Generational Dislocation, The Sequel

Ever wanted to read the work of a guy trying really hard to say sorry, failing, then just trying to justify some shit and ending up with an act of imperfect contrition? Well, treat yourselves;

"Waking up with a horrible thought which is then quickly realised to be true by your surroundings evokes in people different reactions. Mine was to run (not without stealing a bag of Hula Hoops). Where to run?
Out on the street I walk what I thought westwards heading nowhere in particular. For some reason (maybe it was for sentimental reason, maybe it was out of convenience or maybe because in this post Spurlock world I new the balance of E numbers, salt and sugar would give that giddy buzz to numb my inquisitive head) I marched, against my usual better judgement, in to McDonalds. It was the breakfast rush and I had plenty of time to eye up a sausage and egg McMuffun. In the reflective green interiors I realised how crumby I looked concluding that my answer to the ‘is this to take away?’ question would be a resounding yes as I needed to act fast and find refuge away from here.
Unsurprisingly, the thought of the cinema reared its head. It seemed logical to me (in retrospect it seemed logical in the filmic sense of my life. I wanted to become one of those peasants from Cinema Paradiso or feel as isolated as Anna Karina from Vivre sa Vie. I was looking at myself through the fictional eyes of a fictional director. Life however is not a film) so theatre land was the chosen spot, forgetting it was the fucking morning.
On arrival, even after the discovery of time, I though what do theses gigantic buildings have to offer me? I had a drunk super hero (which my mind thought was some knowing referential joke), A dark night (wait is there a theme going on?), the love guru (you’re shitting me) and Wall-e (bom fucking bom). The titles alone seemed to be reminding me of my actions, the exact opposite of the very purpose of coming here. Even during this time of confusion, I found myself laughing at Tom Cruise’s small handprint in a pavement slab; it was smaller than Meryl Streep’s. Oh, I was still drunk. I bought a paper and some water and headed home on the tube.
I read the sport pages. I didn’t want any stories that contained anything that would remind me of what I had done. I learnt we had won the final test against the Kiwis, I saw that that little 10 year old diver had fucked it in the Olympics and I read the usual guff about Ronaldo’s future at Man United. It was working! My mind was elsewhere. Yet at the back of my head, I was all knowing, I was merely super imposing these words and thoughts over more pressing matters. I was going over decisions I had made and asking why I hadn’t just gone home last night?
So then why? Sleep seemed to veto the conclusion of this answer, even though I knew the full force of the hangover was at the other end of my slumber.
I woke up to my phone ringing, I began a discussion about keys being handed over plus I was asked what I had got up to the previous night. I spoke in a nursery rhyme almost, was I trying to lighten the situation? Yes, trying to trivialise it. I heard the voice on the other end reply with my name in a slow manner. It filled me with fear. I got up and decided I needed to do something, something creative (whatever that means). I tried my video cameras but they were both still broken. I didn’t feel right about playing guitar and when I tried to write my thoughts returned to why. I saw my stills camera and I began taking photos. The flash would go off (as they always seemed to do when they are set to auto mode no matter how light it is) and each time it was blinding me slightly, I continued to take more and more photos. It kept me concentrating on the immediate moment of the frame in view, nothing else existed. I continued to snap and walk around my place taking pictures for the sake of taking pictures, to be doing something.
Eventually the battery wore out and charging it would take time. I was again left with ‘why’ going around my head. A sentence was forming: ‘why did you fuck over your friend’? Parts of me would defensively jump to my aid suggesting paper thin arguments justifying my actions. Other parts seemed to be triggering some spastic safety mechanism to laugh, but the majority of the time I felt stupid and despised.
The rest of the day I spent taking picture after picture, creating a photographic path around my house and surrounding area and (when charging the battery) watching extreme French cinema (this seemed to numb my senses as much as the photos did; the shocking tone more than the actual images). Unavoidably I was going to be alone with my thoughts before sleep, something even the great Kundera was unable to stave off.
Why then? I can only conclude that it obviously wasn’t my intention but I was overcome by a feeling of vertigo that I wasn’t strong enough to fight, wasn’t conscious enough to fight and wasn’t noble enough to fight. I took the easy route (do I think like electricity?) to appease those inner temptations and sidelined everything else. In short an asshole.
I finally made contact with whom I needed to apologise the next day. How I had ranted about the over use of text messages (and other forms of digital announcements), their ability to un-romanticise relationships and generally saturated communication. Yet, how quickly did they come to my aid and be my first thought.

Thanks for your reply."

P.S. Ben New is still loved and still loves all you ladies (the motherfucker).