More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Why, hello other shoe. I’d been wondering when you were going to drop. Eff my effing L.
“You really do own your illiteracy, don’t you?” “Yeah, I’m thinking about moving to America and running for public office.”
Peeping through my eyelashes like a small child braving an episode of Doctor Who from behind the sofa cushions, I checked my notifications.
Oh hello, rock bottom. Nice to see you again. Do you want to be my boyfriend?
Help. Emergency. Queervengers Assemble.
Sometimes, you can half believe you’ve been hurt so much you’ve basically been vaccinated. Rendered immune. And then someone says something like that to you. I forced my mouth into a grin.
This was why relationships sucked: they made you need shit you’d been perfectly happy not needing. And then they took them away.
I was holding out some hope that I could wring a few minutes of idle conversation out of them which, in Dr. Fairclough’s case at least, I should have realised was a hope so vain that Carly Simon could have written a famously enigmatic song about it.
Somehow, despite my flat still looking like a bomb had thought about going off but got too depressed and just sat in the corner eating Pringles and crying, I was in an oddly good mood.
And I desperately wanted to say something supportive but “don’t cry” was toxic bullshit, “it’s okay to cry” was patronising, and “there, there” had never made anybody feel better ever in the history of emotions.
