funny...nothing he responded - just he knew how she felt.  Suddenly the supporter was tugging at her arm, whispering something in her ear, shortly followed by an announcement they were all nipping to the bathroom.  He watched after them, all huddled together, shoulders betraying their weak attempts to veil laughter.  He stretched widely, the pain of how stiff he was crashing through his back and shoulders with a harsh series of cracks and groans.  He yawned widely, ears ringing, vision sparkling; the girls departure seemingly acting as some sort of release...an excuse to finally relax.

He blinked slowly and deliberately, making vain attempts to refocus and clear the cobwebs.  The corner of his eyes gave up crust upon being rubbed by his forefingers...the satisfying feeling of successfully gouging it out rushed through him as he flicked it away.  As he tilted his head back up, his view was all of a sudden dominated by the chatty girl, approaching swiftly, arms folded across her chest, a knowing grin etched on her face.  His heart sank a little...he had managed to convince himself in the short appraisal after their departure, that that was it...they were gone; the 'nip to the bathroom' was nothing more than a ruse to dump him.  'Sarah was wondering if you wanted to be with her,' she over-eagerly prospered, eyes wide awaiting his response.  He had no fucking idea which one Sarah was.  In this short time he realised, he didn't give a fuck either.  It wasn't as if his teen years had been choc-a-bloc with instances of smooching pretty girls, but at the same time he realised that if propositioned in such a way was something he really shouldn't be entertaining.  He was 100% sure of the age group of these young ladies, but he was quietly confident they would still be a bit away from their sixteenth birthday.  He glanced over at the remaining members of the party - the body language was the same as it had been previous, just with chatty removed...the supporter was standing in front of the quiet pretty one, arms also folded, staring intently at us discussing the deal that was on the table, whilst the quiet pretty one peered nervously over her shoulder, hunkered down out of sight.  He stared back up at chatty, whos eyebrows sprang up, impatiently signalling for a response.   His reply of sorry I have a girlfriend, brought about a dramatic series of tutting and eye-rolling; the frustration of her time-consuming proposition not bearing fruit pouring out of every motion.  He didnt know why he had even mentioned the girlfriend...it wasn't information that was needed really - but he still felt obligated to put it out there; to reward the girls willingness to commit to putting forward the offer.  It wasn't regret at lying - the girlfriend existed (albeit loosely), just he felt perfectly within his rights to refuse an offer of lip-locking with a girl who he didn't know by name, hadn't talked to or was of an age he didn' feel like publicly showing affection for.  'Its not like she'll know.' whined chatty.  He marvelled at her effort to secure a tongue session for one of her friends...possibly her way of instilling confidence in her (either one); attempting to tug the character out of whichever one was being referred to on this day.  He actually almost abandoned his initial decision and go for it, just to appease her...but the immediate self-deprication in his mind soon put paid to that.  He put the full stop on the advance with a line about how he would know, and how he couldn't live with the guilt.  It was the best he could come up with, in order to both remove himself from it whilst not irreparably damaging the girls confidence more so than it already was.  Chatty thought momentarily about continuing, but instead caught the next breath, and turned on her heel without a goodbye.  He held strong, not looking up for the reaction to his response, using the motion of deep involed eye-rubbing to excuse himself from the temptation. 

He felt a burn sting to the edge of his ears, the blood rushing in acknowledgement of his awkwardness.  He counted to himself, timing the moment as to when he should look up and be able to breath again.There wasn't obviously a set time for this, but he opted for twenty seconds nonetheless.  He caught the three in his scope, walking out the main door of the terminal, the supporter offering the other two cigarettes from her pack. His eyes dropped sharply at the sudden inquiring look back over her shoulder by chatty. He wasn't particularily embarassed in truth - it was more an escape from the potential hurt he'd caused in quiet girl. He had no doubt he'd cope alright with the fact she was hurt, but he felt better and more able to leave it behind him without knowing. He glanced up at the large clock on the wall, which read quarter past four...another hour and three quarters before boarding. He noticed an abandoned newspaper sat atop the fixed laminate table in between his row of chairs and the next, and uneasily rose to fetch it. His brain was screaming at him now to give in to the desire to sleep, but he knew his current surroundings meant this was a waste of his time. The paper turned out to be the Sun, which gladdened him, safe in the knowledge he wouldn't be faced with any articles requiring huge amounts of application on his part. His lack of wits perhaps, resulted in him opening to page three without reservation - the ample breasts of a fresh-faced blonde staring back at him for an overly long spell, before he clumsily grabbing an extra few pages. He tittered to himself - far from conservative-thinking, he recognised in moments such as these that it would take deep-seated trust in a situation before fully exposing himself sexually. His sex life up until that moment had been still in the single figures with three different girls...two of those hopelessly shit, and on one occasion with each only. There had been a frustration in that itself up until girl number three (she as recent as two months ago), where he felt the first time was the walk on eggshells...keep it civil - or at least as much as push your penis into a welcoming(?) vagina could be, then begin the opening up from episode two, into the full-blown warts'n' all of part three (or so he imagined). Of course never getting to episode two in either instance, resulted in disappointing memories and blown chances. Girl three allowed him to open the door and wander casually through - she had been the one whom he'd felt most comfort with by far. He thought about each encounter in turn. The first - the removal of the virginity - had been abroad; the family vacation to France. She represented the first proper time he had felt any realistic chance of not feeling an asshole with...the person for him who made him realise it was possible to meet people who found him a turn-on. The two week trip had culminated in a drunken rushed and awkward exploration of each others bodies...and not a thorough one at that, given the trousers were tugged down to the knees, it was around two am, and they were outside in the dark, struggling about on the moist grass of hole 14 of the resorts golf-course. The ample amounts of french bier and sangria sloshing in his system prevented any ejaculation (thankful owing to the lack of condom), and as a result a hung-headed apology, based on the premise he felt he had let her down. She told him not to be stupid, she'd remember him forever kissed him stroking his face, and disappeared from his life. That had been amazing...in his mind, it was let down by the memory of the sex; further tarnished further still by his failed attempts to masturbate the load out of himself back in the bathroom of the appartment.

It was one of those moments noone would ever learn of, regardless of trust - but it never failed to humble him dead in his tracks at the very thought of it. On this occasion in the ferry terminal, it aroused a brief moment of confusion...as if time had been lost, before he realised he had momentarily drifted off to sleep, whilst lost in the daydream. His second stab at love making had been during college - the illusion of hugeness had been robbed by his virginity loss; it was time to hunt down conquests - no time to be lost on building it up and setting the moment atop a pedestal. The very essence of this dissolution of importance made itself present in the guise of a young lady called Kim - decidedly average looking; short, plump, non-descript facially, tired shoulder-length straw coloured hair...the sort of girl a young man in need of uncomplicated sex looks for to various degrees. Or so the story goes...as it turns out, the frustration at the wasted effort and energy spent feigning interest in her mind-numbingly boring 'woe-is-me' bullshit...the turmoil fo growing up, the marital problems her parents went through, her sisters accident, etc etc..which made the task of gaining access to her vagina superbly easy - listen with tilted head and worried eyes aplenty...and hey presto, an engorged labia. The frustration sprouted from how absolutely terrible in its purest form the sex was. Hours went by, endured the whole time in the form of lying side by side fully clothed on his bed, in the prison-esque decorated Halls of Residence room he was to call home for his first year. He fought bravely through the great pain he experienced in his testicles, fighting to maintain the romance he imagined she was experiencing, until finally, the many many minutes of playful groping around his stomach area, wandered further down towards the brick-like erection he had, imprisioned within his denim jeans. He was a whisker away from calling out joyously as she awkwardly stroked, such was the feeling of elated achievement. He returned fire with a beeline sequence of moves that culminated in the prying open of her own jeans button and fly, likening the moment to gleefully tugging away the wrapping paper surrounding the lego technics his dad had bought for christmas many years ago, albeit soggier. Unfortunately though, the joy didn't carry like it had with the lego; he climbing awkwardly on top of her, the fluster washing through him in acknowledgement of the fact this was unlikely to make it into the top ten of sexual conquests of all time. She spiked the atmosphere with far from sexy quips like 'are you ok?' and ' this feels great - honest,' - he was ashamed of the building desire he had to hop off her and scream 'shut the fuck up!' at her. Instead he took himself to a different mental place - namely the thoughts of having sex with hot girls he had known growing up (aka his masturbation images). Upon filling the condom, thought quickly turned to how the usual...how the fuck was he going to get out of this.

He had managed to escape the scene - and he meant escape in purest form - by reasoning with her that the single bed they were perched upon fully clothed, crimson-faced from the exertions, was by no means a vessel conducive to a fine nights sleep, and that given the time, he would see her again in a mere few hours. She resignedly nodded with a breathy ok, and leaned in to kiss him, which he met tight-lipped. He immediately regretted doing so - any ammo she'd have that he was attempting to worm his way out of the 'relationship' wasn't exactly great fodder for his love cv. She gazed at him for a while; he stared back knowingly thinking of vastly different things than she was...namely I'd really like to headbutt you right now. He lazily imagined the aftermath of such an action...her thrust back onto the mattress, hands thrown up to her instantly shattered nose wailing, as he sat there brain awash with fuzz, stroking slowly at the area of connection on his forehead. Then a hand outreaching to check her, retracted, rising to his feet, thinking desperately about what the fuck to do. Possibly threaten her? Kill her even? The purity of ridiculousness riddled through the musing broke a smile across his face, which prompted a return grin, and an eager move forward to kiss him again on her part. He returned the smooch softer this time, happy with the unexpected rescue job he had stumbled his way into. 'Ok, goodnight', she smiled, the look of elation on her face suddenly sending spikes of fear through him. It looked like he would have no choice but to act a total fuckhead to get out of this. He was already deep in contemplation as he rose and left the room, snatching one last look at her sitting on the bed before he closed the door. She waved lightly, her face etched with the kind of kitchsy expression reserved only for those head over heels in some form or another. Every thought running through his mind was punctuated with a desperate 'fuck'. Maybe the band-aid thing was the way to go here; quick and effective, all out in the open. He pushed quietly through the door at the end of the corridor into the stairwell. Panic rushed through him as he heard the turn of a door handle, suddenly faced with the night watchman. He studied him wide-eyed, unsure of what would now happen. In a barely audible whisper, the watchman said, 'Look, I know what you're up to..just don't make a habit of it ok?' His face wore an expression that said 'play the game and I wont fuck you in the arse.' He nodded relieved, fighting a sudden urge to reach out his hand to shake. The watchman nodded back, whispered 'goodnight', and disappeared back into his room. He glided up the stairs to the top floor two at a time, the urgency in getting to his room behind a locked door accented by the spikes of sweat appearing over his chest and face. He clumsily slipped the key into the lock and let himself in. Instant relief at the door clicking behind him, exhaustion washed through him. He collapsed backward onto the bed, aware of the first glimpses of day cracking through the night sky. Within seconds he was asleep, the worry of what tomorrow would bring gone for just enough time to allow him to do so.

The large clock on the wall above him showed three pm - an hour until boarding. The quarter ounce of cannabis resin had remained up until now safely behind the zip of his coat pocket, and he decided now was the time to conceal it behind a wall of chewing gum. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket to retrieve three pieces of gum, and commence with the preparation. The very thoughts in his head made him defensive and paranoid - much like whenever a policeperson walked or drove by him, regardless of what level of actual guilt he should feel. In order to remain natural, he returned to the reading of the paper...yet in the five minutes or so he spent doing this, all the while chewing down the solid gum to a malleable mouldable lump, he registered not one story. Satisfied he now had the necessary material to put his fathers borrowed plan into action, he rose with his hefty bag in hand, and made his way to the public toilets. The bag acted as a heavy distraction; the awkwardness of its weight explaining any flushing or strange facial contortions that otherwise might mark him out as some sort of deranged rapist. He breathed a quick thanks to a man who sidestepped out of his way, and staggered carefully into the bathroom, picking out a cubicle to the far left to perform the deed. After locking the door, he noisily dropped the toilet seat and perched himself on top of it; the theory was that if any suspicious individual monitoring his behaviour would hear the correct kind of sounds and see the correct kind of things (his feet pointing towards the door in front of the toilet), and be therefore satisfied an actual shit was being had. He stopped short of lowering his trousers...pressing naked arse cheeks to public porcelain was an act he only cared to carry out in absolute necessary circumstances.  The lump suddenly looked far bigger than he'd previously remembered sitting in the palm of his hand, and the panic immediately set in. It was going to be hard to come up with a good reason why he had such a huge lump of gum in his mouth, forcing him to hang his mouth open like a panting dog. He dug his lighter out of his pocket; the decision was to pull a section off the lump for immediate consumption outside once he was done here, thus allowing him to reduce how far open his mouth would have to be. Simple. He coughed in time with sparking the lighter and slowly dragged the flame across one edge of the lump, then dug his overly long thumg nail into the softened area. satisfied with both the new size and how much he had forced himself to consume, he spat the lump of gum into his hand.  The dismay was solidified by the just-and-no-more nature of the covering - but he decided to go with it nonetheless. He wrapped the wad in a previously retained gum wrapper - he would smoke the necessary first, then put the lump in his mouth...he wasn't an idiot.

He struggled towards the door with his big bag, becoming more nervous by the second. His dad had recanted tales of successfully transferring lumps of dope to shores afar with such natural flair, that it hadn't even crossed his mind there'd be potential negativity. It was this very casual-ness that had left him unprepared, which in all honesty was far too often a result...the ' fuck it, it'll be alright' attitude had left him in many a pickle. He Wanderedf through the auto-opening door scoping the immediacy of the outside, picking a wall to his left to perch upon; the hope was that he'd be left alone to swiftly roll one up and smoke free of fear of being spotted, or puffing large clouds of suspicious smelling smoke into groups of people. Fortunately a breeze gently brushed his face - he drew comfort from the fact the essence would be drawn from him lessening the chances of being surrounded by the pungent aroma. He dropped the bag down, and reached into his pocket for his tobacco tin, then into his inside coat pocket for the smallish lump he was required to crumble in. It felt huge in his fingers all of a sudden...certainly too big to dump into a single skin joint. The realisation crashed through him that he was going to be absolutely fucked - far from ideal what with the imminent dealings with security personnel and whoever else. He estimated the time left at fifty minutes before before boarding...choke down this in five, then fifteen to suck in some fresh air, and resurrect his brain as best he can...then back into the terminal, chug some water, eat a chocolate bar - then hey presto. Model citizen once again...just an fine upstanding Scotsman broadening his horizons, free of controversy, devoid of trouble. Welcome they'd say...excellent to have you - trust you enjoy your stay. He drew a thin line of tobacco across the cigarette paper, glancing around him for the knowing stares of potential captors, then proceded to carefully break the lump over the top. He was absolutely shitting himself - overly large pieces stared back at him from atop the tobacco; obvious candidates for hot rocks dropping glowing from the lit end; screaming at people around him that this right here was an illegal cigarette being consumed...but he decided it was easier to attampt the masking of that occurance as opposed to carefuly picking the lumps out and breaking them down further. He grabbed up the joint, and uneasily finished the roll, running his tongue along the gum, then carefully tore off a piece of card from his papers pack. Typically the initial roach effort was overly large, preventing him from being able to push it into the end of the joint, which caused panic and enquiring eye dartings of his surroundings...in reality noone was paying the first bit of attention to him, but to him he felt under the microscope...expecting a large hand on his shoulder at any moment. Finally he forced the roach in, audibly sighing with relief at the moment. He glanced around him one final time, then lit it up, drawing heavily to get it going. He immediately felt stoned. This was going to take some effort.

