Choose a house. Brick. White Door. Take a torch and look under the floorboards. Fibreglass falling. Friction Fit. Wear mud on your knees. The smoke alarm blinking. Turn on all the taps full bore and open up the windows. Take your shoes off. Walk its cool length. Imagine yourself living here. The green drip of the bath. Paint puckered in the corners. Crumbs cooked onto the element. A Chrysanthemum bush. Silver hair caught in the netting. An appendix in the kitchen drawer. Draw a floor plan. Shop by eye. Get a cookbook with a velvet ribbon. Red. You were meant to be engaged by now. Your toothbrush alone in a melamine cup. Your teeth in your gums. Your teeth in your hands. Your hands deep hollows. Quit thinking of him at 2am. You need to sleep.
If you eat pizza in the shower and wash your mouth out with vodka then you are really doing your whole morning regime in one. Vodka sterilises things, settles in your molars like the sea caught in halogen bulbs, green army men pouring out of a white Nissan. Gulls swarm the tug boat like a school of floss phantom. The best cure for a hangover is a whole California orange, suckled down sweet and pip. On the shower floor it looks like one of those fantail goldfish gone through the blender. Neon icing drips from the strobe lights. This is a baptism two tequilas too late. Heels are for running. Mascara is for the lowtide. Swallow your heartbreak with a slice of lemon and a lick of salt.
Wake to the fire siren wail of your baby cousin and stomach a month of pills all at once. Cursor the rosebud family you built together and put them into the mansion pool. Remove all the ladders and watch them circle till they drown. Take to every grapefruit in the world with a sledgehammer and rollerblade in the pulp. Stalk the engagement photos until you believe in life on Mars and then open the Moscato. Watch condensation drip down the windows like stretch marks slow and wet. The rock on her finger pop candy, cut seaglass, crystal meth. Pick up the phone, 1980 called and you weren’t even born yet. Quit being nostalgic for shit wasn’t yours in the first place.