Today, I’ve really fancied getting out of my face. Like physically, out of it. And I’ve succeeded. Full self-destruction. But I do know, Tomorrow Tomos will regret this decision. He’ll like my face when he sees it (looser). He’ll think I’m great. He won’t appreciate the hangover. Certainly not with his job list and ear infection. Today Tomos thinks fuck it, but then he is a word that one can’t freely say in polite society (cunt).
But in amongst my self-destructive actions (alcomahol), I’ve reached for my music, sang along in a car park, waved at someone not waving at me, I’ve spoken to two close people about round about topics, and realised that I’m only beneath the surface.
It’s taken a good few skittle-vodkas to notice it.
So close to the air…
(Sorry, I’ve just had to have a sing-along break in the mirror and now I’ve totally lost me train. ‘Don’t nobody bring me no bad news’ gets the show-tune belter out of me!)
I suppose, I just need to word what’s in my head.
I need my lips to shape those words.
I just need the people who I need to hear, to listen to those words.
I need to stop keeping them inside.
I need, most of all, to unhide my courage.
Not much to ask, eh?
Considering the effort I put into undermining myself, it should be easy.
Easy to make someone understand what doesn’t make sense to me.
Pass me that bottle!
But then Brothers Osborne assures me that It Ain’t My Fault.
Then the Dixie Chicks come on and how can I not kill Earl with them?
Honestly, how can I not be Ready For A Good Time with Shakira?
Self-saving is okay.
Being drunk is cool until the hangover in the morning.