The heat rose around his fingers with the speed he was smoking, prompting his to alter his grip to fingertips. It struck him that the value of the mary jane withing this small joint amounted to no more than a couple of quid...but he'd always been the type of guy who never wasted anything. He'd once lost a tenner on a bus; he'd uncharacteristically shoved it into his back pocket rather than his wallet after making a purchase of food and drink for the trip, and over the course of the journey it had apparently working its way out with all the squirming on the uncomfortable seat. It haunted him to this day...even discovering money randomly (on the ground, down the back of the couch, etc etc) always brought forth the memory, and the musing that he was ten pounds down in life. The money he found was always going to be found...the money he lost was because he was careless. With this he struggled on smoking, regardless of the pre-vomit saliva that was filling his mouth between every drag, the uncomfortable swimming motion he was experiencing through his vision, and the tired helplessness in his brain. He managed to scope out the clock on the wall within the building, and checking became his crutch whilst the immediacy of his surroundings was devoid of people. Thirty-nine mintues were left until D-Day. Saying it aloud in his head offered some much needed comfort; plenty of time to recouperate, and rid himself of the telltale signs folks of authority were looking for. At least away from the mind-numbingly obvious end of the scale. He greeted the assessment with a slower consumption of the joint, relaxing and enjoying it more as a result. It always impressed on him just how much more obvious the impact of smoking cannabis was on him in public and less personal settings were...he could comfortably chug down four or so full sized joints in his own company, or even with friends - just as long as where he was was where he'd be sleeping after. Any situation that demanded a journey or sustained relocation brought about a lack of coping with being stoned, and as so, more paranioia, doubt and fear. All these boxes were ticked here...the things to look for were the subtle releases of doom and gloom - every minute was sacred in the build up to coming face to face with a random uniform, intent on brightening his day with the internal cavity inspection of a handsome young man complete with a tight butthole. He shook the image of a grinning moustached police-type man sloppily rubbing lube over his gloved hands, as he bent over a steel table with his jeans around his ankles. These types of thoughts weren't wanted here right now.

The mixture of exhaustion, being stoned and fear driven adrenaline was creating a strange dreamlike state in him, exemplified by the unnatural inability to walk properly; akin to the need in a dream to run from something or one, only to discover your legs don't work anymore. He remembered vividly the all too real dream he'd had whilst in hospital; he'd suffered a rather nasty tear of the tendons in his right knee, which required slicing his knee open to hold them all together again via a loop of wire. The very idea of flesh being sliced open caused squeamishness of the purest nature, and recurring dreams where he'd wake up during the surgery frequenting both visits to the hospital (the first to put the wire in, the second to take it out). It was the second visit where he'd had the all too real one - it was a far more business-like visit...in during the day, hours allowed to facilitate the necessary fast, surgery, then rest though the night. Awareness first kicked in where upon the dream had arrived at a point where he was in his hospital room, with rain lashing ferociously off the windows, amplified by flashes of lightning and rumblings of thunder. He lay there staring at the rains impact, when during one flash of lightning, he was able to make out a human shadow, against the momentarily lit wall. He looked round to take in a person in a doctors coat beginning to press a scalpel against the top of his knee, then dragging it slowly and steadily down across it to the top of his shin. It was a sensation he felt - painless sure, but certainly uncomfortable and made all the more horrific by the light ripping sound it exuded. He stared open mouthed at his knee, barely noticing the person retreating back out of the room; which is when he awoke - fear pulsating through him as he stared at the very same view he had just gazed upon in his dream...windows being pelted with heavy rain lit every so often by flashes of lightning. As he steadied himself and allowed calmness to return he felt oddly proud - although it was all just bollocks within his recently drugged up mind, it was nonetheless confusing enough to not know it was this at the time...and he'd handled it well, never crying out or panicking or crumbling under the pressure. Life had never thrown a death defying situation at him. He now felt better equipped for the possibility.

He knew this was no death-defying situation, but the fear was moving in waves throughout his body; dread at the what-ifs that swam through his mind, the explanatory phone call to his mother: 'Hi ma,' (voice trembling) 'I'm currently wasting as much time as possible before I return to my cell to be buggered by a big tattooed man,' etc. He was back inside now, trying to calm his breathing and heart rate, with steady exhalations and forced images of tides crawling up golden sands. The first call for impending boarding tore him away from his created zen-state - the announcement of reality was now out; no turning back now. He glanced at the large entrance through to the boat; two chubby men stood weith arms folded, looking casual, sharing a joke about something or other - perhaps vaseline covered arms - looking like two people who'd been through the motion of checking boarding passes a million times before. The jovial scene relaxed him somewhat; people like him were small fish to these guys - the blood only got pumping when they apprehended big players, not naive arseholes with a lump of ganje lolling in their mouth. They'd merely check his pass, shake their heads at the sorry sight of yet another hapless dope in search of pastures green, and wave him through. Being thought less of was a far more attractive proposition than being thought ill of, so he pondered every facet of this role to while away the little time remaining pre-board. Maybe a little tragically it was treading old ground - perhaps an indication of his sorry level of self-confidence. He had wondered frequently that if he'd gone for it, committed to something he had believed in - usually in the guise of a song he'd written, or a book idea he had had - whether he might be sitting in the study area of his big huge eight bedroomed country home right now, rather than sweating over potentially getting nabbed for a little under seven grams of probably poor quality doobage. It was the frustrated wonderment of a million other over-thoughtful tossers he reasoned - for all the people in the world, it was likely that regardless of whether or not the thing they held in high regard was more than likely not the thing that equalled millions in the bank anyway. That was always something anyway - who was to say the direction life had taken owing to the decision not to pursue didn't offer the best possible outcome anyway? What if he had gone for it, and it had earned him wealth and fame and whatever else...maybe he'd be getting stabbed by an obsessed fan right now, or getting shot by a rival - who knows. Maybe the reason he was here right now was because it was where he was meant to be - the higher power or whatever dicated life-direction was holding him on ice right now for the moment of beautiful golden dream-like amazingness later on, only attainable by sacrificing oppurtunity up to a certain point...up to a point where his mind would tell him 'Yes - yes.' The call came  - he got to his feet with a large exhale, picking up his bag and began moving towards the two chubsters.

The wodge of gum-wrapped ganje lolled uncomfortably in his mouth, prospering discomfort in equal measures regardless of the position he let it rest momentarily. He was aware of the sizeable lump in his cheek it pushed out if left to reside in either side, so he decided to juggle it with his tongue in the middle of his mouth trusting fate to spare him any prolonged conversation with the two overweight obstacles that barred his path. He eased his way in behind some people who were forming a loose line. He stared eagerly up ahead, to gain an idea of the protocol; easy enough it seemed - momentary pause in stride allowing the fattys enough time to take in the necessary info presented on the ticket facing, a nod, and onward to the next stage. He realsied at that moment he didn't have his ticket in his hand - a seconds panic, then self-mocking as he remembered it nestling in his inside coat pocket. He dropped his bag in front of him, edging it forth with his foot, thus freeing up his hand to reach in and get it. The line was moving quickly and incident free, the worry easing away from his mindset the nearer he got. Wasn't much required here for success after all really - just avoid the temptation to shout out an obscenity or spit at them...or any other random act of unnecessary defiance, and he would safely be on his way. The ticket now safely clutched in his hand, he again picked up his bag, to aid swift manoeuvering. The moment was coming at him faster than he'd anticipated - but he was going with the flow - the pace actually assisting his focus rather than hindering it. The couple in front of him exchanged some small talk with the guards - forgotten almost as soon as it was said - then it was him. He struggled slightly raising his hand with the ticket and his bag to allow visual ease for the two behemoths...and that was it. He was in. Panic potential over - no suspecting glance, no wonderment at the contents of his mouth...nothing. Adrenaline surged through him, bringing with it effort to suppress a yelp of glee. Such was the ease at which he'd wandered through, he started imagining a blossoming career as a drug trafficker; The Gum Smuggler they'd call him...forever etched into the pages of history amongst fellow traffickers as the guy who made his money with the assistance of juicy fruit, paving the way for other combiners of chewing and supplying. In all honesty he knew the quantities he could safely slip through undetected with probably didn't amount to a vip pass into the elite drug trafficking club, but it wasn't about that...it was about the obstacles he was to hurdle on his way to a new life; a new place to find himself. Test one was dealt with - just a short hour or so aboard this big metal tub, and rinse repeat at the other side. Easy.

He thought about his dad; performing this exact sequence of events, lump of doob wrapped in gum in his mouth, hair slightly too long, earring glinting in the sun, gold-rimmed sunglasses on, top two buttons undone on his checked shirt. It frustrated him greatly that this side of his dad had even existed, when the only version he'd ever been privy to, was the short-tempered, arrogant closed-book one. He'd learned of the alternate, adventurous version during sun-kissed afternoons at his dads favoured vacation cafe, situated on the resort they visited yearly...a looser, fun-loving version of his father presented himself; willing to divulge stories of his youth, no holds seemingly barred, such was the freedom with which he spoke...it was never lost on him the bitter sweet element to the experience - this was a limited view of his dad, and was soon dissolve to be replaced by the areshole once more. It struck him at these times also, that it would be for the benefit of everyone if his dad was to, move out to France permanently, and thus make the transition to this elevated version of himself a more frequently visited one. It then transpired this was with high level of possibility; his dad proceeded to purchase a villa on the resort with his new wife, making the destination a staple in the calendar - sometimes three times in the year for his dad and step mother. They then began looking at cottages further down the coastline, actions which prompted hope within him he would finally receive in his life a father who wasn't a total prick in the higher percentage. Looking back on these trips down his fathers memory lane, he realised how simple his needs were, not to mention the urge he had within himself to witness the growth within his dad...he was well aware there had been troubled times aplenty throughout his dads life; like everyone else the benefit of the doubt had to be allowed for - noone was perfect etc etc - and well, he was his dad for fuck sake. If you cant make allowances for family, who can you make them for? It was the purity of the belief he had that better times were ahead, that made it all the more cold and bitter when the relationship finally did dissolve. He'd had a glimpse of what could be, and instead it went the other perhaps more inevitable direction. Thinking of what his dad made of what happened, he had no doubt that he probably felt it inevitable too...he recognised an inability to make good on what society taught everyone a good father son relationship was, and chose the easier option...to point fingers and piss and moan about the other parties failings for the remainder of his life. He wasn't the only one to feel this brunt.

It dawned on him the irony of being right here in the thick of an act that mirrored one his dad had been through whatever amount of years ago...the man whom he had so much pent up disdain and frustration for; the very man whos' methodology in parenting had prmpted a vow to do all he could not to repeat in kind. It was the determination despite himself to cling onto something; a response to all the naysayers who scoffed at him when he told the tale of him and his dad...'But he's your dad', they'd say, 'You can't just shut the guy out.' He retort with a scoff of his own, a 'You don't anything about it,' type thing - but it was a sentiment he recognised; the hint of ridiculousness in the very nature of shutting out of his father wasn't lost on him. It was an effort to replace the actual spending time with him...instead he would pay tribute/mimick/pay non-direct reference to him when the possibility allowed itself to. He felt pulled in opposing directions, guilty for different reasons either side - guilty for his father being without his presence in his life; guilty for his mother living through the torment of being his partner then being positively thought of in spite of it. That fucking man...if he could find a way of presenting an argument that would have his dad see past his own selfish bullshit, he'd usher it forth in a second - in his mind at least. He could think of no structuring of words that would allow this to happen however...not without either fuelling the argument his dad no doubt spewed forth about what an ungrateful cunt he was, or to the other end, devastating him and sending him spiralling into an inescapable well of self-loathing and regret, bringing with it the abandonment of whoever was left as an everpresent in his life...his brother for example - who after time had being reached out to and had returned to the fold. It was a far clearer bond the pair of them shared than he did - with either of them to be honest. Any fallings out they had had, was underlined with a short term essence of huffiness - once the clouds had cleared, they'd be back, lives intertwined, getting on with the business of being father and son. A few years before, whilst sharing the same roof, with his mother and stepfather, his brother had handed him a letter his father had written - an olive branch prospered to rebuild the bridge. His brother at the time was a little over thirteen years old - perhaps an age his dad saw as the sort of age where a new level of respect was due (hence the letter), and this was alluded to within the writings. He read it awkwardly, mostly because of the personal nature it was written no to him, but his other son; his awkwardness dissolving upon the discovery of the mention of him in the letter - brief it was, but devastating it turned out to be. It slipped into the sentence suddenly 'I've already lost your brother, I don't want to lose you,' he read, prior to abandoning the rest of it and handing it back to his brother. His brother laughed and said,'He's always got to be so fucking serious.' He half-laughed back, watching his brother walk away, shouting something at their mother in the other room. It was in truth the real moment when he gave up on his dad. Many a night was spent thinking deeply about what had contributed to his dad thinking that...then writing it in a letter to his youngest son - apparently with the foreknowledge there was a good chance his eldest son would read it. It felt like a fuck you...a catalyst from which a definite direction could be taken. Maybe it was written with the intent he did read it - but then from it take the stance of 'Wow...I must make more of an effort with my dad.' It was that thought that pushed him into placing a time limit on things - act like nothing had been read. Things would continue as normal for now, but attention would be paid. It was his dad who was to make the effort.

The knowledge of the letter acted as a weight against any dealings with his father from that point on; a weight which doubled as it turned out as a timer on their relationship. He would often catch himself staring at his dad through firelit eyes, following him round a room, thinking expletive laden thoughts at his apparent disregard of his existence, not to mention abandonment of any hope to mend things. A few occasions in which his father grew impatient with him for whatever trivial reason brought forth a rapid rising of anger within him...the very excuse to hurl the knowledge at him in a tirade, and dump all blame onto him. But instead he would leave the scene at its very onset, knowing the act in itself would end things. He often thought in these extremes - where his actions would provoke a sequence of events where he had to be sure he was willing to carry things through to a potential extreme conclusion...which would then itself act as a reason to back down before it ever got a chance to reach there. This mindset had cost him a lot - a fact not lost on him....countless times where he wished he'd pushed the envelope, thrown back into the face of injustice and issued comeuppance to those who deserved it. Rationale in general society afforded many who deserved their just desserts - hence why they were the people they were; and it was this generalness that provided him with the zen he required to let go and not get too bogged down in the regret. On the face of things, he'd much rather be recognised for things of a more diginifed manner than jumping up in peoples faces at every oppurtunity...which was a more positive way of saying he was scared of the unknown reactions to his actions - if he did call his father a gutless spineless useless cunt, what would happen? Sure it was possible his dad would say 'Woah...you're right son...I'll try harder', but it was also possible he would snap, and before he knew it they'd be wrestling on the floor grabbing and clawing at each other, reaching desperately for some kind of instrument to bludgeon the other - a claw hammer or something that happened to be lying on the coffee table - a brief seperation; a violent swing...then life in jail reduced to 14 years for good behaviour. Fuck that. Better to just sigh, move out of the room and trust karma to help things work out. Ridiculous sure, but you never know. He had spent years scratching his head at many of the life decisions his father had made - more than enough for him to not assume anything he did. The recurrance of 'why the fuck did he do that,' as a response to his father was now almost a natural reaction. Sure it bled into other areas of his life - but he was alive and well, safe from any obvious sign of threats uponhis existence - the nutty bastard had taught him survival skills. Maybe deliberately...maybe all this bullshit was a test, and one day he'd finally put his arm around him and say, 'Well done son - I'm proud of you. Your brother wasn't up to the challenge - but you...you're ready.'

