I know a girl.
That’s a mouthful. In fact to rephrase that; I know girls: I know one with an ever growing predilection for drugs, I know one with a horrible, soul crushingly bad taste in boys, I know one so narcissistic that the photos she takes of her bath products she thinks makes her the new Nan Goldin. I also know a girl so shy, she’s saddeningly ruining herself.
Fuck if they read this I’m going to be brutally gang murdered
(note that if I stop posting, I’m either finding myself in the new Radiohead Ok computer Oknotok release or they’ve killed me and my body is in the Pacific- please do alert the authorities either way).
these girls have no connection to one another, they’re just all girls I’ve either ‘loved’, liked or fucked it up with. Fucked it up with is synonymous with loved and liked really.
All of these girls are beautiful in one way or another. They have their flaws which I’ve unceremoniously aforementioned but at the heart of it, they’re girls who have made or that make my life a better place and that’s saying something because for a while I was relying on Bukowski, californication and Warren Zevon to keep me upright. Hell most times I still do.
The sad tragedy of my knowing them is, that as I got to know them, because of my tendencies for psychoanalysis and paranoia. I saw the pinnacle of their faults. I felt my heart sink as the girl fell into drugs and found the warm embrace of faux ‘Friendship/acceptance’, I watched the narcissistic girl find herself pressured by other boys into dark abysses of hopelessness. I watched the soul crushing girl mess her life up so bad she blocks out bad memories.
I find myself from to time (some more often than others) stood at the edges of their lives, the threshold built up. When I step in, my world collides with theirs. Sooner rather than later I find my world shattered, I find myself in bed, hateful of everything. Unable to write on this blog, unable to write anything. Music my comforter (especially Radiohead’s A moon shaped pool) As I stare at their paragraphs of how they fucked up. How the hoodie boy fucked their lives up, and how they remember me calling them beautiful, then coldly disappearing into a summer that unfurled as I read Jonathan Shaw’s Narcisa: our lady of ashes (a top read by the way).
Maybe this blog post is to clear my conscience to all who have saddeningly stumbled upon it, and see a self-righteous, neurotic asshole who feels the need to air everything out in this blog, in dank, unrelenting, unsophisticated diatribe that’d be better suited yelled softly into a dictaphone.
Ultimately I’ve seen their mistakes, I’ve been with them through the bullshit, and days of breaking down, sadness. I’ve argued with them through it. I wouldn’t clear my memory of any of them no matter how painful it felt. They’re chapters in my life, that comprise of where I am and who I am. That might not be pretty, but it’s better than being Piers Morgan, I know that much.
One of them I’m going through it with now, the end is an open tunnel. One sunny morn may see me physically gutted with the sadness of a sharp whatsapp message as she meets someone else, far out from the echochey yet beautiful halls of our shared time together that sees what I can’t see, but painfully yearn to, whilst we chatter the days away on skype.
Well a tad personal tale of my life there for you. If I’ve distracted you from sex, your daily masturbation session or slipping into your slippers after a long days work. Then I can offer you no apologies. I’ll give you something though; Sasha Grey is an underrated photographer, actor and writer.
Ben Brizell 