Bathtub Couch

A friend of mine said my writing is rambling and not positive, I have no clue what she meant by that.

“If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name.”

Holly Go-Lightly is my spirit animal, well one of many, usually dependent on my mood which varies frequently as well. When I’m really mad, my spirit animal takes the form of something entirely feral and bloodthirsty; like The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog. AAARRRGGH. If you don’t recognize this reference, I pity your existence. (Monty Python) If you don’t know who they are…well fuck off.

Anyway, Holly’s great for a good day. Her greatness stems not only from the mind of Capote, that little rascal, but also the need in all of us to find the right fit on this blueberry we call earth. I don’t give a shit about Tiffany’s, let’s be clear. I’m not that kind of girl, I don’t like diamonds and general gaudiness. I don’t even think Holly was that kind of girl, she lived as one big metaphor. She represented the epitome of the lost youth, stuck in a cycle of denial and brick walls. Tiffany’s is a kind of sanctuary where everything is shiny and everyone has job security. Of which I have neither.

I currently exist in my pajamas. I trudge down the stairs of my parent’s large home and wave at our armed security, while burying my face in my two chocolate Labrador’s fluffiness. Even they have busier schedules. I live a privileged life on a very small island where there isn’t much to do. My generation are all either married with kin or off on some Eco-philanthropic mission. It seems to be either kids or plants when choosing a life on this green spit, neither are appealing. I’d rather drink nameless cat pee if I’m honest. I have very little in common with old friends, most of them have chosen plants and one or two have kids. The general culture of the island goes against my intellectual misanthropy, i.e. I’m a snob in a mass of dazed, flower children. My parents are always busy, I usually find myself following my mum around on chores, she buys me things in a kind of motherly pity as my savings are laughable. I drive very fast hoping my car will take off into the sky like Harry Potter and I’ll fly back to the first-world where people don’t speak in dialect and I won’t have to explain everything. Any kind of passion for writing has been snuffed out by friends and family stating, “you can’t write that,” when I release blogged diatribes on why my countries politicians are such shitheads. “They’ll knock you off, delete it.” So i re-word my truth which is a completely worthless effort because the boredom of living here will kill me before the politicians do. I really despise the fascination with beauty pageantry, it’s like applauding cattle for making it to the slaughter. This island is ignorant.

I watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and think how nice it would be to live in New York with a bathtub couch and have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I used to live there,  i left because my visa ran out. But my brother can live there because he won the fucking green card lottery right in front of my face.

I know I’m lucky on paper, blah blah but no-one wants to read about gratitude, everyone throws a pity party once in awhile and it’s a lot more fun. I don’t care what you say about Africa, i read somewhere that it has one of the highest percentages of undiagnosed depression. I’m writing this for them too. I sometimes sit outside in my perfectly landscaped backyard with my legs dangling in the pool, listening to the birds and feeling the breeze through the trees. I think, I hate this. One day i won’t, one day I’ll savor breeze and birds but at the precipice of thirty, I fucking hate this. My stove is also electric so i can’t even stick my head in it on a bad day.

I want to write forever but without inspiration or that channel of wording that usually floods my head, I’m left with scrapings of writings from before. I’m left with general disdain for island life and all that it involves. The dreaded carnival celebration is approaching and all i can think of is the narcissism, mud and glitter splashing the streets, along with gang affiliations finger painted on walls all over my neighborhood, any worthwhile tradition is gone from it. No-one cares about history anymore on this rock, some dick just tore down a centuries old church in our midst. I suppose the beach is nice but i really don’t enjoy sand and the thought of a bikini fills me with abject horror. I’m pretty but beauty fades and i eat my feelings, so all pictures are better from the neck-up. Men? HA! I think it’s been about two hundred years now since any of that. Cob. Webs.

I have an idea of what i want from my life, but i won’t hold on to it. I’ll just move from where I’m comfortable and unhappy. I will go to where I’m uncomfortable and hopefully find a happiness in new direction. I made a vision board and look at it everyday, I watch enough Oprah to kill a horse and i trrrry. My mum is always urging me to trrrry. But i think it was Mark Twain who said, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” I won’t deny my illness of negativity, some Afghanistani guru also said; “if you desire healing, let yourself fall ill.” So I’m ill, I’m ill with bullshit and sedentary, palm tree living and the worst citizenship after the Congolese passport.

I want Tiffany’s and to give the cat a name. Except it’ll have to be a dog, I can’t stand cats.

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