The walk to the boat was made unnecessarily slow by the high percentage of both the elderly and families with young children amongst their make-up, thus causing a breakdown in the smoothness of the journey. It was a curse and a blessing for several reasons....the pace suited his exhausted and stoned state, allowing him time to think about what he was doing. On the other hand, he was forced into close proximity with several other people - none of whom were paying any attention to him - but the fact that they might negated any relaxation he gained from the gentle pace. It was the youngsters who worried him most; feeling no embarrassment to suddenly take time over assessing him and notify their parents as to his existence, asking questions such as 'Mummy, why does that thin tired man keep licking his lips and have sweat all over his face?' over and over until finally, people were made uneasy enough to alert authorities. Then, hands forcing their way into his mouth, retrieving the gum and then who knows what. He stared at the back of a small boys brown hair covered head and thought 'Just dare to turn round and do that shit you wee prick and see what happens'. The head never looked round; it was too busy trying to crane upward over the level of the windows above head height to see the water. Eventually after a few promptings the boys mother (hopefully), stopped momentarily to pick him up, and continued onward with the child secured at her waste, excitedly talking loudly about how far the water was. It moved him to sneak a look at the water himself - it was the first time he had done; and it struck him how real this was all getting. Under two hours away from the purest form of physical isolation from his home ever...a total commitment to escape and branching out. The strategy of going to Ireland was twofold - namely he spoke the language and the celtic bond between Ireland and Scotland. Growing up he observed in popular culture the kinship the two countries felt towards one another...they looked out for each other in a way. He hoped for this in abundance upon arrival...especially in the beginning. Help and warmth offered to aid him find his feet and quickly shake the angst being in this poisition for the first time in his life caused. Naive sure - but also a nod towards the ideals most human beings would aspire to - that in their hour of need, others would be there to help them. Only natural the chances of this occurring are raised when leaning on people history has taught are theoretically more likely to help. Other Scottish people sure - but to other Scottish people hes exactly that - just another Scottish person. Over in Ireland he'd be a rarity; something to behold. This oracle sent from a far away land from which people can gain knowledge and understanding of alternate practices, and in turn pass on their own knowledge. Together they'd provide each other with the muse they had sought for so long, and thus would create and love and inspire together. He loved thinking this way - when the bubble burst, he would always realise how easy it was to rid his mind of fear and paranoia. These moments weren't for concern - the world was his proverbial oyster...it was up to forthcoming reality to either allow his hope to blossom, or to crush it. Until then positivity was to be wallowed in.

The wodge in his mouth hung heavily in his mouth; he dreamt wantonly of a comfortable seat, by which he could leave his bag, freeing him to retreat to the bathroom and relocate the mary jane to an alternative dwelling. The impending nature of this transpiring roused impatience in him; ruing his position in the tortoise-paced queue of people. He felt the stiff cool breeze of the outdoors hit him in the face, as the first few filtered out for the short stretch to the massive ship that was to transport them to the Emerald Isle. He gasped at the force of the breeze, his mouth dry causing stight struggle to catch his breath. He toyed with the idea of navigating round the slower folks in front of him...but thought better of it. Evasion of eye-catching behaviour that would not be. Up ahead came a sudden shriek; he then noticed a purple hat skipping along the concrete towards the water. The hat put into context the strength of the wind as it spun along pausing briefly, before taking off again. A crew member stood between the hat and impending doom, and he watched interestedly as the crew member readied himself for a plaudit earning save. It looked abc stuff: the hat was coming straight for the crewman, albeit swiftly. Then at the last second a sudden gust whipped it from his grasp, sending it spiralling past his left ear. There was no saving it now...the crowd watched as it flew beyond the perimeter of dry land, out to sea. He suppressed laughter as people murmured around him, trying to get a glance at the victim of mother nature. The queue had thickened up ahead - presumably around aforementioned victim, offering condolences for her loss. It was a perfect happened he reasoned, at least for him...all focus now on the owner of the ugly hat, perhaps quelling the urge to laugh themselves at the absurdity of her upset. Maybe it was a hat passed down through the generations; worn as a symbol of respect to a patron previous; bringing a tear to the eye at memories whilst picking it up to don it. He preferred to think it belonged to a drama queen with a horrendous taste in hats however...it made him feel less guilty for the mirth at their expense. Fates way of paying them back for being an arsehole. It was by no means a disaster - just a subtle reminder that behaving arseholishly, caused upset in the grand scheme of things, and thus recompense would be brought down upon them in any variety of ways...unexplained dents in cars, the loss of an important document, the whisking away of a hat. He always enjoyed when karma paid a visit to the arseholes.

The furore following the hat loss was inexplicable; as if a human being had plunged into the murky depths. The now hatless woman was crying theatrically, as a forlorn looking man - presumably her husband - tried in vain to offer solace. He felt the need at that moment to shout out 'Its just a stupid hat for fuck sake!', frustration gatecrashing his mind at the sudden standstill the group as a whole were experiencing. He stared at the man more, imagining with every incident like this regret built and built. There was no doubt he yearned for some kind of interest shown in him from a member of the opposite sex, but at the same time he never wanted to make do, or turn a blind eye to glaringly obvious short-comings. The man was a picture worth placing next to a definition of 'the problems of making do'...tired looking, resigned, withered. He structured the scenario in his head: the man growing up through his teens, college or university, degree achieved, the hunt for a job, moving from flat to flat, town to town...all the while keeping an eager eye for a young lady to partner him on his journey through life. He finds one - the perfect girl; things seem great - but then disaster...she moves away/finds someone else/dies...hes left distraught. Left ruing the boldness of her, the price he has been forced to pay for her vigour and ambition. Never to make the mistake again and once more to be left devastated, he lowers his expectations; seeks now a safe girl - one who will never leave him and will depend on him to forge her life as well as his own. He gets randomly introduced, they chat - she makes it way too easy for him to pounce...blah blah blah engaged married house...nothing of note - just the pillars of generic life goals, achieved at regular intervals along the way. The life drags the man further and further down....sapping away at his character and drive, leaving behing a shapeless lump...too tired, resigned and withered to produce the magic he once did. Instead life becomes about making sure things don't get out of control, making sure theres no reason for complaint. And with it a lifetime of what ifs, and what could have beens. He recorded the image of the defeated man in his mind - a motivation for what not to do. At least being alone left options - kept the fire of hope burning.

Finally the forlorn looking mans continued yet tired efforts made enough of an impact, and the bare headed whinging bitch was on the move again. He smirked at the twitterings around him; mothers scalding children when they audibly queried what had happened, and why the 'old lady was crying'.The skies were turning more hostile; the brevity of the wind apparently whisking badness from somewhere recently far away, bringing with it higher winds and the first smatterings of rain. The boat - although huge - still held enough of a vulnerability in his eyes to perhaps succumb to some kind of distasterousness...a white squall (or some other kind of extreme weather phenomenon he hadn't heard about in a movie) could descend upon them, whisking them upside down and with it screaming, pain, horror and ultimately, death. He remembered the map though - this was no trip to the Americas he was about to undertake; vast hugeness of ocean...several miles from any hope of solstice - this was a swift expedition across the comparatively tiny expanse of the Irish sea. The increasing anger of the elements was hurrying people along, clutching each other and the hoods of their coats further down on their foreheads. Dock workers were tugging the zips up on their all weather jackets, masking the urgency to haul ass through controlled sensible commands, 'Straight ahead please,' 'Keep it moving folks' and the like. The head of the line were now at the entrance to the inner sanctum of the ship, the envy of everyone else. He was suddenly aware of the nagging in his stomach - yearning for some kind of savoury combination of food: meat potatoes, vegetables adroned with a generous amount of gravy....steam rising off temptingly, a pitcher of some kind of cool liquid sat in front with which to rinse down the mouthfuls. The image brought with it a renewed sense of impatience and the temptation to mutter 'move it you fucking prick' at the back of the head of the dickhead in front of him. He hoped for the head to give him a reason to label it a dickhead - it was completely unfair. The head was a model of queue professionalism however, swallowing up the space in front of it as soon as it became apparent. He felt bad for his earlier accusatory descriptive and apologised to a potential higher power - the only witness. He always ridiculed the idea of religion, but had a respect for a belief in a higher power. Each to their own was his take - for use of self-judgement...people knew when forgiveness was required - it was whether they gave a shit or not was the overriding factor. All a priest knew better than him was the inner-workings of his own chosen faith, which had no bearing on him. He would take on good advice welcomingly, but it was tough to do so when the advice became entwined in what he considered bollocks. He remembered being a naive fourteen year old - becoming more and more influenced by music in particular; in the main heavy metal and many of the sub genres. It was a time when the more blatant messages of things like dark and satanic subject matter was coming to the fore - which gave him a more focussed reason to dislike the preaching he was being subjected to during the core days spent at a church like Easter. It pretty much boiled down to hating being subjected to stuff he didn't really give a shit about, whilst immensely enjoying the output of people who offered completely opposing viewpoints. He never did go wholeheartedly after religion, or attempt to influence others with a more passion filled disdain of it, but it did inject a sense of 'why should I?' within him...what was the point of enduring something he didn't enjoy, that offered absolutely nothing in return? It wasn't like cutting the grass for hours for his grandmother...it was sitting listening to stuff he was bored to shit by, then going home. He reasoned that he was all in all a good guy, a considerate guy...he didn't need the blessing of a vicar to tell him that. His conscience aided him just fine in such matters.

The line finally started to disperse as people broke off on their own paths within the confines of the boat; the varying requirements of food, bathroom visits and preferential seat allocation divided in everyones thoughts. For him, it was seat allocation...the urgency was to offload his bag, then stride purposefully to the bathroom to retrieve the illicit goods stored in his mouth. Then stuff good value food in his watering mouth. He stuck close by complete families; in his mind reducing the risk of some piece of shit boldly browsing through his possessions and retaining whatever they thought of value (although he could think of no reason why anyone would want colour faded band tee shirts, or well worn in jeans). Better safe than sorry though. The height of ridiculous possibility was never far from his mind...say he shat himself; possibly the ferry food was ill-prepared, stomach churnage, desperate effort to get to the toilet, but slightly too late...then soiled underwear; maybe a little slipped beyond the confines of the underwear material and soiled his jeans - then there he'd be miles from familiarity sans luggage with a midriff adorned with faeces. Fuck that. A nice wholesome husband and wife donning matching tracksuits, with a couple of well groomed kiddies were the very ticket - reliable, trustworthy, and always willing to help a young man heading out into the big wide world. 'Sure!' they'd say in chorus, 'Consider your bag watched young fellow me lad! Care for a boiled sweet?' Which he'd of course have to refuse owing to the intrusive lump of doobage in his stupid face. The folks around him - seemingly with the same pan as him, i.e. get the seats first, other shit later - were plentiful in their percentage of families. It would be harder not to end up alongside the mental representation he had created than not. Thankfully, the abusive, angry stereotype seemed non-existent amongst the faces....his low value possessions were in apparently safe hands. With this, the intensity of picking the right region to situate himself dissipated somewhat; and instead he focussed on position rather than people. Off to the side against a wall was always the preference in such circumstances...only one direction for any potential attack to occur, and a solid surface between himself and his valuable. He sat and waited for a brief while to allow the seats around him to fill to a satisfactory level, and made his way to the toilets. The imminence of ridding his mouth of the intrusion created euphoria within him, and he almost broke into impromptu song on the way. Much like the feeling one might get upon the final few yards of escaping jail or suchlike he thought. He was free at last! 

He pushed his way into the mens facilities, immediately met by a wall of humanity, in varying forms of urination, hand washing and cubicle exiting/entering. The public toilet was his least favourite place to share...urinals were a complete no-no unless absolute emergency was apparent - standing next to a person for the purpose of emptying his bladder, for some reason caused his body to forget how to do so, and many an occasion had seen him stand there awkwardly staring at the wall, trying vainly to tell himself to relax...think of a nice calm environment; the sounds of water cascading...until finally he pretended to waggle the last couple of drops from the end of his penis, zip up his trousers, and walk away dejected. Thus after a few repeats of said turn of events, he was a cubicle only kind of guy - pissing or shitting. The comfort of a locked door between himself and any possible pervert allowed him the confidence he needed to let the yellow flow go. Shitting however - perhaps as vulnerable as a person can be without being taken hostage and strapped to a bed naked - was an occasion he preferred to enjoy out of earshot...solstice took the form of lining the water with a layer of toilet paper to offer a cushioning effect, and therefore lack of water noise. This also doubled up as a way of avoiding the dreaded public toilet water rebounding up his asshole - the very thought of which brought forth all manners of horrific possibilities and dread...the doubt caused by what the last fuck utilising the cubicle was up to, meant all precaution was necessary. From insane bouts of diarrhea, to hard drug consumption, to bizarre sexual fantasy realisations - you never knew what sort of fluids or disease or whatever was left behind; or for that matter how much of a shit the resident cleaner gave about creating a welcoming environment for patrons. The happy song playing in his mind was instead replaced with expletives and negativity - the wad was to remain present in his mouth; a realisation that was met with a pang of dull pain through his lower jaw. The trick was to now allow enough time to pass to make sure anyone in the proximity didn't see him return to this very mens-room; sure he could assume that everyone didn't give a shit, and would just write it off as a guy with a weak bladder or whatever...but that wouldn't be the act of a master criminal. That would be the act of a future prison-dweller. Time to see what delights the rest of the boat held.

Maybe the expectancy of the pending removal had told his jaw that it need not offer any further resistance, as now the pain he felt offered little by way of alternative outside of biting the bullet and removing the intrusive lump. Weighing up the options in his mind he decided that taking the chance of actually removing it, was on equal footing, if not more advantageous than leaving it where it was. He thus strode purposefully to a secluded corridor, hunting through his pockets for a an article with which to wrap the sweaty wodge in. As luck would have it, he wasn't the sort of guy to discard leaflets or receipts eagerly, choosing instead to retain until a proper refuse facilty became available. A glossy leaflet adorned with tour dates for a band he'd never heard of, was then promoted to the new residence for his cargo. He waggled his jaw back and forth, assisting it with one hand, in an attempt to knead life back into it. He followed the route of the corridor rather than doubling back to avoid suspicious manueverings, and soon was thrust back into the slow moving parade of folks exploring the options the boat offered them. He reached for his neck; the strain on his jaw had spread down the muscles into his upper back. He rewarded himself with the satisfying thought of sitting casually in some fictitious place in Dublin, inhaling deeply on a spearmint tinged joint - the taste of success. The aches and pains battle scars from a mission of daring and cunning. The image dissolved in his mind at the sudden intake of wondrous smells....eggs, bacon, sausages et al - the dining area was visible off at the end of the current walkway. Saliva filled his mouth at the prospect of stuffing it full of breakfast paraphernalia. There was just the small matter of the multitude of arseholes obviously with the same intent, between him and a plateful of tasty goodness. He fell into line, staring at the back of a fat mans head. He reasoned, that as hungry as he was, this fat fuck was on par if not moreso, so he could thus use him much in the same way as an automobile operator could follow an ambulance tearing through busy streets to save himself time - not to mention absolve himself of any blame for shoving through, 'Oh apologies - I was just following this over-nourished prick,', he'd retort to protests of queue jumping. Fatty didn't disappoint - the aromas seemed to act as a trigger in his brain - fuck manners, I'm hungry - as he proceeded to shove his was past any who dithered for any length of time. Exactly as planned, the pained looks of begrudgement were levelled at fatty, some muttering half-hearted words of protest; but still he was directed through with aplomb. He wanted to reach out and clap the big behemoth on the shoulder, in an act of gratitude - but he resisted; aware of the possibility of being fingered by the victims of the the misdeed, 'Heyyyy - that skinny bastard behind the fat prick is also worthy of our pathetic whimperings!' Instead, he remained satisfied with the advantage he gained - and continued to gain. Soon, hash browns and baked beans would be nestling on a warmed plate - that was reality. A potential respect-giving session with the greedy fat bastard that had lead him there, was neither required or even part-way guaranteed to be met with positivity.

