So I’m walking down the aisle that has all the bread and muesli and shit, carrying my shopping basket. I’m wearing sunglasses indoors to hide the nervous twitch in my left eye. My phone rings and it’s Gabriel.
“Hey. I’m in the supermarket. This place is teeming with MILFs.” It’s true too. A luscious example of MILFhood walks past just as I’m voicing this profound revelation down the phone line. She stops and bends over to fondle a multigrain loaf, heavenly cleavage framed by her tight leopard print top.
Gabriel’s inviting me to a spoken word show. Literature. Poetry. Shit like that. He knows I like to call myself a writer. He says he’s reading his poetry in the open mic.
I scan the shelves for some Turkish rolls but only the dry, chewy kind are left. It’s 4.00pm and the MILFs have taken all of the good kind. I toss the shitty rolls in the basket. “Yeah, I’ll come,” I say to Gabriel.
He tells me the time and the place to show up, but after a moment I just zone out and listen to his voice crackle on the other end of the line. There’s that familiar sense of panic and my left eye starts twitching like a motherfucker. I should just make up some excuse and stay home. Car breakdown. Allergies. Firefly marathon.
No. Don’t be such a dipshit. Don’t spend another night on the couch watching TV, jerking off alone in your room and wondering why everything you write is so shit. Don’t be so fucking afraid of everything!
My eye is still twitching madly but I know this is the truth. I have been tearing myself down for so long – I’ve pulled my writing to pieces, rewritten again and again, then screwed it all up in my fist and thrown it across the floor. It’s time now to put some faith in the unstoppable force of literary brilliance I have surely become. I’m tough like a million Batmans. I eat velociraptors for brunch. The MILFs can’t handle me. These are the things I promise to believe.
I ask Gabriel to give me the directions again and he tells me patiently. “Fucking aces,” I say. “You will see me there good friend.”
Once I’ve put my phone away, I drop my basket in the middle of the aisle and clench my twitching eye shut, grimacing with bared teeth. After a few seconds the muscles seize up and the twitching stops.
I pick up my basket again. It's stuffed with shitty Turkish rolls, Up&Go and frozen vegetables. I have everything I need. This spoken word show should be a riot. I’ll get to tear down other people inside my head instead of just tearing myself down. I’ll drink Jack and Coke and feel superior to everyone. And the next day, I may even sit down to write.
published 24 April 2013