School's Out

"NO!" I objected, spinning a face at the phone screen, thrusting the vacant hand, not holding the Apple device, in the air.

"No, no, no, no! She does not get to do this," I continued in an non-negotiable manner, my jaw agape in astonishment, the veins popping out of my neck.

"How dare she," I raged.

I tried to gather my thoughts, grasping for the right words inside the swirling cloud of frustration, confusion and anger in my mind. I wanted to unzip my skin and climb out of my body and into oblivion.

The woman, seated five rows in front of me, turned around and threw me the skank-eye making a point of my ill-advised subtlety. My tantrum was audible even from her end of the bus.

I had received an email from a girl I knew at school. The group she led treated me horribly for five years and, to put it simply, we were never friends. She had written to me in much the same blithe, joyous way as a child eats an orange to say she was now an advertising manager for an impressive company, running a campaign for a brand and wondered if I'd be willing to collaborate with for her on a particular project.

Loose Ends

Hey, hey! You, you!


Everyone has some shitty secret, some melodrama. Let out the avalanche of grief and emotion. 

You've woken a web of deceit for too long and you cannot just excuse yourself from this conversation. It is important. Tell me about a time in your life where you want to press delete. Don't let numbness envelope you. Share how you were stung! 


Did your history teacher like you a bit too much? Are you not over your parents' divorce? Did one of your best friends have sex with you and then not talk to you again? Maybe your siblings didn't hug you enough? Were you a doormat for an ex? Did someone's life expand and they didn't make room for you?



Poker Face

The waitress was scraping plates sadly into the bin. She seemed bored as she had no customers to attend to, for her it was going to be a long night.

A petite girl with tiny eyes and sharp features began to devour her basket of food, occasionally looking up from her phone she was immersed in. At another four-person table, one individual was sat with a sour look on his face, he wasn't alone though, two large burgers were there to keep him company.

The windows were fogged with steam and breath. After seeing a mediocre film, we were sharing a cosy fondue.

''I'm using this app where you like or dislike different users, and can chat with them, then, if you both match,'' I said.

Her eyes popped. "I actually know this one!"

She pointed at me. "Bidder!”

"What?" I asked.

"It's called Bidder, the one where you swipe and make a bid for people."

"Sort of. You're close. But it's actually called..."

"Don't tell me," she pondered for a few more seconds, moving her lips, though I think she was just reciting 'Bidder'.

"Okay, go on, then. What's it called?"

"Tinder," I retorted.

"No," she shook her head. "I preferred my one. Your name for it actually just doesn't make sense."


Eurotrip

It started, as ever, with a kiss.

It always starts with a kiss.

It never starts with four pints of lager, a worse for wear laptop, tatty Penneys pajamas and an overflowing ashtray, does it? That just doesn't sound romantic enough. It isn't a good enough story to recount at your imaginary promotion dinner, fancied wedding reception or to your theoretical grandchildren.

Except that's, exactly, where this story begins.

The room was illuminated by two small screens and orchestrated by the sound of eight tiny fingers tapping away.

I opened a fresh can. My Debit card was settled neatly and trophy-like on the armrest in full peripheral view.

Book! Book! Book! Book! Book!(!!!)


25

I wrote this post as a series of microsections, chronicling random experiences up to now. Some could argue that the format mirrors my unstructured days and lack of direction. 
                                              ___________________________________________


At six, my first class teacher suggests that I go and see a Speech and Language Therapist. "He needs help pronouncing his Rs and INGs," she explains at the school-gate one day pityingly. My appointment is every Thursday evening at half-five in Galway city, and it quickly becomes an idyllic little date night between my mother and I. We always go shopping together beforehand and get in for early bird specials in cheap restaurants. We study our paper-menu place-mats in silence, ultimately ordering the same thing we've had before. It's heavenly, I discover a new quality in her - a friend. I have a special folder filled with games and activities teaching me how to move my tongue in a certain way to create and digest basic sounds I have not yet mastered. I tirelessly practice them at home with my siblings. "Listen to me say Wobber, Dad!" I demand, perched like a King, triumphantly upright at the head of the dining room table, tooting my own horn. On the fifth or sixth visit I tell the HSE professional I love her, whilst simultaneously handing over a drawing I sketched of a camel smiling. The work-of-art is a dazzling emblem of our relationship. A keepsake of our colourful time together. She smiles and tells me she'll frame it. After that episode I never have to go back again. "His speech impediment is miraculously cured," she cheers gloriously down the phone. Go figure.



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