He wandered to an available table using the premise of 'If you don't make eye contact, there is no problem,', sensing the disdain he was being viewed in by others still waiting for their food. He opted for a window seat - the perfect distraction to alternate views. The smell of fried eggs, sausage and bacon was fast turning him ravenous; he slid excitedly onto the cushioned bench, pulling the plate towards him. The first bite....it provoked the same thought every-time - he would approach food in the same way from now on; i.e. go as long as possible without it, then tuck into a large meal such as this. Never did food taste better. Of course this was much harder to do when food was mere seconds away stored in a cupboard or fridge - the act of sitting trying to tell yourself to resist and wait until starvation set in, was both an act of idiocy and pointlessness. It was hard to turn his back on the fact he was generally a big bloated bastard when it came to food - selfishly and slyly tucking into more than his fair share in group settings, and greedily polishing off complete packets of biscuits in one sitting when alone...he generally avoided whenever possible buying biscuits or chocolate any more for this very reason - the image of his face nestled in an untidy jowly fat head disturbed him enough to remove the temptation altogether. As a child he turned the art of pilfering sweet delicious treats an art-form....sneaking along the corridor from his bedroom, tiptoeing past the living room door where his parents were (doing who knows what - according to them tv ended at seven thirty...coincidentally the time he was sent to bed), into the kitchen, carefully pulling open the cupboard, teasing the lid off the metal tin that was easily three times older than he was, stacking the home made baked goods three high, then one-handedly repeating the process in reverse, before returning unhindered to his bedroom to taste the sweet taste of victory. That was until one night, upon reaching the living room, his parents swung open the door, his mother theatrically exclaiming 'What are you doing up at this time??' His reaction provoked fits of laughter as he threw himself to the floor turtling up to protect himself from whatever followed. The laughter turned the fear to ridicule, and thus he hopped back to his feet and sprinted back to his bedroom, tail between his legs. From that night on, theft only occurred when he was absolutely certain he was alone and not to be disturbed...the event had him certain that following his departure to bed, his parents then spent the rest of the evening in silence, listening out for suspicious sounds. The thievery required longer term planning - a box previously home to lego, now became his stash box - home to whatever he laid his hands on....biscuits, cakes, dog snacks - although not as delightful as say, a piece of shortbread, a dog biscuit filled a hole when necessary.

As stealing a dog biscuit denotes, the thrill of the crime was perhaps a big part of why he did it. Although in saying that, he remembered vividly a routine sense of despair whenever he gazed upon the selection of cereals or was regaled with what his mother planned fro dinner that evening; a cocktail of healthier adult cereals with 'Wheat' or 'Oat' in the title (he would listen jealously to kids at school who would gloat knowingly about stuffing a second bowl of chocolate something-or-others down their fat faces), and liver, brown rice and some kind of tomato laden concoction slopped on the side for the evening meal. It was realised as a man of more senior years that he became institutional to the mindset that certain ingredients meant potential vomiting; he recalled hungrily scoffing a chicken pie his mother had prepared, asking her what was in it besides the succulent chicken as he received an extra helping. 'Mushrooms' was one of the ingredients his mother replied with - and as quickly as that, the meal became inedible...childishly he began bemoaning having to finish it, he was suddenly 'full' and so on - his mother merely rolled her eyes and dismissed him as a weirdo. It was a sobering moment...he was a fucking weirdo - susceptible as anyone could be to certain pressures and ways he believed as being paramount ot being viewed as 'normal' - only the cool kids do this or that. It belied his very existence; the family home was a couple of miles on the outskirts of the village he went to school...in other words, worlds away from a social scene of any consistency, meaning there was a precedence set on creating his own fun, thinking his own thoughts. He would spend hours creating characters within his head acting out competitive scenarios involving obstacle courses he would navigate on his push-bike; repeating it over and over in the various guises he had created - each one committing fewer penalties as the last until the final rider - himself - would navigate the course perfectly, and thus lift the trophy. There was no memory of anyone else engaging in these activities with him; they were a guilty pleasure only for him; much like masturbation. Highly enjoyable, but very much too embarrassing to discuss with someone. He reasoned this acted as a catalyst from which the core of his defensiveness sprouted from - cards close to his chest, silent in the background looking to support whatever the more extrovert people chose to explore. Many a time happenings would occur where thoughts he kept to himself were acted upon by others, whom then would reap reward and plaudit for bringing attention to the subject, and as such he would endure a lengthy period of self-loathing for not biting the bullet and just pushing the envelope himself. It wasn't lost on him however there would be a severe loss of impact if the thing of intrigue was presented by him....it wasn't expected of him and thus wouldn't be met with anywhere near the level of enthusiasm. If he said 'listen to this song/watch this tv show' it would be met with apathy aplenty; the same pushed by a more recognised peer and it was 'Holy shit that's amazing!' as far as the eye could see. Cunts.

The removal of any influences - whether they be inspirational or aspirational - was one of the major reasons for this...'escape'. Thrusting himself into a position where it was of paramount importance to make independent decisions; to make clear cut choices about direction, free of any worry that history belittled him...the slate was clean - his past was shrouded in mystery. People he would encounter would only have perception. Info could be drip fed to anyone he wanted if at all. The challenge was to stay strong. He was well aware of his inexperience, but also confident in his will power. He would often justify his lack of social standing up to the current point in his life, by the fact it wasn't worth the effort. The small grouping of folks he was surrounded with through school, via family, chance meetings - whatever; none of them really inspired much of a reason to divulge much - and if anything ever was he regretted it; not through embarrassment, but because it was wasted on the person he had opened up to. It was merely a case of wallowing for so long in the pool of built up thoughts, emotion and belief had caused a spillage where by he had to find a receptacle to tip the overflow into. He reasoned this was due to the lack of anything else to concentrate his efforts on...many many teenage days had been spent sitting and waiting for...something. It was a long period of gathering up information and observing - his influence tainting nothing other than his own thoughts. That lengthy a spell dedicating himself to such things had created this desire within him to explore, whilst retaining that ethic - things dismissed by others were lapped up by him; things generally seen as irrelevant was anything but to him. With the scope complete relocation offered - no allies, no enemies, no previous experience - coupled with the desire to explore, excited him. The way he had been up to then was inconsequential - he was an odd one out in a field of three to four hundred...but three to four hundred was nothing from a total population of billions. Any doubt he had was squashed, owing to the confidence he had in the belief that life had tossed him to the wrong place...fate had sent him somewhere where the for-grantedness would be squeezed out. It would prepare him to respect value and honour, to pay attention to decency...to recognise goodness. Anything dismissive made him angry - not just on a personal level - whenever a lack of respect was demonstrated in any way, he would feel that rise of ire within himself. Life up to that point had created that. His experiences, bad and good had created a high level of decency in that respect. This was an exercise in discovering those who would provide the muse he required - and hopefully in return, he for them. Single figures of people would do - he wasn't greedy. Surely amongst the billions, he could be provided for.

There was a strange sort of conflict in moments such as these - whereby a hearty meal could be so nourishing...the enjoyment from the simple act of eating was so great, it made the state he was in prior to tucking it away worth being in, just so the level of heightened appreciation could be experienced. On the other hand, it was a sobering moment realising how miserable he had felt, compared to the comparative Eutopia he was in now. At this point in his life drug consumption was still exciting, still a motivating world to be a part of. He had barely experimented right up to he age of eighteen - an age that coincided with leaving home for college - and then for the two years between then and now, it was a steep ascent up to the point he was now; i.e. being woken up by the alarm clock, and reaching for the rizlas'. It wasn't yet apparent to him that this was in any way a problem - college was only a three month old memory - daily practice hadn't yet had enough time to really become in anyway altered. what had become the norm for the previous year or so, which was basically sharing a dingy flat with four other like-minded, yet more experienced young men smoking dope every day - and when not smoking dope trying to find a way to get more - would not stop being his life immediately. It was the first time since he was in the single digits of life he really felt like he belonged to something. He remembered judging those who found themselves immersed in a mirky world of drugs and addiction and hopelessness...but the last year had taught him it was an easy place to end up. It was by no means on the scale of those he judged, but it gave him an appreciation of the slippery slope. You place your trust in others you are surrounded by , they likewise, and the fight for survival becomes a shared responsibility...betrayals and acts of selflessness are amplified based on the level of desperation...everything is just so much more important. The period had seen him kick up the speed of growing up to the nth degree - he left far wiser and more respectful of life and people in general. In saying that, he was never really in any doubt that that would be the result - respect and awe was deep-seated within him...it was more a fear of not have that reciprocated, which was a fear that became more and more diluted as time went on. Leaving was a strange moment owing to the realisation. He knew he was immensely grateful and proud of the events...but by fuck he was happy to get out of there. Leaving behind forever (of that he was quietly confident) the people who had been in his life for the previous two years.

The college he ended up attending was not set in stone until a mere three weeks prior to starting; there was hope to attend another more prestigious establishment, but he saw the writing on the wall when his port folio of work was held up in the light of day against would be colleagues. He was aiming for a career in architecture, which was downgraded to media production given his lack of qualifications achieved. The interview at the place he would eventually attend was far more within the realm of his comfort zone; the other potential students seemed far more at his level, which - owing to the complete lack of self-confidence at the time - he deemed more of an insult to them than himself. The two interviewers - Mr. Jenkins, head of the Video Production wing, and Ms. Moore, head of the Media Studies wing - were suitably impressed with his work, glossing over the apparent artistry of his pencil drawings, and the neatness of his technical drawings. He was proud of them, and rightfully so it seemed. They relaxedly probed him on his desired direction, ambition and his perceived areas of expertise...it was almost by the end pressure-free - the weight lifted from his shoulders upon being met with the positivity aimed at his work was exactly the start he needed. There was no doubt he was good at art - but looking back it always dawned on him that perhaps he was better suited elsewhere - more matter of fact vocations, involving maths and accountancy and stuff that was right and wrong. There had always been a lack of conviction in him up to this point in his maturer young years, and he did not doubt for a second that the direction he had gone in was far more based on what he thought people wanted him to do rather than what he was actually 'born' to do. His mother had grown up a frustrated artist, career path halted abruptly upon being interrupted by the meeting of his father, choosing then to drop out of university and raise a family. An attempt was made to resurrect on numerous occasions, but the desire had gone almost...arguably owing in some part to having the motivation drained from her by his cunt father. There was no doubt she was very much her own person - that much was extremely apparent upon being freed from the shackles of marriage; but by then it seemed, priorities had changed, she accepted chances had passed her by. This seemingly provided the fuel to her not so subtle hints to him to undertake art, 'You were always really good at that,' 'Why don't you look into this' etc. etc. were phrases peppered into every conversation about his after school career. He was convinced but not confident...indeed his mind was more filled with what life would be like away from home for the first time; what people would be like, what they'd think of him, what would happen...the potential jobs or opportunities created by successfully achieving a certificate in college was an afterthought - something that wasn't that important even. As he shook hands with Mr Jenkins and Ms Moore, he was already imagining being here every other day, gazing at the four walls for the next couple of years, breathing the air...this is where he was going to be. Walking out he found himself staring at people he wandered by, as if to introduce himself to them - they were after all now his colleagues.

It struck him just how diverse people were in comparison to those same handful of folks he had grown accustomed to for the previous ten years...just looking around offered more. It was easy to fall into the trap of believing that everyone who was styled differently from a very tight comfort zone, was a person to mock and ridicule...not that he had - but growing up he witnessed these very things happen; people would be his best friend one year before becoming a rude stranger the next, having been claimed by the group that the small school community afforded the most fearful respect...as if the only way to be part of the gang was not only to distance yourself from certain people, but to cause them mental and unfortunately physical torment. It was the perils of residing in a shut off small community - sometimes regardless of who you were, if you didn't luck out and share views, you either had to live a lie and pretend you did, or suffer for the crime of thinking differently. He had attempted both - he had arrived in the area with a solid background of popularity, and thus enough reason to believe he would be accepted much of the time. He played the game to begin with - reacting to others, not being too over-bearing, quipping in where possible, but it became apparent quite quickly a fair amount of adaptation was required; toning down on who he was and becoming enthusiastic about shit he couldn't care less about. It became a choice of embracing awkward chat and fake laughter, or distancing himself and becoming resigned to a life of solitude for the remainder of his time. He chose the latter - and over the course of the remaining four years of residence there was reasons aplenty to both feel regret and pride in his decision. The core of the in-crowd found themselves in almighty trouble with the law within the first year of his lack of involvement - the casual passing round of hash and pills was so blatant, it was only a matter of time before it became a police matter. As it turned out the supplier - an in all honesty quite tragic figure named Ian - had been splashing out the drugs on tick, keeping track via an un-coded list of names and amounts in a little black pocket book. It therefore didn't require the services of Sherlock Holmes to round up the folks documented in said book, from whom damning evidence was extracted in exchange for much reduced punishment. Ian as a result was completed thrown in front of the bus, going down for a spell of four years behind bars - a term he had reduced by confirming the names of suppliers and biggest buyers. For this, he was rewarded with the moniker of 'Grass' - within weeks of beginning his sentence he was attacked by three inmates, leaving him with broken ribs, a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder. He used to think of this often - he had known Ian prior to all the debauchery; at that time he was an overweight outcast - routinely bullied and tormented, many instances of which he had witnessed...it was a horrendous existence, and one he had zero blame for Ian holding desire to move away from. It was these very turn of events, that in spite of his own lonely spell, had him in no doubt that distancing himself from the available community was a smart move.

Those last few weeks between electing to attend the college he had felt the comfort with, and actually attending passed remarkably quickly; time seemed finite again given there was actually something to count down to; not to mention the nerves pulsating through him at finally having to put his money where his mouth was, and prove that he was more than what he was perceived as. Of course there was doubt - his tastes in things, his lack of experience, his urgency to be and do better, all added up to a lot of pressure. As it turned out, a girl - Jill - was to attend the same college. And, the same course. He wasn't sure of how he felt about this...he didn't particularly mind Jill - in fact he had been quite close to her at certain points through their school career, but she was quite the drama queen; best friends then bitter enemies with various people - always some kind of debacle surrounding her, and practically always completely blown out of proportion and made a much bigger meal of than necessary. He had floated in and out of her radar - depending on whether she was currently in a 'best buds' phase with whoever (meaning he was ditched), or alternately in a 'I hope she/he dies' phase (meaning he was required). He wasn't stupid - he realised she was a big fucking arsehole, but, well, he was bored a lot. He didn't mind listening to her nonsense - he had learned earlier in their relationship to not take things too seriously - even if whatever she droned on about indicated otherwise. He'd received the kick in the stones at around about fourteen years old; he freely admitted (to himself) that he was kinda crazy about her then. There was no doubt his blatant actions left her under no illusions how he felt, but it didn't stop her from slipping the tongue down the neck of many many a lad - often right in front of him. It was how wrong he was that struck him the most...he'd let himself be convinced that this was the one - this was the girl. He completely accepted her right to do what she saw fit, and there friendship was never dictated to by him owing to her actions, it was always based on her terms - they talked if she wanted to, hung out if she felt like it. He was told on more than one occasion - lectured even - that she was bad news, he would only get hurt etc. etc...which he had been he supposed; but it was like a splash of water in the face - a reminder that his over-cautiousness was apparent for a reason. He was bummed for the weakness he had displayed whilst at the same time kind of proud that he was right to begin with; the way he was would protect him; he just needed to be more aware. After that, it was easier - she came and went as she pleased, he relieved the boredom entertaining her rants. It was a dynamic that suited them both.

