Sinister: Haven't had a dream in a long time.

[Ruvi Simmons]

I write this without any semblance of the quality control which, I assure
you, I subject all my writings to. I am quite far from sober but, more
importantly, I have had an absolutely atrocious night. It all began at 3pm
and then progressed into an concert by the bland, dire Add N to (X), which
was followed by a trip to the dreadful yet strangely alluring Candybox. It
all ended with me almost having a breakdown in Picadilly Circus when I
dropped my copy of Philip Larkin's The Whitsun Weddings in a puddle. I had
been clinging to it, stroking it and lavishing love upon it in the absence
of human company, and to have it slip from fingers was almost enough to make
me break down and weep, right under the statue of Eros. Which, in a way,
would have been appropriate...

The reason for this uncustomarily non-analytical piece of narrative is,
essentially, down to the goings on in the less than venerable Candybox
(which, I have just realised, is an utterly awful name for a club or,
indeed, for anything). The day had left me feeling sordid and dirty, which
was not in the least aided by the awful Add N to (X) concert (at which a
friend stole two t-shirts, one of which I have recently thrown into the
dustbin in disgust, though not at the theft). I stood, bored, watching a
group of people fiddling around with electronic gadgets and making music
which sounded like an up-tempo drum track on a Casio keyboard. Then, at
Candybox, I started to kiss a (male) friend of mine, which furthered the
general air of depravity. It all became an awful mess of drinking,
uncontrollable, unpleasant laughter and loud music. It could have been saved
by the presence of a wonderful girl from Edinburgh who loved Belle and
Sebastian and who had the most intent, pure eyes I have seen in many, many a
long day, but she eventually went off with some other chap. My other
potential saviour (is it pathetic that I seek saviours in women I hardly
know, yet whom I pour my love into without them being aware?) went off to do
no doubt dastardly deeds with the aforementioned friend. I asked her if I
could hold her hand. She said yes. I did. It was soothing to feel the skin
of another human being in mine, but was followed by her sucking the fingers
of the yet again aforementioned friend. Then I gave her my bracelet, telling
her I didn't want to see it ever again. It was symbolic, I think, but I am
not sure she was aware of that, as I snapped the thing off my wrist and
thrust it into her hands. Which takes us rather close to my present state,
sitting at my computer, feeling sorry for myself, and fretting about the
fact that I am supposed to be awake in three hours. Let me be honest: it
won't happen. I must sleep, or at least lay in bed thinking about these
events and about the tremendous sadness I felt as I walked away from the
club (the last words I heard were spoken by the girl whose hand I held:
"Ruvi was hoping to snog you" ((referring to another friend)); I walked away
immediately after in, well, not disgust...loneliness).

I've utterly lost the plot as a result of that protracted bracket...Ah yes,
sadness. I walked and held in tears, going down Berwick Street, then onto
Shaftesbury Avenue, Picadilly Circus, Picadilly and then my bus. All that
sordid socialising, and pointless attractions leading to nothing at all
except disappointment. All those people who can't be bothered to talk to
other human beings. Music I have heard before. Faces I love in secret, who
mock me with ignorant glances. It was all too much tonight, I think. In a
way, it ought to be too much every night.

I shouldn't be so negative though, should I? At least I get to write all of
this to people who, I think, will be sympathetic to the ideas of loneliness,
dissatisfaction, love and sadness. The idea of writing this below-par piece
actually kept me going as the bus lurched along sickeningly. Yes, it was
soothing. And now, I hope, people will not read this with cruel eyes; in my
currently fragile, admittedly drunken, state, that little extra cross to
bear would, well, be too much to bear.

Ruvi.

Ps. I would like to extend my belated greeting to Katie, Jessie and Esmie. I
would have done so earlier, but the idea of misspelling your names
frightened me into silence. Now I thought I'd take the opportunity of not
caring about such things to say hello. Hello.

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