Out of the fire....

That bitch killed me. Through and through. She took my heart and squeezed it tight in her fist - I swear to God that's what caused the angina. That bitch ripped me up and fed me to the wolves. And I died. I really died. Some rotten ghost on the floor of this place - that's the last of me. Or rather that was the last of him. He's there, that one who loved him.

A few months on, some different ghosts haunt the same hollow room. I never wanted to live in the room, flatsharing with the ghosts of two people I used to know. I am a different person now. I'm like the fucking Doctor or something. My lover now is this bottle. That bitch drove me to drink. I never did. I do now. See the effects? Manifold, multifarious.

I am somewhat of a Phoenix, lurching burning out of the flames into the cold shower and pouring on the iodine in some callous act of self-preservation. Burned and scarred, but ultimately fresh. It's rejuvenating. I was such a snivelling, obsequious drivel of a man when I loved her. What a waste. What a poor excuse for humanity I put forward. So gentle, so fucked. Always with the fuckery - I raped my own dignity day and night and poured salt into the open wounds of my own relationship. Cliché.

I am all anew, certainly. I came protected to the fight now. I cannot go into battle bareback these days. I'm like fucking RoboCop. Remember him? Me neither.
I have created out of clay some perfect alias, some character that I can act - because it is easier, and hurts less. This beard? These glasses? These headphones? That aftershave? Those expressions? Armour. Nothing more, nothing less. It is a multi-faceted protection against any form of intrusion into the upper echelons of my heart. There you go, girl. Are you happy? I'm just as suited up as you are now. No fucker's going to know how I feel now. I'm ready for a fight. Back off! Fuck off! You're gonna get fucked - fucker. Fucker. Bitch.

This moustache can repel the bullets of any romantic advance - it is my beautiful shield - and with it comes the deepest increase in hostility since the drinking began. I drink now. It is the only way. It'll kill me in time. I don't care. All I want is to not let my fortress be stormed by an uncaring enemy anymore. I have SO many guards - you don't even know it. The vodka shoots down planes, and the know-nothing stare makes sure no intelligent person comes anywhere near me. I want to love stupid people forever more. Does the Daily Mail have a personals section? I could pretend to be a racist. I love race. Do racists fuck good? I bet all that pent-up rage and sexual frustration would burst out in one marvellous display of lust and semen.

My fingers smell of semen, and saliva. It's been a long night - but the moustache remains perfectly intact. I may love him. I may have fallen in love. But he's not getting in now. Why would I want him to? I have these words! I have words and drink! The lime and the quinine are a perfect substitute for true love.

So I am another man now. I should change my name. I still bear the same name as that awful chunderfuck who lost the war of love. Ralph Stanley. Yes. Call me Ralph. Pronounced 'Raif' of course. Because I'm a hardcore wanker now. I sip wine from the bottle and scar poetry on my arm with the vegetable knife. The blood drips onto the table but I don't care. "Keep the VATs coming!"

I want you all to know that I am happy now. I am in love with protection now. It keeps away the villains. The old one is dead - he doesn't want you to know, but I'm a much better person than he is.