Bullet Points

I apologise, I wrote the below post while incredibly drunk and have no idea what I’m on about.

Dear reader, full disclosure. I’ve just been thinking about the woman of my dreams in the context of my next (also, context is everything, generally speaking. Think about it). And want to juxtapose.

Because you’ve read this far and therefore fuck you. You like me. Keep reading.

  • Candy. Was in love with. For the first time ever. Taught me how to kiss and how to put a scotch flavoured condom on within a three hour period. Managed to complain that ‘maybe I wasn’t the man for her’ in that time. I should have given up then and there.
  • Sofia. Oh sexy Russian model. You idiot.
  • Fuck I wish I could remember her name. Sorry … you.
  • Milk. Racist. Lovely, mentioned previously, I could have spent the rest of my life with her. In exactly the same way that I could have driven a BMW 3 series for the rest of my life. Good car. Solid car. Nothing to be ashamed of. But still … you know?
  • Erica.

I don’t care if the modern world crumbles, the lights go out and there are not more online bullet points. I have Erica, even if I don’t.



My life is awful. It really is terrible. Everything is turning to shit and I feel like I’m going to snap. I give it a week. I don’t know who I’ll go to then.

Parents are an obvious choice but they don’t need the worry. And Erica (the girl of my dreams) would never actually know, I’d just not be at the other end of the line any more.

I don’t know what form the snapping will take. I’m planning the note. I’ll mention the voices, that I tried. I really did try.

I’m thinking about the people who will read it. Do I make sure I’m logged out of my gmail before I go? People don’t need to read how pointless everything I’ve ever said is. Do I cancel, like, electricity and internet and stuff? What if I chicken out at the last minute? I imagine that last thing one needs after a failed suicide attempt is to call the gas company and have to wait at home between 9 and 12 for a guy to come and read the meter. Do they think I’ve got nothing better to do? I’m not trying to be funny when I say that the administration side of things is a significant deterrent.


No discernible passing of time

I cannot even describe how my heart felt when she walked in. This will not stop me trying. Part ‘wow’ part ‘phew’. She’s not a fatty! Am I shallow? Fuck yes I’m shallow. Is she beautiful? Fuck yes.

If you’re wondering, I had a nap since the last post.

I don’t mind telling you (why would I, it’s my book), that she looked gorgeous. Little blue dress, the sort you could lose a hand up. Short hair. Eyes that said stop wanting to fuck meBad Dirk. I feel guilt, to an extent, because I get to be one half of our relationship and she’s only a quarter. Because she has another half, ya know?

It’s 8 years ago and we’re in Venice. I’m jet lagged so go for a wander, on my own, and get lost. As planned. There’s a large square there. People that aren’t me would remember – or look up – the name of the place in preparation for writing about it. Well shut your mouth. Anyway, I’m tall (unreasonably so) and was wearing a jacket so didn’t look as thin (unreasonably so) as I am. I imagine I appeared quite imposing. The generalization I had formed about the Venetians from the seven I had come across was that they were all as cool as cucumbers. Not rude, not aloof. As cool as cucumbers. Venetian number eight and I rounded the same corner, in opposite directions. Nose-to-nipple, the poor old man squealed, just a little. And then returned instantly to a state of cucumber. I liked that I made him squeal.

My brother in law was a quick-stop-laffa. Baldwyn is his name. It’s aboriginal for ‘great warrior with great hair’. That’s called staying in touch with your heritage. It’s also the name of the town where he was born. I call that getting confused about which label is for which text box on the form that you fill out at the hospital. For all I know his Mum wrote their address as 107 Highview Street, Malcom. I said he was a quick-stop-laffa. He still is, I imagine, but he’s no longer my brother in law (it is he that is gone, not my sister). He would laugh, genuinely, loudly, heartily … Then stop. Instantly. Every muscle in his face would go from having the time of its life to just hanging there like doonas on a washing line. It was unnerving.

And this is what the Venetian was like. A squeal, (and since you weren’t there, a minute flailing of the arms) then nothing. Are you alone? Try and minutely flail your arms. I did just after typing that and quite enjoyed it. Go on, treat yourself, have a little mini-flail.

The Venitian man’s squeal lasted for perhaps 200 milliseconds. Erica and I a few years. On and off, you know how it goes. When I recollect now, it’s all good. When I recollected shortly after the last time we were together, it was all bad. I assure you I am the only person to have experienced that phenomena in the history of the universe.

I took a good solid relationship with a nice, smart, fun, pretty girl (I will call her ‘Milk’) to make me realize what Erica was. And if I don’t get Erica, if the right combination of words and thoughts and memories and imaginations don’t take place. If she doesn’t end up in my arms, then god take mercy on the soul of the next girl that I convince myself I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with. I should have told Milk that up front: I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with you. But I didn’t. I told her I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Big Difference.

If you’re reading this, Milk, firstly, what the fuck. I didn’t know you read Dirk Masonly? I digress. If you’re reading this, sorry for thinking I could relax and just be with someone who was maybe 8/10 (as a partner, not some crass rating of looks – that’s a two-part scale). But I couldn’t relax.

Also you annoyed me.

Enough of the girl comparison, I fear I’m sounding more and more like a jerk. No wait, it’s my book/blog/billboard, I’ll be a jerk if I damn well please. And I might as well get this out of the way here and now. Cunt.

It has just now begun to smell like poo in my apartment. Excuse me while I go and investigate.

Keyword: bed-wetting.



Hello There

I’ve just finished a dirty lunch with the girl of my dreams.
Why so dirty? I hear you ask. Excellent question. You see the thing is that uhm, she is somewhat … umh, unavailable. What with the husband and all.

Oh stop it. That does not make me a home wrecker. I consider myself more of a home makeover specialist. You take this, you put it over there, it isn’t load bearing; extend the living area outside with similar floor treatments; give this bit over here a lick of paint; and voila, you’re old place has a new lease of life.

She’s amazing, this girl. For the sake of this story I will call her Erica. (Because her real name is Erica and her husband will never suspect a thing if I use her real name.) Beautiful, every bit of her. There is no part that I don’t want to use to wake her up with a prod. She does things to me (mentally and physically) that only chicks in love songs do to effeminate masculine singers from the 90’s. But enough of that, you can picture your own damn girl.
We met today for a tawdry lunch. It was to be our last. I was there first; she has the upper hand. That’s because she’s got the better relationship. This is how it works. She has everything to lose, I have nothing to lose. I’m like Arnold Schwarzenegger in … every movie he’s ever been in.
But, dear reader, the sparks fly. Oh do they fly. I started with low expectations, which reminds me that I have not yet described myself to you. I am the sort of man for which a woman has no expectations. And if she does they are immediately disappointed. So here I am: me. And Erica.
We’re at a restaurant for lunch. She booked, because I’m still a child. I know that I’m not, and she knows that I’m not, but she books anyway. I think on the off-chance that I won’t be OK dealing with the whole booking procedure. Or maybe just because she’s being nice.
I’m here early. And not early for 12pm. I’m early for 11:50am, when I expect her to be here. I check the entrance every four seconds. I send her a text: I’m checking the entrance every four seconds. This is a mistake, because now I know she’s across the street watching. Making sure that I’m checking the entrance every four seconds. My neck hurts. She arrives.