Sometimes it seems like there’s a kind of competition to see who has the shittiest life. Does my adoption, bulimia and husband’s suicide beat your job loss, chronic fatigue syndrome and divorce? Who knows … who’s judging these things?
Christopher Maloney wanted to sing. For five years he filled out the application form for Britain’s X-Factor and each time he tore it up. Other people told him not to do it. They told him he wasn’t good enough, that he would embarrass himself.
On my left wrist, scratched into my skin is a red heart with angels wings. It reminds me of my birthday three years ago when Shelley and I sat under the needle at The Illustrated Man and got our tattoos. It was the last birthday I spent with my husband.
In my imagination I am lying in bed with Duckfish, asleep, in my old flat around the corner from here. It is 3am. An unusual sound wakes me. I see a familiar figure standing at the end of the bed. He is holding a gun.
I don’t want to be a brand, a shop or business. I want to remain a storyteller and continue to share my innermost secrets with you. Spewing the chaos in my head onto the page/screen is what makes me come alive.
Sometimes when you achieve your goals — the man, the holiday, the house and the body — you discover that it’s not as satisfying as you hoped. So you move on the next thing … praying this time you’ll get what you need.