Memory Police

My legs are cold.

This isn’t now, where my legs are warm, but in the past where I’m cold, where my legs are freezing. Not that I’ve been in the bath that long. My fingers now are typing slowly, high, warm, fuzzy. My fingers then are cold. On my left hand. My fingers are very cold. On my left hand. They stroke my wet, sticking-to-me boxers. In the other hand….

I hate police. Yes I fucking hate police, and at some point I’ll tell you why. Do I call them pigs? Not really. Do I think that they provide much, well, any value at all….well now you’ve got me going through my person files, the parent’s friend who I enthusiastically hug along with her awesome children, who worked for years on child protection and for whom having children can be of no benefit to that career.

Digging out more personal files…there might have been alcohol-blurry encounters that afterwards resulted in a bit of embarrassment. Ah, you’re a tool of the state…should have guessed by the fascination with my doing mephedrone off of your cock. Or maybe none of that is relevant to anything.

Or who could forget you,  *J – with fascist written all over you from the moment we met. Mixed-race, gay, scrawny like I am (oh aren’t you just dying to get them all back for the shit you’ve had to endure aren’t you just dying to), and tall like I am, only you had a good few inches on me didn’t you officer? Can’t say I ever experienced the joys of you in uniform, all I have left is the memories of your drunk?-driving (drunk? stoned? We were one or the other) and you disappointed me greatly. I’ve been at speeds in cars with an out of control driver which had me questioning every second

-will it be this one? This one? The next?

Nah mate, you just swerved a bit.
Where did we go? This derailed, I’m just laying there in the bath, in my past, in the dark, in my boxers, chillin’ My right hand isn’t joining us yet, it’s busy holding my hairdryer above us. The toaster wouldn’t carry the same faggoty irony after the buzz. So What is this all about? Why am I lying in a bath, with my boxers on, holding a hairdyer over the water like a baby about to be baptized this is insane why am I here what the fuck this is going to end badly what the

Except it’s alright, I remind myself, we’re talking about my past self here and my typing this indicates a lack of hairdryer-meeting-water, so fend off those buzzards from the past.

But in the past, the sirens are coming. Coming loud.


Both that story and that point will reach a natural conclusion, in time.


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