Stealing tea towels in the early hours of my morning (two in the afternoon) and using them to keep my jeans dry as I sit on the damp back step. They built a wall between ours and the neighbour's house back a few months ago and we took the opportunity to draw a cartoon version of our littlest dog, Sally, on it in chalk just to annoy my mother. I'm smoking my second to last cigarette (ever?) months afterwards, and there it is, still, without having washed away. Some moments have a dire inability to disappear. Here's Sally, my loyal and needy little mongrel, and she's pushing herself up onto my lap. My little sweetheart. They used to compare her to me. Say we had the exact same personality. Except now, she's got one up on me. She's still loyal. I've just gone and fucked it all up. I'm wearing some sort of stupid combination of clothing and my hair's stuck out in all manners of angles. Some boy's jumper that I bought for myself and fucking orange jeans. I mean, honestly, who the fuck wears orange jeans? My eyes are either rimmed with last week's make-up or I'm tired, maybe both, I can never decide and I am a mess and there's nobody else home so I don't really care. It's raining on me, and she's such a loyal, beautiful little thing. I make my way inside and I'm stumbling for some silly reason, I'm always stumbling, and I can't help but wonder why anybody hasn't tried to have me put down just yet. Don't they see it, or are they used to everything being fucked up when I'm part of the equation? I wrap the butt of my cigarette in tissue paper and flush it down the loo. My parents still don't know I smoke, things are easier this way. I lie down and bang my head to the sound of some far off music from five years ago. I don't remember all the words anymore and yet again, I'm stumbling. I eventually drag myself into the shower and I start to sing some stupid rendition of that song off of the TV show Friends. I'll be there for you, you bastard. My voice echoes around me, the water falls and hearing my own voice makes me not feel so alone anymore. I think that's too pathetic to understand. I find my boyfriend in my bedroom when I'm done and he jokes that I'm a lovely singer and I tell him that I'm sad and that it makes me feel like I'm not so alone. I don't know if he believes me. He tells me that he doesn't like being alive, and I admit the same. In some irrelevant interval, I reverse my car into another woman's and my brother and boyfriend agree to not tell my parents. Some actions are better left unmentioned. I feel so hazy and stupid. It makes me cry. "Do you have lots of secrets?" - "I still bang my head when I'm falling asleep sometimes." I read him the first two chapters of The BFG because he's still never read it, no matter how many times I've left it on his bedside table and we fall asleep together for a little while. When we wake, he takes me by the hand and we try to find a battery for that silly little tamagotchi I've been carrying around for weeks. No such luck. He buys me a bouquet of candy flowers instead. I love him so much.