He had received his acceptance to the Media Studies course before Jill; but not more than two days had passed before he learned from someone that Jill was letting it be known that he was only attending that particular college because she was - alluding to the fact he was obsessed with her. The problem was, was that in general, he was an unknown commodity by in large - meaning that it was a viewpoint mostly believed by people. He had laughed when first told; it was only when the person telling him reacted with a confused '...so you aren't?' He took a moment to make sure this wasn't a piss-take - gathered together the raw tirade he had swimming through his brain, and delivered a simple, 'I was accepted first.' Wasn't really much else required - anything more to be honest would provoke the old 'One doth protest too much.' It garnered the required reaction - namely a scoffed, ' Oh right really? Why the fuck is she saying that then?' They shared a sarcastic smile as they seemingly answered the question with the same internal 'Because she's a fucking fruitloop.' He had no doubt, this was insufficient ammunition to make sure the retort spread throughout the village, but when he thought about it, he didn't really give two shits. Putting effort in to clear his name was like saying he gave a fuck about what these unimportant folks thought about him - in a matter of weeks they'd be mere blips in his history; the only link between he and they would be Jill...at the very least she'd portray him as someone to natter about, rather than just that random guy who used to live here. The thought of potential notoriety actually gave his a strange sense of importance; gaining emotion from people who had up until then he had mustered little reaction from. In a way he could live vicariously via the bollocks Jill decided to put together. Bollocks he learn about bit by bit, creating a story of enhanced interest about himself...the crazier, more unhinged person he might be, if he let go a little. He often thought Jill possibly did this to tug the wild side out of him, but in truth she was clearly too caught up in her own journey through life, there was little doubt she did it purely so she would be sought after as the giver of facts. There were very few instances where it could be construed she was even trying to have his best interests at heart even...there was always that initial wide-eyed reaction upon hearing what crazy thing she had been up to; the few seconds of ire caused by some outlandish thing she said or did. For the majority, the facts showed that people generally embraced the anger, and took her head on, forcing her to justify her actions. He didn't. But there was one particular occasion where he was extremely close to doing so. And perhaps on reflection, he should have.

It had been around a year previous - a terrible accident had occurred, in which four people had died. A local to the next village over - Colin -  popular amongst the blossoming group of pot smokers, had been behind the wheel, couriering members of his large family; both immediate and extended to his village, for the purpose of attending his aunts wedding, which was to happen the following day. He was one of the select few amongst the doper fiends who had his license, and as such was much sought after, and at the centre of much of the excitement that happened...groups of them would load into his, and the three or so other vans and cars and head up into the forest above the village, navigating down dirt tracks to a clearing they had adopted as their home for stoned tomfoolery and hi-jinks. The attention had massaged Colins ego to the point where his arrogance behind the wheel was worrying to say the least. He knew this through personal experience; a brief flirtation with the groups activities had seen him sat in the back of Colins Peugeot, nervously grabbing hold of whatever crevace was available, in order to lessen the force at which the reckless driving was tossing him about. The large spliff hanging seemingly at every moment from Colins mouth, was no nerve-easer - it seemed only a matter of time before an accident would happen. Unfortunately for him - and for that matter his passengers, the mass of people attending the wedding, and the two Canadian tourists in the car driving towards him, it was that night. It was a notorious corner; sharp at the bottom of a hill, turning into a longish straight over a bridge crossing the canal - certainly not the sort of corner to cut at a good 75mph. Colin was killed instantly, along with his cousin John, sat in the passenger seat. Four others were sat in the back - not buckled into seats; sat on the floor backs to the sides of the van. Miraculously all of the survived, a broken arm, four ribs, a collarbone and a major concussion between them. The two in the other car both died - the man instantly; the women however was alive for several hours as rescue teams attempted to cut her from the wreckage. She died en route to hospital. The wedding the next day, went ahead as scheduled. The picture of the bride and groom leaving the church adorned the front of two national newspapers the day after, headlined, 'The Tragic Bride'. A lot of Colins family were local to the area, and as such, there was huge sense of loss and devastation felt for a long time after - fresh flowers were placed regularly at the scene by several different people. It wasn't something he felt any real connection with - he without a doubt felt pity for those who felt the loss and sadness of it, but personally it wasn't something that hit him emotionally. He hadn't been anything more than an acquaintance with Colin. It really hammered home how much on the outside he was in truth; it seemed like everyone his age was affected by it - they'd talk about it seemingly all the time and for a long time after...almost as if it were their own family member. Jill dealt with it especially badly he recalled - he witnessed many a time where she'd be crying uncontrollably at the events, being consoled by people. This provoked a bit of backlash in many, along the lines of 'what reason has she got to be so upset' type stuff, as if she didn't have the connection with Colin that many others had. This stemmed from the line she took whereby she claimed to have been on the cusp of romantic involvement with him - right up to the time Colin had died, she had been getting increasingly close with him. It came to head where another girl - Susan - confronted her, calling her out on her claims; she herself with a legitimate case for being romantically involved with Colin. Jill, crumbled under the scrutiny, apologising unreservedly for the misunderstanding through floods of tears and exaggerated gulps. It was a horrendously awkward and tense turn of events - he had watched cringing at it playing out, knowing something of this ilk would occur. It was after all not just some stupid teenage bullshit they were all dealing with here - this was all centred around a guy who had died. After the confrontation things calmed down, aided by the passing of time. It was probably around three or four months later, that he had agreed to head into the nearest town for an exciting day of shopping with Jill. On the bus journey back, they happened upon Ian, who had almost disappeared in light of Colins death - choosing to regress to the confines of his house, having been a close friend of Colins. Thus Ian provided a source of fresh conversation for Jill about this very topic - the majority of the hour aboard the bus was spent chatting about Colin, how great he was, how much they missed him and so on. He had little to offer on the topic, instead doing his best to listen in, sympathetically nodding along to the musings and tales. A portion of the chat focussed on Colins driving - they all had a story they could chuckle along with about trips they been on with Colin - he was finally able to quip in about his own experience; grabbing on for dear life as Colin hurtled along the dirt track into the clearing. Thankfully for him, arrival at their destination, spelt the end of the oft repeated convo, and they said their farewells. It was times like these that made him wonder if maybe missing out was worth it - would he have better served getting more actively involved? He felt a strange sort of guilt at his natural reaction to events such as these; dread opposed to sadness, a sense of 'Woah!' rather than ' Holy fuck no!!' Nothing was more awkward than watching raw emotion in others, if its owing to something you cant really fully sympathise with. The effect of the bus trip wasn't something he expected, or gave any thought to - why would he? But as it turned out, even if he did want to explore the option of getting more involved, he would never be able to.

It was no more than a week later that he learned of the consequence of the bus trip - or at least from the bullshit that had been spouted as a consequence of the bus trip - he was a marked man. Two of Colins oldest friends - Stuart and Calum - had been asking the evening previous as to his whereabouts, owing to some 'things he had been saying'. He learned this from a guy named Colin; himself one of those who was seemingly eager to resign himself to a life of whatever job and more nights than not propping up the end of the bar, where funnily enough he had been situated when Stuart and Calum came a calling, announcing their intent. He was of course oblivious to any reason why this would be the case, and promptly enquired after Colin as to the reasoning for the search and potential beat down. Colin answered with some outlandish stuff - he had apparently been saying 'He was glad Colin was dead,' would 'Dance on his grave,' and, 'The murdering cunt got what he deserved.' Fear rushed through him - there was no point musing on why this info had been planted in their heads; all that was important right now, was that there was two very motivated people out there right now looking to make him eat these words, bullshit or not. Colin offered that he had said to them that there was little chance or indeed reason he had said these things, but they remained diligent in their intent, punctuated with the parting words of, 'You let that cunt know he's a dead man.' Nothing more was said as Colin parted. He stood, lost in paranoid thought for several moments after, confusedly searching for some way of initiating damage control. He would have to do this via some other channel - it seemed pretty apparent there was no dealing direct option without high risk of being admitted to a medical facilty soon after. Not to mention the high possibility that as soon as the word spread, Stuart and Calum would not be alone in wishing harm upon him. He marvelled at the complete opposite position he found himself in, to the one he had spent the last good few years trying to create. The remainder of the day was a blur; no other thoughts crossed his mind. He had no idea of how advanced the rumour was, who knew, what was planned...and of course why it had been orchestrated. He was by no means Captain Popular, but by the same token, he wasn't exactly a hate figure. He figured he would need to put forth a solid stance of innocence - announce to anyone he thought relevant to the situation, that he had never said anything negative to anyone about Colin - why would he? If he waited and did nothing, it would paint a picture of not caring; he had to get it out there that he was disgusted, and that there was a extremely sick-minded fuck out there with an axe to grind for whatever reason. The thing he had going for him with this, was of course that it was the truth. If he could cut through the raw emotion he stood a chance...he needed to put out a firm message of reasonable doubt - without the accusation, no-one had any reason to believe that he ever would say these things. Then, he could work on finding out who put it out there.

For someone who was accused of making such extreme comments, the reaction was sombre to say the least. Not much had changed really - most of those who were closest to Colin were either no longer attending the school, or was taught in other schools, the next town or village over. Not that this made him relax any; being physically beaten was something he was keen to avoid at the best of times, let alone by those armed with the ammo he'd talked ill of their dead friend. There was a couple of close links in the school, but neither were likely to beat the shit of him - namely Jill, and a guy named David, who over the last year had undergone a somewhat bizarre transition from reserved nerdy bookworm, into pot-smoking loud-mouthed abrasive drunk. He rarely liaised with David these days - mainly owing to this transition, but given the brevity of the situation, decided it best to approach him and put forth his message. He adopted a methodical approach to begin with - mainly to confirm David had heard the rumour. He hoped inwardly that he had - it wasn't a situation he wanted to explain especially, he much rather the chat was minimal. Fortunately - if that was the right word - David was in the know; it was abuzz throughout the pot-smokers clique. He reverted to a defensive stance, strongly denying the accusation and asking if it were possible to pass on this message - particularly to Stuart and Calum, seeing as it appeared their need to extract revenge was the strongest. David these days was a bit of an oddball character; many a time since the transition, it appeared he was about to receive a good smacking from whoever at the time he had offended, seemingly inadvertently...the transition had brought with it a strange complete abandon and recklessness to his dialogue. 'Shitting yourself there are we,' he sneered in response. He had to catch himself from rising to the tone, pausing to think about the best response. 'More confused to be honest. And a bit angry it must be said - seeing as how the rumour is complete bollocks.' He was tempted to enquire of David whether he knew anything about where the rumour came from; it suddenly dawned on him that Davids sneering tone was perhaps due to him knowing fine and well it was a setup. David flippantly retorted with, 'Sure I'll tell 'em,' making no effort to hold eye contact. He was beginning to feel really angry, adrenaline flowing through him at the growing desire to punch Davids stupid fucking face in. ' He quickly responded with a muttered 'Thanks' before turning and walking in the opposite direction. The few yards down the hall and around the corner seemed to take forever; he fought the urge to turn and run back to act out his desire of violence with every step.

He lived life based on assumption a lot of the time; no period moreso than back then at high school. There wasn't much choice whilst so out of the loop - no doubt it had its advantages, judging by how much time he lost mulling over certain thing he did get the facts on. But things like this - where it seemed a certainty the negativity was thick and widespread, he would much rather be in possession of the facts. When damage control was put in the hands of cunts like David, he knew fine things were out-with his preferred level of control...some fuck could run up at any moment and plunge a blade into his ear - who the fuck knew. He sought some solace in the fact he was to reside in the village for a finite amount of time; but then extinguished this with the knowledge that other people knew this also - they were dealing with a time-frame in which to exact the revenge required. Going to school was akin to putting himself in harms way; he felt exposed. He was an individual lost in his own thoughts at the best of times - so it struck him as alarming when his Graphic Comms teacher - Mr. O Neill - felt obligated enough to enquire after his current state of mind. There was always a few moments of rawness in times such as these...perhaps it was a desire harboured by everyone; that opportunity to spill their guts to the person who gave enough of a shit to ask. He recalled almost breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably at the overall picture that was his current existence. He managed not to however, masking the momentary lapse with a drawn out confused expression, and a reply tinged with surprise at the question. He was angry at himself for not doing a better job of remaining under the radar, continuing to be the quiet, easy-going studious young man, who showed promise once he came out of his shell. Mr. O'Neill let the silence linger for a while longer - perhaps offering a further chance to divulge - a chance he turned down. 'OK mate,' Mr. O'Neill sighed, walking back to his desk. He felt a spat of sadness at the lost opportunity. But he knew the floodgates were holding back a shitload of weighty and potentially problematic grievances; Mr. O'Neill certainly wasn't 'The Chosen One'; in other ones the person he felt qualified enough to entrust with whatever might spill from his lips. This faceless person was on such a pedestal by now, he doubted he or she even existed. What would they even do after learning it all? He foresaw nothing but regret, if ever he did divulge - someone out there knew, and potentially would let others know. Then, who knows...move on, start again, sacrifice before he was ready to. No - he would handle this alone - learn what he could, put forth the case as diligently and often as possible. He needed to paint the picture of innocence.

It's lovely that you keep on writing

As it turned out, his intentions melted away, replaced by nothing other than a void; it was an awkward subject to bring up - especially so with people he generally didn't converse with..'Hi mate hows it going...yeah...good good...by the way I wasn't speaking ill of Colin after he died - spread the word.' As days changed to weeks then to months, it seemed apparent that little had changed in the grand scheme of things, other than that he had conclusive proof that there was a person among the population, who wished him great harm. There was relief of course that the comforting amount of time had passed, but also shell shock at the disdain he was held in. Having lived a good deal of his life in these parts with emphasis on removing himself, and keeping out of the spotlight, it was an eventuality he had spent a great deal of effort avoiding. As of this time he was mere weeks away from beginning college - it now seemed a satisfyingly high chance he'd be away and gone with all limbs attached. That wasn't to say there wasn't still a great deal of intrigue in finding out why the fuck he was in this position in the first place. On weighing up the pros and cons of investigating this, he decided it best to not don a Colombo jacket, and just leave it be. He'd been mentally tortured by many a taint before; it would nag sure, but he was certain in his mind it was a preference to having his head placed in a vice or whatever. The time passed had allowed a transition  - a transition that scared him a little; not so much for now - more so for the future. That being the switch from fear and confusion to anger and determination....from 'But..but why??' to, 'I'm going to find the cunt that did this and cut out his tongue.' Those words were verbatim from an actual thought in his head. It was perhaps a reaction to no longer feeling like prey; a knee-jerk to the natural humiliation that comes from being inspired to hide away, and be suspicious of everything and anything people say. Once lifted, all that's left is the humbling feeling of weakness and embarrassment, meaning looking at yourself in the mirror is a chore; the reflection becomes associated with patheticness. All being told, his natural response to the accusations was fear...this realisation in itself was cause for disappointment. Looking back, he should have been furious - frantic in finding out who said it and when. It was all fine and well he was angry now, now that the dust had settled, but it was too little too late. He needed an outlet for redemption. And of course this was alive and well in the form of some nasty cunt not too far away from where he sat now. He needed to find this piece of shit and make an example of him - it would form the perfect springboard from which to leap prior to leaving.

