On the Eighth Day

30.10.14 (Day 312)


On the eighth day, God was into his second week, grew bored of what he’d created, so decided to fuck around with it.

It’s been eight days since I last posted a blog entry here. There have been recipes – posted and cooked – but other than the odd bit of cooking, I’ve been busy. In the wrong ways and for the wrong reasons.

The clock says 08.42 (Actually, it says “Dee dah dee dah, dah dah dee dee”. Then it does it again, just to make sure I heard it. Every fucking hour. Twice. I hate repetition – and many other things – and I hate that fucking clock) and I’ve been awake for three hours. The rest of the safe household remains asleep, as is the norm most days. Any minute now the dog will be sent down to see the butler and the in-house caterer will feed it.

Until then I’m watching repeats on TV (a bit of a theme here), whilst playing with my device (another theme). I’m watching Frasier whilst writing this on my reclaimed tablet. Right now I could kick a kitten through an electric fan (Doctor Frasier Crane).

Right now, I wish I had the time to spill myself over the sofa, watch repeats and feed my face for the day, whilst leaving everything to a butler. I wish I was mindless, unable to think; play mindless games and not engage this brain which is a poisoned chalice. I wish I could switch off. But I can’t. I don’t have time but I have more time than most, as I don’t have a job and I have people to look after.

I wish I could wallow all day in my pyjamas but I don’t have pyjamas to wallow in. I sleep fully clothed in case I ever have to run and for fear of rape. And I’m tooled up.

I can’t sleep in. I can’t be lazy. I have to do things; everything. Whilst being watched and judged for what it’s assumed I’m doing, or not doing. What the butler saw. What the butler did without anyone seeing (make sandwiches late at night). If only dogs could talk. He knows as we speak most mornings when it’s just the two of us up. Birds of a feather. People think he’s cute. Some say that of me. Others think I’m a cunt.

I am stressed and tired. I’ve lost two days and a wife; practically, literally and actually. I’ve also slept with my sister and was up all night with her. And that was just Monday.

On Monday my real, adopted sister – The Courts – turned up at the safe house, destitute. Due to circumstances prevailing at the time, she had to spend the night on the street. I stuck by her but didn’t sleep as I was watching over her.

The real wife – the mother of my kids – has filed for divorce: release from one prison at least. The other one leads her own life which I hope to remain a part of. Time will tell, as it can now that it’s passed with the last wife. Lots of stories to tell of what this butler knows.

Never kid a kidder. I can call most bluffs by spotting the tells. Poker terminology with which I’m becoming reacquainted having played the game fairly successfully over this past week. Recreational, therapeutic writing aside, poker and chess have been my main preoccupations on this reclaimed, regained tablet and I’ve found a chess app which doesn’t insult my intelligence: Thresher allows me to play any chess engine and as such, it is challenging. At least one of the engines has beaten some of the grand masters at chess, effectively justifying and qualifying this tablet’s pseudonym, or orthonym of Little Blue.

On the poker front, things are going okay. I’m on 888 now. That’s 888.com, as opposed to a bankroll. The latter stands at $125, so I’m playing cash games and tournaments with blinds and buy ins respectively as dictated by that bankroll. I started at lower than that level before and done well. I can do it again. I’ll keep you posted and if I don’t, you’ll know it all went a bit tits up, much like the wife.

On a practical front there’s not much I can say for mainly legal reasons. Suffice to say though that things are being taken care of, and so am I, by the people who love me for some reason. Do they? If so, why? Because I’m me? That’s what the wife used to say. I love them as I have a lot to give.

And then it all went right. Well mostly. Some left.

I found out I’d lost three friends today. At least two of them passed in tragic circumstances; it was a bit like Romeo and Juliet. But that’s another story. So that’s six of my travelling friends lost in less than a year. Some weren’t loved and others loved too much.

This will remain as something to remind me; of something to remind me of days gone by; wasted but gained.

And so endeth the eighth day. Onto the next. What would God do? Grow ever more bored and look down.

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