Adulthood Calling? No Thanks, I'm Not Interested. in And The Rest.

Another Morning After, with hangover hair and last night’s mascara a thick black-tar syrup on my eyes. Another Morning After, supine on the sofa in the blurry barrel-lens distortion of that seasick space between Still Drunk and Fucking Hungover. Another Morning After, my tights torn like skin, the filthy whispers of pretty little boys still hot echoes in my ear, my shoes and coat still somewhere on the sticky glass-rubble floor of the nightclub.

He looks at the table, the floor, the ceiling, the tv. So I know he wants to talk. Spit it the fuck out, a Jamaican steel band is playing behind my eyes and I need to eat crisps and my mouth tastes like a bottle of amaretto and four rounds of tequila and twelve vodka shots.

So here it comes, The Problem, spilled like vomit. What’s going on with you? When are you going to grow up? It’s time for us to move forward, move on to the next stage, start a family…

Fuck. Me. WHAT. Excuse me while I spit out my Cheese Puffs, have you seen me recently? I’m falling over in stupid flimsy dresses, falling out of dirty pounding nightclubs, falling into the wrong beds. I’m falling-down drunk, I’m falling down a black hole. I’m wearing my misery in crosshatch down my arms, I’m drifting away dreaming of handfuls of pills knocked back like the answer, of body-shattering self-ending collisions with fast-moving objects or distant stationary tarmac. I don’t know whether I’m living too fast or dying too slowly.

I’m just barely keeping myself alive, it’s all bribes and lies and playing with fire. And you want me to bring another life into this? You must be out of your fucking mind, you’re certifiable.

You will not be impregnating me and levelling us up to Stage Three: The Tedium Of Childcare. I don’t know whether I’m the spark that ignites the party or the spark that will burn my own body in flames, but I do know I am not a mother. Not now, maybe not ever, I wasn’t planning to live long enough to find out.

You will not be impregnating me, and I can state that with a clear degree of certainty. You see… you’d need to be able to fuck me, first.