Of course, there was no springboard. Just a solid step from one place to the other. In truth it was probably best, the fantasy of revenge sat lustfully in the back of his mind, knowing he would be totally justified in reaping it. It was seemingly inconsequential anyway...the story, the consequences, the possible outcomes - none of them had any real bearing on what was happening now - he was away, surrounded by new people (and Jill), set on an unknown course, with unknown experiences ahead of him. Any possibility there was of what might have happened as a result, were drowned by the amount to take in. He had become so accustomed to dealing with such definite things, in such small quantities, that it was all completely overwhelming; he was completely unprepared for dealing with so much so quickly. He was set to travel the short distance from his grandmothers house to the halls of residence, the setting of his first dwelling place away from home. The confirmation of attaining a room there had stuck in the mind - the woman in charge of running the day to day operations of the the place - a Ms. Williams - had mistaken him for someone else, when he phoned as scheduled to confirm his desire to accept the offered room. Apparently (it was never confirmed) she had been hassled by someone desperately seeking a room just prior to his call, so when he phoned announcing he was phoning about the room, she had a meltdown, and shrieked at him that she had lost patience and was not willing to discuss the matter any further. He confusedly gathered his composure, and offered forth the possibility that there was a misunderstanding. There was a pause as she seemingly made a check for his name, before continuing (free of apology) with. 'Ah yes, so you wish to commit to the room then?' He responded affirmatively, then listened still shell shocked as she explained away the dates, the monies and all the usual what-have-yous. He tried whenever possible not to read too much in omens, but it struck him as quite the 'fuck off' nonetheless. He admittedly could have really done with a nice welcoming, warm opening dialogue with his pending landlady (in other words a replacement for his soon to be absent mother), but alas it wasn't to be. Instead he was to be brought crashing down into the 'real world', of which he had heard so much about in books and movies and shit like that. In fairness, it wasn't often he watched a movie about the blossoming friendships between overweight, middle-aged landladies (as Ms. Williams turned out to be), and an individual college student, which helped shake off the worry it had sprouted. Surely the fellow, similarly aged students were more the target to aim for...soon enough they'd together play pranks and secretly mock Ms. Williams behind her back; he himself delighting the crowd with his anecdote about her squawking down the phone at him for daring to be the next caller after some arsehole in desperate need of accommodation.

The car journey to the college wasn't long enough; he still felt unprepared as his uncle navigated his way up the road to the halls car park. He compared the feeling to running in a dream...suddenly your legs don't work - the simple task of sticking one foot in front of the other, becomes an accident waiting to happen. His uncle - Martin - sensed the anguish, and inquired after his well being; he nodded affirmatively rather than respond verbally such was the level of cotton mouth he was experiencing. 'Give it time,' responded Martin through a knowing chuckle. It was the fear mainly of being wrong...the fear that his confidence in being a likeable person was in fact bollocks. What if the response to his being was forever to be a repeat of what he had experienced throughout his high school career...or even as a result of what he had experienced he was so affected by it, that he was no longer able to function normally. The problem with only having belief in the fact he was likeable, was that it was unproven - there was no basis for it other than his own blind assertion....and by fuck had he been wrong about many a social aspect previously. He just needed to get this bastard of a day out of the way; find even just a single person with which to spit forth a bit of dialogue with, whether they be potential friend or not. All that was required was the illusion he was approachable - if others saw him speaking to people, it would aid the transition into speaking to the observer themselves; thus creating himself his first social scene...in fuck knows how long. He vowed to be open, tolerant and all that good stuff - college was different to his time before - people who were laughed at in more youthful years were applauded here - expressionism was promoted, mockery was for arseholes...all that sort of thing. He was dressed as expressively as he knew how - namely his classic look of the time, band t-shirt over band long sleeved shirt. He had spent so many years being wildly into the music he loved without any form of outlet to explain himself, that he dressed this way  more out of a way of advertising himself, than any form of fashion statement. He didn't really care if he looked like a prick - he reasoned that if someone thought he looked a prick, fuck them anyway. The familiar pang of sweat pricked his brow as he tried to casually (and failed) sling his large bag over his shoulder. He glanced at Martin to convey the message of ' Please - lead on,'. Martin duly did so, with yet another chuckle...he knew Martin held a view whereby he was being ridiculous...but fuck Martin - what did he know. Fuck everyone.

Martin held the heavy swing door open for him, he swiftly took the weight of it, allowing Martin to wander into the foyer area. He glanced behind him to check for others coming in behind him and followed on through. A staircase wound its way up four (by his count) separate floors, the landings for each to the left of them; doors apparently leading to rooms in either direction. To their right was a hatch covered by a glass sliding door; 'Ah here we go,' Martin muttered - visible was a plumpish woman sitting, eyes down below the hatch opening. Martin had recognized the need to lead the way with decision making as he had hoped - whenever there was an outlet for offloading responsibility he liked to take advantage. There was plenty of time ahead to exercise his new required sense of control - until then resources were to be abused. Martin moved in towards the the hatch, hoping he assumed to catch the eye of the seemingly busy woman. When no obvious acknowledgement came, Martin lightly knocked on the glass. His words were caught by the simple  flick of a finger to their left; the womans eyes glanced up momentarily to make sure the instruction was received and understood. 'In through here it looks like,' Martin mumbled irritatedly, striding purposefully to the door to the left of the hatch. He followed closely behind through the door and into what appeared to be a lounge area; two three seater and a chair - apparently styled for the office waiting rooms of the early nineteen seventies, surrounded a gigantic television set, adorned with wood laminate...it brought back memories of the tv he sat in front of as a five year old - i.e. the first tv he could remember watching. In the centre of one of the three seaters sat a fairly bedraggled looking young man - heavy set with thin ginger hair, thick black-rimmed spectacles and clothed in stuff he might well have stolen from charity bins, such was the randomness of the combination and the well-worn quality of it all. The man threw an animated wave at them, broad grin on his face, to which they responded with their own. Martin sat on the other three seater, inviting him to do so with a 'Looks like we wait,'. He duly did so - but for not much more than ten seconds or so; the plumpish woman appeared suddenly in the doorway of the office space in front of them. 'So - here to book in?' she half snapped; he assumed this was her umpteenth of the day. He responded affirmatively. 'Name?' They went back and forth with the formalities, before the woman instructed him to stay put for a bit - Ms. Jackson would be with him shortly to show him up to his room once she was finished with the current tenant checking in. He nodded, and rested back into the seat as she turned back into the office. 'Seems nice,' Martin laughed. He laughed back - albeit with a little less vigour...she was after all to be his landlady for the next year or so.

He was absolutely shitting himself; the weight of the unknown was pressing down on his brain with an uncontrollable force. He really needed warmth in abundance here - a welcoming bosom on which to rest his throbbing head, a loving hand stroking his hair - a whispered voice telling him everything was going to be ok. It struck him just how absent even the hint of such occurrences were from his life; then at the same time it struck him what a snivelling tosser he sounded. A damning judgement for sure - but he always liked to add a bit more venom when self deprecating. This way there was no room for error when mulling over the possibility of letting such thought slip to the outside world. This was a raw moment; and he was extremely loath to highlight his insecurity at the situation. He would battle on and hope for the best - he knew regardless of how easy it was to say 'Just get over it - stop being an arsehole', he in fact, couldn't. As luck would have it (he supposed), Ms. Jackson - or at least who he assumed to be Ms. Jackson - walked through the door, clipboard clutched under her arm, impatience etched all over her ageing face. Not a great sign he thought with a suppressed sigh, watching her stride into the office. He just wanted to get this stuff out of the way, safe in the knowledge Martin was en route back to his abode, and that he was alone to make decisions and do whatever, free of being dragged around by borderline angry bitter people. Ms. Jackson appeared in the doorway, glancing down at the clipboard, and read his name. She let her eyes wander round the people sitting in front of her - he being the last. He acknowledged her with a quick nervous wave. She immediately began walking out of the room, 'Follow me.' emanating from her general head region.  He rose to follow, quickly asking Martin if he was ok to watch his gear, to which Martin responded with a mocking, 'Yes, I shall watch your gear!' He was always sarcastic and mocking was Martin - a trait that got tiresome pretty quickly. Sarcasm was something he had a lot of time for most of the time - if the relationship was a comfortable one with the person the sarcasm was being engaged with, it could be great fun - one-upping each others attempts at deprecation. Martin was at it every other sentence however, and many a time he had momentarily fantasized about punching him directly in the face; and wallowing in the aftermath of the resultant surprise and injury. He sensed a certain Tourettes-like quality in himself sometimes....those strange moments where you feel compelled to do possibly the worst thing in any given situation - throwing coffee in someones face, ramming a stick through the spokes of a moving bicycle, violently shoving someone off the edge of a cliff - just to answer those nagging questions that remained unanswered to the good majority of people. Consequences were no secret sure - but what would the experience be personally in the immediate aftermath; how would you explain yourself, what steps would you take to remove yourself from the situation - that kind of thing. Thankfully, he didn't have the necessary balls to perform the required actions to explore these wonderings further. Maybe one day he would - a thought at which he would routinely shudder.

The nerves suffered at the situation had sent his legs into 'dream mode'; they struggled to perform the tasks he wanted them to. He labelled this 'dream mode', because he often had dreams whereby his legs would fail him, at the very moment when he needed to escape the clutches of a predator, or a floor was caving in, or if he had to leap out of the way...his legs just sat there, unable to move properly. He was well aware of the likelihood this was relative to feelings of being trapped and all that - that was fine - he would wake up after all, and everything was fine. It was moments like these, where situations required him to step up to the plate, and it was if his fucking body was refusing him the right to even make a stab at it. It was akin to his inability to pee in public - the scenario of standing in a public toilet in front of a urinal, was something that caused his bladder to cease from working. As such he was one of those that went for 'too many shits', when in fact he was just seeking the solstice a locked cubicle door offered him to enable urine to trickle out of his dick. It made him feel inadequate and embarrassed...any hope he had of being a confident forward thinking being were being largely dented by the tools his body offered him. His bladder was his bitch tits. His legs were his polio. Lucky he supposed when you compared it to that - but it was like his mother saying to him 'Think of the starving kids in Africa' when he prodded the leftover courgette on his plate, pronounced scowl etched on his face - it was shit that people had to deal with comparatively worse things than he did of course, but it didn't make his problems any less of a pain in the arse. The primary reason he became drenched in solitude (he wasn't always by golly - he was quite the popular little prick at one stage) in his teen years, was because he recognised the ones who had it all were cunts. This wasn't a rule he applied by definition - i.e. those who have it all are automatically cunts - just the ones that were in his vicinity were cunts. It was a choice; either gloss over the cuntiness, and make the necessary adjustments and sacrifices to enable a social group...or say 'fuck you cunt' and bed in to a life of loneliness. He tossed the experiences he had gained from the group dynamic up to the point he made the decision onto the scale - and loneliness it was. He took himself as a blueprint - same moral fibre, same fairness in judgement and acceptance of others...but with the looks, magnetism and confidence of your average 'have it all'. There was no need to force upon others the bullshit hoop-jumping and initiation to 'earn' their spot in the group, or victimize them if they don't share the same beliefs. Not to mention the all too transparent homo-erotic undertones of such shenanigans....'Put you thumb up each others arseholes and you can join the group'...it was a strange, forced and downright creepy dynamic that always made him shudder to think of. Just seeing such groups together on the street or at school, looked forced - the underlings faces etched with nothing more than relief really that they had got themselves out of the potential victim spotlight and were now part of the gang. But in saying that here he was now, breathing irregularly, struggling to pull back the fire escape door, sweat forming on his brow, panic setting in that Ms. Jackson was going to shout at him...maybe he was just making excuses. Maybe the group dynamic would have crafted a better prepared human model than the mess he was at this very moment.

He hurriedly followed Ms. Jackson up the winding staircase, the exertion not helping in his efforts to stem the flow of sweat leaking from his pores. The journey took them all the way to the top floor - a five storey ascent to what he would call home for the next nine months. He followed through the fire door at the top, and abruptly was forced to stop in front of the first door on their left, as Ms. Jackson swiftly halted her stride. The door was ajar, revealing the delights inside; the first thought that came to mind was the likeness to a prison cell. Not a bad prison cell - maybe more a juvenile detention centre type dwelling, resplendent with budget laminate board matching furniture (chest of drawers with adjoining table and chair, and a wardrobe) ,the thinnest carpet tile known to civilization - in a fetching rust orange no less, and a bed that reminded him of the type seen on board boats - small, tight and uninviting. He scalded himself at the reaction - who the fuck was he, Royalty? Suck it up you whinging prick. Ms. Jackson regimentedly ran through the itinerary of equipment at his disposal, which made him feel dumb - although obvious that he was looking at a 'bed', 'wardrobe', and so on, she made mention of everything, eyes fixed keenly upon the clipboard she held with two hands in front of her face. Upon finishing she walked out of the room, and through the door opposite, which led into the wash room; to the left four sink basins, separated by dividing plywood walls, and to the right, five cubicles - one containing a bath, two containing toilets, and two containing showers.  All pretty standard of any camp-site wash-room you've ever been in - frill free and offering of what is generally required by all. Once again, the itinerary run, then the abrupt exit. He followed down the corridor and through another fire door. The right side swapped wall for windows, revealing the kitchen and dining area; a table and chairs at the near side, a squared off area containing double sinks, cupboards, oven, freezer, fridge - all the usual shite - just less nice and inviting than what was back home. In spite of the sensation of dumb, he listened regardless to the itinerary run-down - you never know he reasoned...there just might be a diamond amongst the long list of rough. He was wrong as it turned out, but at least he wasn't left wondering. Ms. Jackson turned to face him for the first time since leaving the room downstairs, and handed him a key, issuing him with the warning 'The door will lock behind you so please try not to leave your key in the room,' in a tone so patronizing, he was semi-tempted into head-butting hard right on her stupid fucking nose. Instead he nervously laughed and turned red. 'Right,' she continued, 'You're free to move in your belongings. People will be moving in all day, so try and hold off on requests until tomorrow.' Then, she was out the door and gone. He stood in the dining area, staring out the window at the distant view of the college grounds. And so this was it; the start of life without for granted-ness.

He stood there for a while, for no other reason than to allow Ms. Jackson enough of a head start, there would be no danger of catching her up on the stairs. The place was eerily quiet, which made him suspect he was the first one on the floor. He toyed with the idea of doing a quick search through of the kitchen; open drawers and cupboards -basically examine what delights it all held. He resisted however - his mind was telling him he shouldn't be the first to do this. He shared this with vampires - he had to be invited in before he could venture forth; had to leave the thrill of breaking the seal to someone else. The process of the thought and subsequent rejection, offered him enough reason to assume the correct amount of time had passed, and thus decided to return downstairs to Martin. The full journey of corridor, stairs and foyer, brought with it no encounters whatsoever. In spite of the acknowledgement of his arrival, the guided tour and everything else that suggested otherwise, he began thinking maybe this was the wrong day...he was being lulled into a false sense of security, and all these fucks were in on it - Jackson, Williams, the ginger guy - even Martin...they were all in on the joke. The unreasonable doubt still lingered in his mind as he carefully pushed open the fire door into the recreation room. Martin sat there, mid-conversation with the ginger guy, laughing about something or other. He let the moment pass, allowing Martin to register his arrival. 'Good to go then?' Martin inquired. He responded affirmatively, stooping to gather up his fair share of bags. Martin rose, turning back to the ginger guy, wishing him 'Good luck,' with another punctuated laugh. He immediately wanted to know what with - it was obvious by the laugh, that there was a back story here - an opportunity to gain some background on a prospected contact. The ginger guy responded with a 'Thanks mate,' as he led them out of the room, holding the door open for Martin. 'How far up?' Martin asked, as he began the ascent. Another scoffing laugh at the confirmation of the top floor. He was practically biting his tongue at beginning the cross examination about the ginger guy, but told himself to be patient; wait until they were safely behind the confines of the room door. The exertion of the climb, armed with all his belongings, the excitement and intrigue of what Martin would potentially say about ginger guy, the shrouded mystery of what the next few days of getting to know people would entail, had him sweating thick droplets of perspiration from the crown of his head, tracing uncomfortably down his forehead and along his nose. Both hands were tied up with bags too heavy to raise up to his face, so instead he made an effort to blow upwards. This only hastened the ascent of the beads, a couple landing straight into his open mouth. The taste of sweat was not too unpleasant, he had no problem admitting, but the fact it was sweat, and that it was in his mouth, wasn't a reality he could handle reasonably for too long - he immediately started spitting it out, in a reaction much like an arachnaphobic would have to coming across a big fuck off tarantula. The feeling of helplessness caused by his predicament caused his to pick up the pace significantly, leaving Martin trailing in his wake. He shot through the door at the top without holding it open, and darted into the open room door, dramatically dropping all he carried so he could frantically swipe at his saturated face, and rid his tongue of whatever sweat particles remained upon it. He turned to face the freshly arrived Martin, who looked not best pleased, 'Yeah thanks for holding the door open for me there,' he scalded irritatedly. Fuck him. Walk through life scoffing and patronising, and sometimes you get a door in your face, cunt, he thought. This instead came out as a rambled excuse about how his arms were ready for falling off at the weight. Martin mumbled something intelligible.

