Listen, there are a lot of words going on lately and I like them. I read some here and here. I want to keep them all for myself, collect them in my shopping trolley and race through the words supermarket on the temperamental trolley wheels that are only meant to move slowly and delicately through the aisles (unless you are that kind of person who loves blocking people from access to the cheese).
I want to write all those musty, poetic, weird things I used to write in 'liberated' extra school books with a pencil going too fast. All thick with endless metaphor and nothing at all about standing in Tesco looking at the Quavers and thinking about life (but not quite as much as thinking about Quavers). And I want to write all the real things too, about how I keep trying to do that thing where you put your hair in a towel and twist it into a clever head piece, but somehow I keep doing it slightly wrong and then there is a limp wet towel precariously positioned on my head.
I try to be artistic and romantic without even meaning to, but really it's the minor problems with towels that are the most interesting things somehow. I've got a post-bath shiver running through my arms and nestling into my shoulders. I always like that feeling because it's the feeling of a transition taking place in my body and it reminds me I'm alive. It brings with it this clarity of consciousness and I love it. It's like some kind of pure truth gets shot through me, and here I am, ready to put on a cardigan and some socks.
I'm thinking about all the things I've ever wanted to be. All the things I ever wanted to learn or do. The ideal versions of me in my head. The smart and mysterious woman with amazing, shining hair, and a big motorcycle that she rides across the world, and fluency in six languages. There's her boyfriend too, the big man on a horse. He is holding a thousand pink peonies and definitely has a lot of money and the ability to conjure carrot cake from thin air just by winking. The woman (me) accepts the flowers, puts them all in her hair in some incredible arrangement, and then writes a novel in Japanese within ten minutes.
On the surface it's an exciting fantasy, but really it's hollow. It's often much more genuinely interesting to read about someone eating some French Fancies and having a cry in the local chip shop because someone said the word 'breast' and for some reason it just set them off and now they have to organise their wardrobe for forty-three minutes because the pile of clothing has finally gotten too extreme.
I mean, I don't know, there's this weird part of me that keeps trying to creep along a path towards perfection and sanitisation and '#goals' but honestly my Moomin pyjamas and Twinings Salted Caramel Green Tea and the fact that 'schlafzimmer' is my favourite German word - all that stuff is also '#goals' in its own way, and also to hell with '#goals' and to hell with presenting any sort of image of myself (whether to myself or other people) and to hell with the idea of not writing incredibly long and ridiculous run-on sentences like this one. I love run-on sentences.
I'm a great big run-on sentence with legs and goosebumps and a rumbling tummy.