I can feel the tension easing away, about three hours after I take the thing that I despise. My iron lung, in many ways, except it comes in a little box and I don’t drag it around, if you can do that with iron lungs. I’ve never seen one, it’s just a Radiohead song to me.
It’s funny how in many ways I rent quality of life. Twenty quid on pharmaceuticals a month, about a hundred on fags. I should smoke roll-ups but I think I have a mental block against their nicotine, they never seem to do the job.
At least I am saving money on condoms and food though, being terminally unemployed living at my mum’s for a few months. It used to be funny and sort of punk rock to have sex in this house, but now it feels a bit seedy. There’s a rug I can never look at. Haha.

I feel it surging up my neck again, like my heart’s been restarted by a caring onlooker. I have to shut my eyes sometimes the burst is so intense, and all I see is green and purple for the next few minutes. I don’t have a clue how I used to survive crushing these up and putting them up my nose, rubbing the desk residue into my gums. But then again I don’t know how I survived that whole year. That whole year of fucking and toothpaste as Polyfilla and smoking joints naked to ‘Pornography’ and being called a tortured artist. I’m no tortured artist, I’m just a DIY-fearing permateen.

And the tremor’s inching it’s way in again as I type this. Like an electric shock and I can’t keep still. I don’t want to keep still; I want to always be moving, onwards upwards never backwards et cetera, but for now I’ll sit in this high-backed Victorian armchair looking at my empty phone and drinking wine that makes me want to spit.