make me a casserole and I'll build a castle in it

This is what we were watching during the video editing workshop today; I nearly died laughing and you all know how rare that kind of thing can be:



2.4 KM run today was hellish. I will never drink coffee to wake myself up before a run ever again. At the last lap, I started looking out for a spot to puke safely upon finishing the run and it was a horrible feeling that no human being should subject himself to.

Today, I've also learnt that preparing for tutorials can be SO worth it. After managing to complete my history tutorials last night, engaging in discussions about decolonization in Indonesia and the end of the Cold War was so fun. The only major bummer today was not doing as well as I thought I would for my Wide Sargasso Sea essay. I felt as if I had given birth to an ugly baby. Couple that with Adultery by Carol Ann Duffy, when the bitterness and anger of the persona somehow grew upon me and gave me that feeling of knotted tightness in my chest.

Adultery

Wear dark glasses in the rain.
Regard what was unhurt
as though through a bruise.
Guilt. A sick, green tint.

New gloves, money tucked in the palms,
the handshake crackles. Hands
can do many things. Phone.
Open the wine. Wash themselves. Now

you are naked under your clothes all day,
slim with deceit. Only the once
brings you alone to your knees,
miming, more, more, older and sadder,

creative. Suck a lie with a hole in it
on the way home from a lethal, thrilling night
up against a wall, faster. Language
unpeels a lost cry. You're a bastard.

Do it do it do it. Sweet darkness
in the afternoon; a voice in your ear
telling you how you are wanted,
which way, now. A telltale clock

wiping the hours from its face, your face
on a white sheet, gasping, radiant, yes.
Pay for it in cash, fiction, cab-fares back
to the life which crumbles like a wedding-cake.

Paranoia for lunch; too much
to drink, as a hand on your thigh
tilts the restaurant. You know all about love,
don't you. Turn on your beautiful eyes

for a stranger who's dynamite in bed, again
and again; a slow replay in the kitchen
where the slicing of innocent onions
scalds you to tears. Then, selfish autobiographical sleep

in a marital bed, the tarnished spoon of your body
stirring betrayal, your heart over-ripe at the core.
You're an expert, darling; your flowers
dumb and explicit on nobody's birthday.

So write the script - illness and debt,
a ring thrown away in a garden
no moon can heal, your own words
commuting to bile in your mouth, terror -

and all for the same thing twice. And all
for the same thing twice. You did it.
What. Didn't you. Fuck. Fuck. No. That was
the wrong verb. This is only an abstract noun.


a slow replay in the kitchen
where the slicing of innocent onions
scalds you to tears. I want to crawl into Duffy's brain and swim in her thoughts.