The urge came swiftly after to defuse the situation, so he plucked thankfully at the thought he had intended to ask as soon as the chance came to light. Martin laughed encouragingly at the enquiry about the Ginger Guy; a story worth telling would no doubt unfold, he hoped. 'He's here begging for a room,' Martin began through tittering laughter, 'Seems to be a mix-up with the place he got sorted out; he was telling me he was basically an old folks home...as he was knocking on the door to introduce himself, an ambulance pulled up - as he waited to speak to the right person, the ambulance crew left with a guy who had seemingly died! Taking that as a sign things weren't as they were, he just grabbed his bags and headed up to the college....that's how he ended up here - to see if there was space for him.' Martin began laughing again. He laughed along with, but couldn't shake the unnerved shudder he was experiencing at the Ginger Guys woes. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for him, over the next few days. 'So you think you'll be ok? I can leave you to it?' Martin asked, with no effort to hide the hope in his face that he would reply yes, and let him away to sit and watch tv or whatever. He replied affirmatively, furrowing his brow a little, as if to suggest, 'I'm not a child - of course you can go.' The reality was, was that he was practically shitting himself; the tale of the Ginger Guy, had not aiding his quest for early tranquillity. 'Ok good good - well good luck,' Martin responded, holding out a hand to shake. He had wanted to follow him down the stairs - a combination of prolonging and a genuine need to return to the common room to double check he hadn't left anything down there (98% sure he hadn't - but the check was worth the appeasement). The handshake acted as confirmation that following Martin was now no longer an option - he would have to wait for a few minutes for the coast to be clear. Ridiculous really, but less so owing to it being Martin - a scene played out in his mind of Martin mockingly laughing at him, as he followed down the stairs , like an infant not wanting to allow his mother to leave. He reckoned five minutes was an ample amount of time to let slip by; and decided to empty one of his bags to ease the transition. He decided upon his large bag of clothes, taking each neatly folded item out, laying them in groups (underwear, socks, tops, jeans/trousers) on the bed, to aid the next stage (putting them away in drawers or the wardrobe). He chose his 'classic' (in other words only), drawer allotment technique - i.e. socks & underwear in the top drawer, t-shirts in the middle drawer and sweaters/jumpers & jeans/ trousers in the wardrobe). The bottom drawer was as usual kept clear for the 'miscellaneous' items; shit basically - knick knacks he never used but couldn't bring himself to throw away like cards he'd received from folk, batteries, multi-tools, receipts, tickets, Alan keys, screws, bolts....any crap he felt some day just might be required. He decided against spilling the can of worms further for now - getting too deep into putting stuff away could eat up the rest of the day - just now was only for the eating up of five minutes after all. He'd go and do his check downstairs, then return to continue. He strode out of the room pulling the door behind him. He set foot on the first step down, and froze on the spot. He had just locked his key in his room. The perspiration poured out of his face as all sorts of combinations of 'fuck' cunt' 'shit' and 'twat' rolled furiously through his mind.

The sound of the door down below opening, and the echo of voices, stole him out of his negative trance. There wasn't any sort of alternative here - he was five floors up. It was just a case of preparing himself mentally, before biting the bullet and approaching Ms. Jackson, and the other fatter woman in the office downstairs for the spare. It was far from an ideal start to his stay, or indeed to his relationship with these women, but needs must. The voices had disappeared; he assumed they had got in there ahead of him, and were currently going through the same rigmarole he had. At least that would buy him some time he reasoned...he could sit and wait in the common room, showing off his ability to be patient and respectful. Maybe presented in the right light, his faux pas could even come off as being endearing, and the whole mishap could end up being a catalyst to a great friendship with them...he'd arrive in from college everyday, and they'd great him with an over the top 'why hello there,' big beaming smiles on their faces, glancing at each other, impressed at this fine young mans' journey through life and his great attitude. He paced down the steps, allowing the positivity to flow through him, flushing out the fear and anger. He wiped at his face, removing the beads of sweat, controlling his breathing; trying to calm himself down, bring the temperatures back to a level where he could pull off the calm reasonable personae required. The last couple of flights of stairs were taken at minimal speed,; eking out every possible remaining second prior to committing and walking through the door. One last big breath was exhaled, and he wandered through both doors. The room was empty - Ginger Guy had gone...perhaps turfed out onto the street, perhaps into a welcoming spare room. He found himself somewhat cruelly hoping for the former - the little he had heard Ginger Guy spout, had led to the damning judgement that he was an arsehole. What sort of twat arrives for college without sorting out accommodation? Maybe the trials and tribulations the ginger prick was experiencing would teach him a valuable lesson about preparedness. He snickered at the complete unfairness in his judgement, the mental image of Ginger Guy sitting on a pavement, surrounded by his belongings asking anyone who passed by if they had a spare room widened the smile further. He sank into the single seater chair quietly, hearing voices from behind the closed over office door. He made no effort to listen in; now was the time to concentrate fully on what he would say - how he would reason away his idiocy. Zero aggression basically - just put it out there 'I've locked my key in my room,' and accept all abuse, sighs, frustration and so on - tough it out, and it would all be over. What did it matter if he was overly friendly with these women anyway - they certainly weren't what he had in mind as he sat daydreaming about college back home. If anything, a negative exchange would provide an amusing anecdote to regale others with over the next few days; a perfect way to break the ice. No more than five or ten minutes of being somewhere he'd rather not be, then onwards and upwards. Easy.

The release of worry stopped the intent mulling over of what he would say; instead focusing on the surroundings. The massive tv from a couple of generations ago, loomed large in the corner...he pondered momentarily about potentially watching whatever the others watched (he never chose when there were more than one other in the room); listening to their conversations, nodding and smiling at remarks they made, laughing when they did...he had given up on the reasons why he was such a submissive arsehole in the beginnings of relationships, so much so, he incorporated it into his imaginings such was its commonplace. Behind him, the pool table; the white ball up by the 'd', chalk rested on the edge. He was tempted to get up and practice a stroke or two....but didn't. What if someone caught him. He audibly tittered...caught hitting a pool ball, the most heinous of crimes. Much like the submissive thing, he struggled for an answer as to why this was a natural response - don't do that (i.e. anything - quite literally), you might get caught. It was almost as if he didn't want to be associated with the action itself...like it was embarrassing to commit to an activity, in case it was the cause of ridicule. He remembered as a young teenager - say thirteen or fourteen - he had undertaken a personal mission to remove some extra bulk he had acquired; mainly owing to the sudden removal of any physical activity from his life. This was due to the switch in his existence from once belonging to a group of similarly aged teenagers, then not. At all. Weeks turned to months turned to over a year - outside became a no go. And with it arrived a sizeable midriff, coupled with ample bitch tits. The tits are what did it - at least the memory of them staring back at him in the mirror, was a dark and not enjoyable one. He dedicatedly began an ever increasing exercise routine; starting with twenty of each of press-ups, sit-ups, squat thrusts and so on - building up in increments of five as comfort increased, pushing and pushing until he was doing sixty or seventy of each discipline. It was a practice that came and went throughout his life - the desire would eventually wane when the numbers had got so high, that he was forced to dedicate more time to it than he could be bothered with on a daily basis...so he would lapse, become bored and give up. Back then, he had been going for a solid five months, religiously waking each morning before school, pumping out the exercises, when one morning he was disturbed by his stepfather - himself unexpectedly wandering through to investigate what the grunts and groans were all about. He shot up to his feet as if he had been caught stealing from the biscuit tin, at the moment of his stepfather opening the door, wide-eyed. His stepfather stared at him for a moment, saying nothing, then laughed, before retreating back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. A few moments passed and he began to laugh himself. But he had revisited that scene countless times since; why had he reacted that way? Why was embarrassment and fear always his go-to reaction?

The thought was snapped by the sudden swinging open of the office door, the previously muffled conversation, now fully audible and continuing before him. Ms. Jackson lead the way out, behind her following a quite beautiful girl; slim, longish blond hair - a pleasant, cutesy central-Scottish accent shaping her sentences. The convo was a pleasant one, about welcoming, if any assistance was needed, thank yous' - the type he yearned for. A larger woman, remained in the room, back to him, as the attractive girl and Ms. Jackson left. He half-heartedly rose from his seated position, unsure if he had been noticed, and whether alerting to his presence was required. He quietly slinked forward to the open door, and gave it a quick soft knock. The large woman, 'glanced round at him after a moments pause, staring at him over the top of her glasses. She jutted her head as if to say 'Yes? what the fuck do you want?'. His mouth was suddenly dry - it was a poor start. He apologised for bothering her, suddenly all to aware of his lack of preparedness...no set sentence to utter. It came out as a whimpering pathetic effort; the type of thing a desperate man would say in pleading for his life. She was deeply unimpressed, sighing and tutting. she rose from her seat, reaching up to a board in front of her, where she plucked a key hanging from a hook. 'Straight back with this you hear? I'm budgeting for a lot of this nonsense today, so I've no time for people hanging onto the spare.' She thrust the Yale Key in his direction. He began to form the word 'sorry' in his mouth again, but thought better of it. She turned from him, going back to whatever she was doing at the desk. He retreated out of the office, heart pounding. Fuck fuck fuck....she was a cunt. There's nothing worse than the existence of a cunt you simply have to deal with from time to time. He had zero problem with the existence of cunts in general - just as long as they stayed the fuck away from him. The bummer of this right now, is that he be back dealing with her again in no more than five minutes. He opted to try and smooth the negativity as much as possible, and that was via returning the key in record time - showing respect for her wishes. He launched his way up the stair two, sometimes three at a time, ignoring the acid burning in his thighs. He was back in the room, key retrieved, and heading back down the stairs again in no more than two minutes. As he reached the bottom, he heard a fire door swinging above him, and footsteps head in his general direction - a quick glance round took in a flash of Ms. Jackson, returning from the deposit of the attractive blonde to her room (or so he assumed). He resumed the journey back to the office, pushing his way through the doors. Another light tap on the office door, and the large woman was once again staring over her glasses at him. 'Don't make a habit of this ok?' She said, noticeably warmer. He allowed a smile to crack across his face, replying affirmatively. She said his name and asked for confirmation that was who he was, to which he replied yes. 'Did I speak to you on the phone?' The memory of the call appeared in his mind; this was Ms. Williams...the initial misidentification, and subsequent misplaced anger. He referred to this in his reply, how she had mistaken him for a previous caller and had gone a bit mental at him. The warmth oozed out of her voice, her retort coming just as Ms. Jackson re-entered the office. 'I don't go 'mental' I'll have you know - how dare you suggest anything of the sort!', she snapped, cutting off his efforts to diffuse the situation. 'I think you should probably leave immediately before you dig the hole any deeper.' He glanced round at Ms. Jackson, who stared at him as if he had just shat in her food. No reparation would take place here he thought. Abort you fool, abort...

His face throbbed with the heat of embarrassment, as he climbed the stairs back to his new abode. Remarkable how everything that could go wrong was...every moment of questionable moral make up flashed through his mind as the thought of karma punishing him, offered itself as a reason. His head hurt with the scalding he was giving himself; on reflection the things he had said and done were beyond idiotic - locking himself out, sure what are you going to do..but calling the fat bitch mental? It had actually been something he had told himself would be an effective way of breaking the ice - of integrating himself with the hierarchy. Fucking ridiculous. Internally, he always thought of himself as smart, wise to things - but at times like this, it shattered his whole perception. He was a fucking idiot. It was the kind of tale people would screw up their faces and scoff at when told, punctuated with 'Why did you say that you nutter'? and suchlike. He closed the door of his room, relaxing a little at the sound of the lock clicking home into place. Time away was needed; and thus unpacking - the perfect activity to remove himself from the woe; handling his personal possessions, remembering when he got them, where they came from, what they meant etc. In truth pretty much all he had was clothes, his cd's, his stereo and his tv. Then there was the practical stuff his mother had armed himself with - cutlery, crockery, towels and so on. Not much to get sentimental about outside his collection of music - and so anal was he about that there was much an original thought to have about any of them. Nonetheless, he placed his stereo on the counter, plugging it into the wall behind. The cd's were naturally all organized in alphabetical order in the box, about seventy or so. They were all still relevant, he listened to them all on occasion, every time from start to finish. He felt obliged to listen to complete albums upon starting them - as if owing the respect to the artist. He plucked out Pantera's 'Vulgar Display of Power', one of the first cd's he had purchased, upon realizing hard rock and heavy metal was the type of stuff he had been searching for. He closed his eyes, as the first riff of 'Mouth for War' kicked in, remembering as he always did, sitting in the passenger seat of his dad's car, driving to his dad's house for the weekend; his brother in the back. His dad was laughing, asking him when he had starting listening to this 'crazy' music. He remembered that time as his favourite with his dad - his parents had split up only a few months previous. As a result the limited time his had had with him and his brother, meant a whole new level of generosity and attentiveness - great gifts for Christmas, long conversations about how they were finding school, getting on with their new school colleagues. It was memorable because of its briefness - within a year of the split, his dad had found a new partner of his own - a lady named Mary. Or 'The Cunt' as he liked to call her.

The duration of the cd had accompanied the successful distribution of his belongings to their new home. He had a bag of emergency rations to see him through the first day or two: tea, coffee, biscuits, cereal and so on. As good a time as any to break the seal on the kettle he thought - the embarrassment had been diluted somewhat, thanks to his mind being taken off the subject of being a complete imbecile. He wandered through to the kitchen, jar of granulated coffee and mug in hand. Still, no other folks were visible en route. Unfashionably early he realised, but a bedding in period was important; all the better if he could stretch out in the space alone. He sloshed cold water into the white plastic electric kettle, plugging it in and forcefully pressing the stiff switch down. Two spoons of coffee were then carefully measured into the mug - no frills black was the preference - but the recipe was a precise art; his taste for coffee was implemented at an early age - cups were washing down whatever shit he was eating from the age of twelve, sat in front of the tv for a marathon four to five hour stint on his bedroom comfy chair. He recalled a social experiment they had done in school; for a week, a diary would be kept recording what tv they had watched. during the week, he saw no tv at all for two days, owing to a family trip to visit his grandma to celebrate her birthday...a nice meal was had, followed by a walk along a picturesque path. In spite of this he was the second highest tv watcher in the class of fourteen. In the moment of the announcement he remembered feeling frustrated at not being number one - but the ensuing reaction to number one (David), had him realising it wasn't perhaps the characteristic he had thought. Still, to be number one...it pissed him off. In spite of the negative reaction, David was quite the scoffing cunt about it all - proudly wearing his medal of honour with pride. He had wanted to punch fuck out of him - that was my title he had fumed, and spent the next day or so toying with the idea of revealing why the hours he had clocked had waned for those precious two days. The desire sapped somewhat, when he witnessed David being continuously berated for being a 'sad hermit fuckwit', by the gang of arseholes who took it upon themselves to convey these kind of messages. Second with the knowledge he was the real winner was enough from then on.   

