|Dog's Reasons (standard:other, 1922 words)|
|Author: Siobhan McHenry||Added: Sep 23 2003||Views/Reads: 2601/1824||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|All about small town British Life|
“the diversity of our opinions, consequently, does not arise from some being endowed with a larger share of reason than others, but solely from this, that we conduct our thoughts along different ways, and do not fix our attention on the same objects.” Descartes Dog's Reasons. by Siobhan McHenry. Every scar on her hands told a story she said, the round one that looked like a cat's eye happened to be one she was particularly proud of...she had a dog with bulging eyes that looked like a rat on steroids...her nickname was Asbestos, that was a name given to her after a period of halitosis when friends couldn't bear to go near her and she had spent a week as a recluse brushing her teeth twelve times a day. We met outside the Working Men's club though neither of us were working men, as it were. Her left hand was bleeding profusely, the result of yet another fight with her ex-boyfriend...I had been concerned by her bloodied hand, (yet it looked as though she had dipped it in a pot of scarlet paint) and had gallantly offered my assistance. I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I took her back inside the club and tried unsucsessfully to chat her up. The few things she told me were pretty weird and funny, i don't know whether she had made most of it up, she was obviously very pissed and most of the time she just sat there sucking her hand like a vampire... Nothing more amounted that night, some shit on a motorbike kept his engine running right next to us, gassing us on the fumes, like there wasn't already enough smog in this smelly old, industrial town, so she decided to head home. I managed to write down her phone number which she shouted to me from across the road wobbling dangerously on the edge of the curb. I waved her off, as she said her goodbyes and watched her zigzag precariously down the street on high heels. I thought I'd give her a day to recover from the previous nights drinking before i called her, my stomach felt pretty mashed up too, the dregs of alcohol felt like they were burning my insides...She did remember who i was after all when we spoke two days later... We talked about all kinds of things, she related stories to me about a bloke who had drunk her sister's piss and had then tried to cop off with her, how she was meant to be going to church that evening with her nan, and that she blamed her madness on being a Catholic and part Irish and all. I told her about my bastard lack of doing anything, visiting the job centre nearly every other day, when I could get up early enough, and then not even getting any phonecalls for interviews. I told her I had wanted to be a writer, but everything seemed to be determined to dishearten me on that ambition. And I always seemed to be ‘blocked' by something, by what I don't know, either my environment, my life or just plain old talentlessness. “One thing that really gets to me,” she said, “Is how after all this doing stuff we really don't achieve a thing. Maybe it would be good for you to keep a diary about your life, no matter how crap you think it is, there must be something here to inspire you.” My inspiration perhaps was all in her..... The first time we took Ecstasy together was one of those lucid dream-like states where even inanimate objects seemed full of wonder, and I spent half an hour running my hand through the flame of a candle amazed at it's movement, the floating flame seemed to be in all places at once and Asbestos babbled like a child for hours...we didn't go out this time...I'd had already had too many bad experiences on this drug in clubs...I once took a Rolex, after going all day without food, and went to a heavy metal club, the loud thrashing of guitars was fucking with my head, like being locked up in a room full of barking dogs...I had spent two hours, which seemed like ten minutes in the loo's telling a friend to come find me if I wasn't out in ten minutes cos that would mean I was dead and dying on the piss-covered floor, bleeding from every orifice...but he didn't, so I just sat on the floor in my own watery vomit, my head lolling backwards, staring at a single blue light on the ceiling and thinking I had found God... My parents have voted for those “honest” thugs, the BNP, the British Nationalist Party, Britain's version of the Ku Klux Klan. Why the hell, Click here to read the rest of this story (102 more lines)
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