I came to writing late on. In the day, in life. It was all the same. The clock’s hands hovered on 8pm, and I hovered on adulthood. A month away from my marriage, a lifetime of responsibilities and sensible decisions.
My name is Holly, and I am lost.
There is nothing interesting to my life, nothing to make one sit up and take notice, nothing to make one empathise or sympathise. There are no skeletons in closets, nor happy coincidences in the branches of my family tree. I am just a person. Just… Normal.
And there’s the rub.
All of my life I have wanted to be anything but normal, to be anything, anything other than normal. I don’t have a hankering to be special, don’t get me wrong. I know I’m not special. I just didn’t think I was normal.
What is normal? Now there’s a famous and well-worn childhood platitude. Mummy, they said I’m not normal. There, there, dear. What is normal, after all? I wish they were saying that now. Whoever they are, whoever deem themselves worthy of declarations of normalcy.
I tried a 9 to 5 job. I did, honestly. I tried to feel proactive and productive whilst getting up at 6.30am, sitting on a bus for half an hour, and then shuffling into an office where I could almost cut the negativity in the air with my safety scissors. What is it that makes some offices feel like an elephant graveyard? The sad old women who sit at desks, brushing their hair and applying their lipstick, like they are still somebody. Those same sad old women who sleep with their bosses in an attempt to fool themselves that they are still attractive in societies eyes, and not just objects used by sad old men with the same delusions. Those sad old women who go home to sad old husbands who, regardless of their sadness, deserve more happiness than they actually get. I feel the life draining from me. I feel the stares. I am new. I am young. I have nothing to prove and no inclination to prove it in the first place. Immediately, I am hated. I feel the life drain further. I feel my face get hot, and my eyes blink involuntarily. I don’t cry. I am different. They will not make me cry, for I do not care.
I cry.
I shuffle from the office, and wait for the bus. It doesn’t come. I wait for the next bus. I sit on the bus for 45 minutes. I get off the bus and I walk home. I cry as I walk. I cry because I am crying. I cry because this is what it will be like from now on. Those lost ambitions, those childhood dreams that get sucked away by reality. Why can’t I be a spaceman? Why can’t I travel the world? Because I was so busy being different, I failed to plan to be different. Now I am normal, because I never planned. I thought it just happened.
I don’t get the bus the next day, or the next day, or the next. I don’t shuffle into the office for nearly 10 weeks. I sit at home. I watch TV. I drink a lot of beer and I lament my lost future, I lament my present, and I desperately try to cling to my past where my future was still a possibility. I obsess and I dream. I think, and I think until my head is cloudy with thoughts and I lose them. They swirl into an inseparable mist where I can not tell what thought is what and which goes where. I try to make lists but I lose interest. I try to watch TV but I lose interest. My attention span consists of half an internet crossword. Then I discover the ‘cheat’ button and it doesn’t even consist of that anymore. I try to eat but I get bored. I sleep. Sleep is good. I struggle to sleep, I recite Shakespeare, or Wilde to tire my brain, but I make it to the end of the scene, so I switch the light on and reach up to the bookshelf. I learn the next soliloquy, or duologue. I do the voices in my head. Beatrice is haughty. Benedict is charming. Gwendolen is glib. Jack is, well, earnest.
Finally I sleep. Usually I’ll dream. Inevitably I’ll wake.
Ohhhh... Callum Blue. The one that started it all (and the prettiest by far). He was being charged for some nasty crime and I had to sneak him out of the courthouse. He was, ahem, very grateful.
Johnny Knoxville.. He was playing hard to get. There was a Marvel Comics convention in a giant disused swimming pool (stick with me here), and I was being chased by The Living Brain. Fortunately Mr. K was on hand with quips and commentary. There was no nudity, just lots of innuendo. Darn it. This is also the point where there was a cameo (a very naked cameo) from a close personal friend of mine. I won't mention names in case anybody actually READS this (god forbid..) but suffice to say, if he knew who he was, he wouldn't be embarrassed by his performance! I don't think I'll ever look at him the same way....
Edward Norton was my boyfriend last night. He was sweet and lovely, but overworked and I hardly saw him. Still, he was good for a roll around.
Ah, David Boreanaz. He was the reason that Ed Norton and I were a short lived romance. I was at school (looking as I do now, of course), and DB was the class hunk (looking as he does now, of course!). I was the envy of the class, and my god, he was good.