He poured the recently boiled water slowly into his cup, meticulously aiming the flow at the granules, attempting to ensure the fusion was even. He then stirred the black liquid vigorously, making absolutely sure dissolution had occurred. Nothing worse than tipping back the dregs of a cup, and experiencing the instant bitterness of granule sludge. The sudden opening of the door startled him; in walked a tall skinny guy with a skinhead - the threatening nature of which was lessened somewhat, by a pair of small thin gold-rimmed spectacles. The guy stared round at him, acknowledging his presence with a smile, then a purposeful stride up to him, hand out for a shake. 'Alright mate, I'm Gavin,' he announced, in a thick Glasgow drawl. He took his hand and shook it, returning with confirmation of his own name, accompanied by a returning smile. 'Cool shirt,' continued Gavin, pointing at his chest. He was wearing a Fear Factory short sleeved shirt; finally after years of dedicated donning, someone had noticed. The simple appraisal immediately sent up the hairs on the back of his neck...so simple sometimes were the path to adrenaline rushes. He replied 'I know,' and immediately regretted it, feeling his face flush. In his head he was answering 'Fear Factory are great'. 'Control yourself' he thought; 'Don't fuck up this opportunity'. Gavin laughed however - whether it was at his beaming face, or in response to his faux arrogance he couldn't quite tell...but there was worse reaction he could have garnered. He took the opportunity to continue the conversation, asking what sort of stuff Gavin was into. Gavin rattled off a bunch of bands he held in his collection of CD's; the shots of joyous tinglings' ran up and down his spine; he hadn't prepared for how exciting this sort of moment would be. He controlled the excitement with short sharp answers and nodded affirmatives'; he was worried about going completely overboard with long-winded replies. He peppered the chat with nods to bands that hadn't been mentioned; some Gavin had heard of, some not - he immediately offered a loan of those Gavin hadn't, who responded with a warm 'Thanks'. He found himself fighting the urge to wander round the table and hug Gavin; which immediately had him concerned for potential situations he might find himself in. Maybe his instinct was a little fucked up...could get him into trouble. Gavin snapped his attention back 'My maw saw you from the car in the entrance way - pointed out your shirt.' He nodded. 'Aye was driving up here man...was shittin' masel there wouldn't be any folks I'd get alang wi', ken?' He smiled. He knew alright.

Meeting Gavin had an incredibly soothing effect on him; people he could relate to did exist - it wasn't a case of just hoping any more. The very first person he met was on his wavelength...a reward perhaps for his patience. He was sat on his bed, back against the wall, staring blankly at the TV supping his cup of coffee. The encounter had got his mind buzzing about who else would arrive, what types of characters. He had heard scuffles of bags, doors noisily slamming shut, as more newcomers arrived over the course of the last half an hour. He had made a conscious choice to not make any moves to go and meet them, he would instead wait until the customary hours of dinner time, to once again venture forth into the communal areas. He wanted to relax and enjoy the good feeling - the satisfaction he felt from meeting a person who enforced his hope. It would only take one cunt to smash that illusion - and although he fully expected to encounter a cunt or two, he maintained a desire to revel in the ignorance to their potential existence. He took comfort in the fact that at this stage of life, you could meet a cunt or two, but that would be it - its not like he'd be bullied by them or anything...he'd just be bummed out by their presence; the lack of a decent person existing in their place. He'd heard it often said that school days were the best days of certain folks lives - not his. It had been a combo of humiliation, isolation and desperation. A touch dramatic perhaps - but the young mind has a tendency to do that. Not to mention have no perception of the effects caused by inflicting such things. At this stage of life, he trusted in the fact that, even if there was a fuckhead who still preyed upon others in the early school life way, the general crowd would suppress the behaviour. Being  'weird' would actually be embraced by others rather than used as an excuse to victimise. That got him wondering if he was that weird...in all honesty his isolation was more owing to a lack of common ground growing up rather than being particularly weird. He would possibly be downright boring compared to the zany artistic, musical or comedic types at large in the big bad world. At the same time though, the isolation perhaps also dampened the potential he might possess; devoid of any muse to flourish or kind words from which to be inspired. He liked to think he had many things to say and do and make and write and whatever else; but the long and short of it was that, he didn't and hadn't. Maybe he'd been snobbish in the face of being ignored...I'm better than these people - I've got more to offer. At that time it helped him through. Now over the course of the next year, he needed to deliver.

mods, please lock this thread

In spite of the act of nothing other than sitting thinking, the time was passing quickly; the anticipation of meeting the others was sucking time away...he was admittedly, extremely nervous. He place a lot of importance in first impressions, and given that his people skills were raw at best, he feared that there had to be at least one instance of making a complete fool of himself. He wished he could be at ease with this; someone thought he was a prick...so what? It was amplified when it was so early on - yet to give a proper account of himself, he was already labelled an arsehole, and on occasion a target for mockery...all based on a couple of minutes exchange. Others surely thought this way too...maybe the reaction of disregard itself was a nervous thing, whereby they struggled to respond effectively, and instead reached for the insult/scoff shelf. He liked to think this type of reaction was owing to stupidity, but didn't possess nearly enough faith in his fighting ability to test the waters. Neither the thought of being pummelled, or for that matter, pummelling someone gave him a nice feeling. The chaos theory of engaging in a physical confrontation always had him thinking of the most absolute - namely the fight continues to rage on until some form of extreme damage is required to end it, causing extended hospitalization or even death. As shit as things had sometime gotten, he didn't want to die. At least not at the hands of some fuck he had no respect for...if he was to depart it was to be by his own hand. Not wrist-slitting - that freaked him out. An overdose maybe. A hose in through the car window was out - he couldn't drive. Maybe throw himself off a cliff; if it wasn't for the serious amount of balls required to do the initial jump. On the flipside, he had no desire to kill someone - sure maybe the cocksucker would deserve it - in fact no doubt if he had been forced to take it to such lengths. It was just the aftermath of having done such a thing - court case, conviction, jail....getting routinely beaten and raped, things stolen, and destroyed...all for the simple act of ridding the world of a cunt. there was too many cunts in the world to know for sure the right one had been picked, certainly to make this level of sacrifice for. The cunt population was like anything - take out the kingpin, and the level of worldly cuntiness would dilute...until a new kingpin was found, and the recovery process would begin. Bottom line though - no fights.

He felt nervous. Nervous to prepare himself dinner. Nothing to do with his lack of culinary skills - in fact he had developed into quite the self-provider over the years; he teen years had primarily been spent, being stranded a distance from civilization, too punishing to walk with any sort of regularity. Thus he became learned in a handful of survival recipes that filled a hole more satisfactorily than a dry cracker, or his mothers mundane taste in breakfast cereals. Either way, his mother had prepped him with a couple of ready meals for these first complicated days...at least meal time wouldn't be. He took a pronounced breath, scoffing at himself for the drama. Potentially this was the moment where things would be spoiled. He recognised the earlier encounter with fat cunt down the stairs wasn't exactly easing himself in - but he wasn't nearly as concerned with befriending her as he was with those sharing this floor with him. He wandered through to the kitchen, glancing in through the window on the way. The back of someone was visible, sat at the table, eating. He strode in, deliberately paying the person no heed - preferring instead to let them initiate. He heard a garbled 'hi', spoken through a mouthful of food; he swung round in mock surprise, which as it turned out, didn't require his best acting performance, given the nerves pulsing through him. The result of these nerves was no audible sound, instead holding his hand in a steady 'hello' position, much like a retarded indian. Embarrassment coursed through him -too late to rescue it now - retarded indian it was. The guy at the table returned to eating, seemingly recognising the awkwardness lingering in the air. He welcomed the break from proceedings the meal prep afforded him; remove sleeve, pierce film lid, zap for a few minutes...a good chance to regroup and attempt to redress the initial missed opportunity. He crouched in front of the fridge, eyes fixated on the position where once the two ready meals once lay. In their place, one remained...shepherds pie to be precise. He enjoyed a good shepherds pie - of this there was no doubt; but he had mentally prepared himself for the consumption of a tasty admirals pie. Gone. His knees ached under the strain of the crouched position. That cunt over there...he searched frantically for the way to play this. He needed confirmation - he couldn't very well go in all guns a blazing, free of the evidence required. He silently and slowly raised up, bringing his eye-line just above the counter top, peering in the fucks direction. And there it was - remnants of all the major admiral pie components - mashed potato, white sauce, and lump of succulent fish, smeared across the cunts plate, another forkful being shoved down the cunts fat stealing face. He lowered back down again quickly. what to do, what to do. He couldn't stab him certainly. Could he? 

One of the big things college potentially opened the door for was sex. He had had sex once, not but nine months previously, whilst on holiday. It wasn't fantastic jaw-dropping sex by any means; the volume of alcohol he had in his system saw to that. The importance though, was in the fact that a girl had been willing to have sex with him a mere eight days after having met him. Sure, the potency of this was diluted somewhat by the holiday environment, but that in turn was eradicated by the fact he was a virgin. Not just any virgin either - he hadn't even engaged in even a smooch with a girl up that point. The girl on the holiday had been hot however. The kind of girl who most would be proud of being able to say 'I did her'. there wasn't many ladies growing up - available ones anyway - who he personally could say the same for. Many a time in fact he would observe upon the almost ritualistic dance, of someone opting to say 'fuck it', do the deed with one of these 'not so pleasant on the eye' girls, and routinely be completely torn apart by his peers. During one of his few wanderings out amongst the social scene, he found himself sat in the rear of Colins windowless peugeot van, with four others; one a girl named Susan. She was sat on Colins lap in the drivers seat, who was asleep. It was a strange scene...he and the others sat silently gazing off in different directions, as Susan poked and prodded at Colins face, enquiring if he was really in fact asleep, or was just acting the cunt. He watched this unfold out of the corner of his eye, avoiding drawing attention to himself. He wasn't particularly close with Susan - but in that moment he felt terribly for her...he was well aware of the pending mockery she would be subject to, once she left. A few more minutes went by, the air thick with awkwardness, until finally she gave up, sighed deeply, and clambered out. Colins eyes opened at the loud bang of the door shutting, a grin slowly growing across his face. 'Battle of wills boys, battle of wills!' He exclaimed triumphantly. Everyone laughed - he too, but in a fake strained way. He hadn't enjoyed it. 'That's the merry-go-round started again,' Colin continued. the 'merry-go-round' as it turned out, was the continuous swapping of guys Susan was doing the wild thing with. Colin had elected himself as the starting point of this - ergo once back to him, round they'd go again. Another guy in the van - Wesley - asked ,'Who hasn't she fucked at this stage?' Instinctively he answered 'I haven't', raising his hand at the same time, as if to cement the satisfaction. Wesley looked round at him, face screwed up, replying, 'Aye, but you don't really count though do you.' He remembered little else about what went on in the van after that; he became consumed in what that meant. Should he have just said 'fuck it' and made efforts to thrust himself into the position of fucking an ugly? The disdain he was apparently held in suggested he should have...but he did think of these guys as fuckwits - so what did it matter really? Not to mention just the mere fact that he had thought the term ' fuck an ugly' in his head, made him feel bad for the girl or girls who in this current social scene, fit that description. The very act of fucking them would be using them in the most degrading of fashions. The next thing he recalled about that night, was climbing out the back of the van, and setting off up the road, with a guy called Andrew shouting, 'Where the fuck are you going?' after him. He was roughly three miles from home, a stretch of A-road between him and there. It was roughly one in the morning, and thus, impossibly dark to realistically attempt walking it. He decided therefore to sleep outside; choosing the soft grass of a makeshift putting green, in front of a hotel. He woke once to get up and vomit, then slept brokenly for the remaining two or three hours, eventually being forced up by the moisture of the morning dew, turning his makeshift mattress into a sopping cold nightmare. He set off, exhausted, mouth sour with the acrid taste of stomach acid, up the road, now aided by the light gloom of early morning. He made it about a mile along, before a truck driver stopped and took him the rest of the way. It proved to be his last dalliance with socializing pre-college.

It went without saying therefore, that he was as unprepared as he could be for the thrust forth into the big bad world. One drunken sexual act, and not a single social experience for a solid year or so. He was, as it turned out completely ill-equipped to deal with practically any scenario adeptly; he was 98-99% sure to fuck things up...or at the very least make a complete tit of himself. But of course, he needed to. He didn't have the defense of being too young to fall back on any more; he was allowed by law, to do pretty much anything he wanted: smoke, drink, fuck (less anal intercourse alas...not that he even really viewed that as a viable option yet), drive, see filth-filled, expletive-laden movies...he was a proper adult. The pressure to get the first kiss as a pre-pubescent child, seemed like a walk in the park to all this. People would be a lot less patient with him now as well...he had to jump on the horse and learn to ride quickly. He spent the first few weeks of college, surveying closely; learning who the viable options were, amongst the available girls. It was a pretty small pool to be honest...when you discarded the ones who were way the fuck out of his league, the ones he just couldn't see as an object of desire regardless, the unavailable ones, the ones who were complete arseholes...it left maybe three. And upon following their paths closely for a bit, that number dwindled to one: a girl named Kim. she won by default really - the other two were quite a lot more attractive than Kim, but they clearly had no interest in him. In fairness, he would struggle to be interested in him either; his attempts at conversating with them was entirely laughable..which wasn't helped by their complete lack of interest in giving him anything to feed off of. Kim on the other hand, did all of the talking all of the time...all he had to do was nod and smile, mixed with a bit of nodding and looking sympathetic. The pressure was further lessened by the fact her friend became interested in the guy who stayed right next door to him - an overly-energetic bloke named Kenny. Kims friend was named Shona; of the two the clearly more attractive one. He and Kenny would spend most nights sat with them; which pretty much were filled with he and the two girls observing upon Kenny acting the excitable idiot. He would play the fool Kenny mocked - the girls laughing at the put downs, which he would theatrically oversell to indicate he was in on it. It seemed to work wonders on Kim; who like him was the far more quiet and shy member of the respective double acts. Eventually the group dynamics reduced down to them pairing off, each retiring to rooms to continue the ritualistic dance of finally 'getting some'. It perhaps went on for a few nights too many - to the point where he thought he had missed his chance...it was tough he found to interrupt the 'tragic' life story Kim droned on about on a nightly basis...'I got my heart broken when I was fourteen' type bollocks over and over again, to such the repetitive nature he found the urge to audibly sigh increasingly difficult to avoid. In the end he practically pounced on her - spring a smooch on her from nowhere...no invite, no awkward pause - actually interrupting her train of chat with a swift move forward locking onto her lips. The dry humping lasted an eternity...three and a half hours to be exact. The length of time thus caused a lack of progress; his insanely stiff erection remained locked within the confines of his jeans. The late hour necessitated the need to return to his own room - she insisted on it. His testicles ached at the lack of being emptied...he audibly cried out as he climbed the stairs. It had been a frustrating evening to say the least...and left him questioning the point of pursuit any further. The next night however it did happen; albeit in perhaps the most unromantic of circumstances - the heavy petting finally turned into something more - again at his behest - when he slid his had, over-eagerly down the front of her jeans, and began awkwardly stroking the nest of soft pubic hair he discovered. A shiver of thrilled excitement ran through him, as he became aware of her undoing his button and lowering his zip...to which he responded with his own fumbling button and zip unfastening. Such was the lack of sexual experience in the room, that the jeans were lowered only enough to ensure penis could enter vagina. He had managed to slide a condom on, whilst continuing the kissing - something he was immediately aware he needed to improve on...Kim asked if he was alright when he lips froze at the effort of fitting the aging prophylactic. He reddened at the question, immediately becoming a bit angry at the enquiry...who did she think she was, a fucking expert? The sex was beyond crap...the rhythm was off, the jeans an obstacle, the attraction to each other nowhere near suffice...he finally came after switching his thoughts to his favourite pornographic images, used many a time for successful masturbation sessions. As he wandered back upstairs to his room, he was already thinking 'OK...how does one best get out of this situation?'