500 words a day

724 words 10th august 2009

Filled with a nauseating sense of dread, hopelessness and despair, Phil realised that it was Monday morning again. It was remarkable really how he was still able to remain so detached from reality at the ripe old age of 52 that he continued to behave, from Friday evening, right through to Sunday evening, as if life was a space where there no consequences and that none of what he’d learned so far , such as the fact that if he drank vast amounts of alcohol three days in a row and woke up at 5.30 on Monday morning with a horrible hangover and the realisation that he had again exceeded his spending limits and failed to organise his home, eat healthy food, or do any of the things that he knew (if he allowed himself to remember) that made him feel better, none of this had any relevance to his life.


An observer would imagine the ‘Phil’ model to be a basically simple impulse driven life form with little or no memory. It wandered around ding things that it liked at the time, usually things that involved altered states of mind or consciousness and a subsequent violent or at the very least uncomfortable feeling the next day. It would also be observed that the pattern of the creatures life seemed to revolve around doing something that it needed to do 5 days a week to give it the means to do what it wanted to do 2 days a week, which was mainly about trying to forget who it was, or pretend it was someone else, someone who was immune to the poisons of the substances it took, needed to pay no heed to dietary or lifestyle advice that was extremely well researched and easily available in the surrounding world. It was also seemingly incapable of learning very much, other than which things made it forget or feel all lovely or feel like something or someone else, it seemed to remember that very well but its obviously limited brain couldn’t retain any information about why it was so attracted to mind altering or subduing behaviour, why it felt so shitty every Monday morning and why its bank balance was so frightening that it added several notches of terror onto the already well notched Monday morning bedpost of terror.


All in all Phil was a fuck head. He’d had times in his life when he was less of a fuckhead, in his 30’s for a couple of years he stopped poisoning himself all together and managed to save enough money to go on a round the world trip without incurring any extra debts. He returned from that feeling refreshed and insisting that he would remember what it was that made him happy and that it was not the usual things that he used to do which were all about external overindulgence, but things that he didn’t really believe would make him happy, such as looking after himself in a number of ways, food, exercise, finances leisure time etc etc. He insisted he would remember and stick to this new way of being but, actually, it was almost as if he had been an unercover agent  and he’d lied to everyone around him, including to himself, for that whole period of time, pretending to enjoy it pretending to like feeling alive and vibrant and healthy and not having to worry about money, He lied very very convincingly but as soon as he had the chance, which was  weeks after he returned and he’d started back at his old company and reacquainted himself with all his old friends, he returned to the behaviour and lifestyle he really liked and loved and threw away all the ‘lessons’ he’d learned on his undercover healthy brother mission. Thank fuck for that he thought, no more having to give a shit about myself. From now on I can treat myself as I believe other people believe I should be treated – i.e. – like a piece of worthless shit who’s life is unimportant and it doesn’t matter what he’s doing to himself because, frankly it will be no loss if the fucker ends up killing himself and leaves this world as soon as possible, which he’s clearly devoted to doing, as the world will be a far far better place without the cunt.








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Steve Wybourn





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