birth ·
7 November 04

I would love to see a birth. I’ve been thinking about writing up an advert and posting it somewhere in a newspaper. Not quite sure if it would be taken seriously, and if it is perhaps I can ask for other things, like viewing a foursome with ugly people only?

Basically, my interest lies in the mechanics of a birth, the smell, the atmosphere, the gore, the pain and so on. Everything that is a birth, I want to witness and be present for. I don’t think they allow photography, but I would probably ask them first if it is allowed. I mean they allow video cameras these days don’t they? It’s not like I’m going to keep sell the pictures to some pervert, and they have no actual monetary value. My interest is fairly honest and genuine.

The truth is, I don’t see myself meeting anyone I like, falling in love, getting married and then having kids. Part of it is because of my mother; she’s broken that trust, plus from my own experience of being a single child of a separated and then divorced mother. It dwells on you and affects you as you grow up.

I remember in English class, back up North; I don’t remember the teacher’s name. She had large curly hair, very 80s in style; she wore large NHS glasses, with thick lenses and thin frames; she wore a large suit jacket, and super baggy trousers. All my teachers hated me; and they had good reason to, I was a fucking cunt. I can’t count the number of detentions I had, as well as being thrown out of class. Yet I would always through their punishment back in their face, firstly by defying them further, and secondly by acing the exams. They fucking hated that. I’d call them names, throw shit at them. They’d call me a stupid child, this and that and try to embarrass me, but I always managed to get the last laugh at their expense.

The Headmaster, I don’t even remember his name. He used to tell me that the only reason I was still in school was because of my grades, and that I was walking a fine tightrope. I told him at least I could walk on a tightrope, whereas he would have difficulty in walking a plank with his weight problem. Fortunately I was only suspended rather expelled. The irony is, all the teachers that hated me, also loved me, because at the same time, I was a model and solid student. I could never be a Prefect because of my detention and record, but I was one of the smarter cookies. I just didn’t care then, and was more interested in girls, drugs, and alcohol.

That’s how I used to be; they used to be play things for my amusement. I never cared for them…that is until recently. I think she still lingers in my head

Part of me wants to say, I felt lonely and abandoned due to my own stupidity as a kid, when thrown out or shouted at. The cunts never took the time to talk to me, like a person; instead it was always Adult > Child. When I started writing about suicides, death and killing everyone, they called it a “disruption”. When I started reciting a story about a guy who mutilates his sister because he saw another child mutilating a doll, I was stopped after reading the first paragraph and asked to sit down. The work itself scored an A-. Isn’t irony wonderful? I never quite fitted in.

There was a family, and I was friends with some of the kids in that family. For some reason, and I don’t know why, the eldest in his mid-20s hated me. I think it was because I had no father. He used to knock the crap out of me, and I have no idea why. From the age of 8-12, if he ever saw me alone, he knocked seven shades of crap out of me. I never ran away though, I just figured he need to let out his frustration or his prejudice against me, and so I let him. Just as I let my mother beat the living hell out of me, for having the living hell beaten out of me by someone else, and not telling her who it was or why. Maybe it was because he had a moustache, and all dictators tend to have thos?. Perhaps he was evil incarnate?

I don’t remember the name of the first girl I went out with, or the name of the girl I had my first sexual encounter with. Their names aren’t important, and neither are their faces it seems; I can’t remember what they looked like. I remember so little about who these people were and what they looked like; including the friends I had as a kid. It’s all fading from memory, literally.

Everything that happened to me as a child, is now captured as some sort of mist. Vagues are blurred and vague; and not everyone looks like a person. Objects that weren’t there are being placed in there; faces that were there are there now; animals that shouldn’t be in school, walk around upright talking to me and my friends; people die and get back up; memories merge, but most are just…dying.

This birth thing isn’t the be all and end all, but it’s something that I think, I dunno, at least provide the illusion that I could actually love someone, care for someone, have a kid with someone, that I could be that normal too. Normal is good, sometimes, I strive to be the same as everyone else. It’s just very hard work it seems. I know I would make a good parent, I have that…discipline and control, and the love and care to be a good father.

I would only doubt my ability to love my kids, and of course, that wife of mine. I don’t think I could for a long period. It would a short term thing, I think, and I don’t think I could sustain it. I think I would get bored, particularly of the wife. It won’t be her fault, it would be my fault (isn’t that what all people say during break ups “it’s not you, it’s me”).

Perhaps that’s why I’m not approaching someone. I’m done hurting people in relationships, building up their expectations only to destroy their self-esteem and confidence for my own pleasure. That’s how I used to be; they used to be play things for my amusement. I never cared for them…that is until recently. I think she still lingers in my head because we wanted to go out but never did due to it being my fault. I could call her, and she doesn’t live that far away, but she’s French, and you just can’t argue with a French girl. The French LOVE to hear themselves talk, their opinion, and they’re so loud, it’s deafening. But, she endeared me, and I started to care about her.

Actually caring for someone; that’s a painful thing. I don’t think I could endear. I guess I’m not afraid of relationships, just the fact I have to care about someone; and that’s a bit too painful to do.

I asked my friend if I could be at her birth, and she shrugged me away and told me to stop being stupid. I guess it makes sense, she would feel odd if I was staring at her vagina waiting for a delivery. I can understand that. Still, I think she would let me, because I can’t see anyone else allowing it.

I am my own worst enemy, but it’s OK, because I accept this, and know this well enough. Still, I’m there is some woman out there that doesn’t mind someone who isn’t her husband taking pictures of the baby coming out and asking for a cigar.

The search continues.