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dear_mun2012-07-18 05:29 pm
uterefelix) wrote in dear_mun2012-07-18 05:29 pm
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Well, your achievements for today are taking a shower and writing a few sad paragraphs about my past. Congratulations. Feeling accomplished or what?
No, you do not get to call it a narrative. That's a snippet, missus. Two hundred words of me being miserable in Wicklow. That's all that happens. I get rained on, cheated on, and I'm in Wicklow.
Sure, what about the time I wrestled a piglet. No? Fine. Write about me getting wee baby kittens or going to Glastonbury or that time some ignoramus grabbed my hat right off my head because he thought it'd be funny and then learnt his lesson. I happen to like my life, so don't pick out one miserable little chapter- barely even a chapter- and try to say it's important. That's the magic of moving; I pick what bits of the past are relevant to me now, not anyone else.
Now eat something. Jesus, you think you can live off toast? Chop chop, nice and quick, there we go, you'll feel better for it.
No, you do not get to call it a narrative. That's a snippet, missus. Two hundred words of me being miserable in Wicklow. That's all that happens. I get rained on, cheated on, and I'm in Wicklow.
Sure, what about the time I wrestled a piglet. No? Fine. Write about me getting wee baby kittens or going to Glastonbury or that time some ignoramus grabbed my hat right off my head because he thought it'd be funny and then learnt his lesson. I happen to like my life, so don't pick out one miserable little chapter- barely even a chapter- and try to say it's important. That's the magic of moving; I pick what bits of the past are relevant to me now, not anyone else.
Now eat something. Jesus, you think you can live off toast? Chop chop, nice and quick, there we go, you'll feel better for it.
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[Imogen smiles, apparently settling in for a good yarn.]
Alright. So I was telling fortunes in Blackpool at the time- it's a good place to sell tack and get your palm crossed with silver, as it were, but the endless stag nights are a bit wearying. So many people so totally unable to hold their alcohol.
Which is relevant. I was wearing this nice big straw hat I got cheap at Oxfam, bargain, with a pink band and all these feathers... [Imogen's affection for ridiculous hats is fairly obvious already, especially considering that right now she's sporting a lime green beret. It's got a tassel on it!] Funny thing I discovered in Blackpool especially; drunk men are attracted to feathers like moths to a flame.
So, I'm walking by, minding my own business, wearing a hat as one does. And this Neanderthal can't contain himself any longer, detaches himself from his pack and snatches my hat right off my head and then puts it on.
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I'll have to remember that, about drunk men and feathers.
[but more importantly:] How long was it before he began to regret that decision?