My afternoon with Olga just brought home to me how white I am, but also how unhappy I am. From the moment I met her outside — tube she started saying “you are unhappy.” I suppose I am. I live in a constant fog of unhappiness that I have got so used to, I no longer notice it. Only when I am forced to be with people I realise how shocking other people find me. And how white I am. I live in darkness, both literally and metaphorically. Who would I want to be with now? No one. Not Olga. Not Florence. Not Pamela. I only want to be alone. Left alone with my writing the way Munch wanted to be left alone with his pictures. This is a wonderful world for an autistic person. As long as we can indulge it. After getting back to Charing Cross I had a small tuna & mayo with the grinning “how are you?” Alia, and “see you later!”, before dragging myself back into the Calcutta. Only as I got on the 815 train to — I saw the huge voluptuous-titted blonde bouncing past the window, with that almost black lipstick pout she puts on in disgust when she knows men are looking at her tits, yet she always wears those ludicrously low-cut vests, this time green, that show off so much of the tops of her tits. How I would like to touch & taste & f–k those tits. Can you imagine working in the same office as her all day? With those massive knockers exposed in your face all day long? How on Earth would you ever get any work done? Can you imagine turning up for work every day with your massive tits out there on display for everyone to see?
No comments:
Post a Comment