I dreamt that you were fucking me and I was throwing up milk on your expensive sheets like a six months old baby. Then you took me to bed and I was trying to cover the mess.

Don't you see? I want you to jump ahead. I want you to think of staying over at mine, waking up in the morning and drinking coffee, making hand made cous cous with coconut oil and nuts. But if you jump, please take care of your dodgy ankle. I don't want you to hurt or anything like that.

You dress smart, come down the stairs, empty the rubbish bin and eat your croissant with knife and fork. Seriously? Knife and fork? Which sane person would eat a croissant with knife and form? I am just asking.

I dreamt that you told me to turn around and take my underwear off; there was a man next to me doing the same. So I did. We were both on our fronts with no underwear on, his ass was hairy. And then I realised that you wanted to lick both of our asses at the same time and stick your finger in them. And so I protested: But that is not hygienic! How are you going to do that, first the one then the other, all the germs will transfer from one ass to the other. And then Jack, from BBC, who was masturbating nearby, said: Oh, I know! I have the solution. And produced from his pocket a little plastic blue brush with black bristles, usually used to clean the keys from old type writers.

I see you from my window. You are in your garden. You are smoking and spitting. Smoking and spitting. Taking the smoke in, exhaling from your nostrils and then spitting. Why the hell are you smoking and spitting.

I am over the moon. You are coming to see me. I will place the dog bone I kept for you in a brown paper, fold it over and keep it under my pillow tonight. I will give it to you when the time comes. I will try not to show my enthusiasm out of fear you might run away. Please, do not run away, just bark softly and eat your bone.

I wake up my mouth is dry my tummy is dry my pupu is dry and there is a tropical storm outside my window.

I am walking towards the grass and the swings and you follow me. I hold a dog bone in my hand. I show you the way and call your name. Something something the swings and the grass, something something, your name.

I am helpless tonight. Under my dotted duvet I wait for nothing. I am looking for nothing. Only for someone idiotic enough to want to skype with me about nothing.

This has become a habit of mine. To love you and love you and hurt. My tummy hurts again tonight. And I know it is not the urinary infection. It is because you write to me and then you stop writing. And I do not know whether I should wait and wait, call or just call. I moved house today. I lifted fifty three big packages and a small one. I carried your toothbrush in my purse, next to the lorry driver. I did not want it to get dusty from the mattress. The lorry driver, who has the name of a Shakespearean hero, listened carefully to my five year plan and the list of potential grooms I have made in my mind. I laughed, made some pleasantries and waited for the ride to finish. But you had still not written to me and my tummy aches.

What do you want? Tell me, what the hell do you want? One week thrush, the next urinary tract infection. What is it precisely that you want and why don't you leave me alone. I have other things to do, you know, I have my postgraduate degree to write, my article to finish, also to figure out how not to piss my feet. It is quite late now, please leave me along.

I think I will throw up. The longer it takes for you to answer, the more I want to throw up. What have I eaten today? Chicken cooked with cumin and white wine, bulgur and green leaves. So my vomit is bound to be green and white. I have also drunk some cranberry juice for the urinary infection. I am in the library, so I will probably throw up all over the computer and the books I have borrowed. Then someone will come to help me, I will feel embarrassed, I will try to clean the mess. People will look at me and politely smile. I think I will throw up all over the place.

My tummy hurts and I am all alone in this terrible city. Thank god I am getting out of here. Thank god I will not have to spend all my mornings and afternoons with my tummy hurting not being able to make tea or fruit juice or pasta. I have been here for almost a year. Every time I set foot on this place my tummy aches. Ache ache my tummy. I only eat brioche and almonds in this house. I cannot stand big buys. Because big buys mean long periods of time. And I am hoping of course to go very soon. The big white stone in my heart grows every day. And I have tried to love this city and make it mine. But I leave with no guilt and no pain. I hate this place.

So you have everything in order one and two and three and two I wake up in the middle of the night and I think of you I am sweaty and hungry and I want to lie on your sofa and read newspapers and fart all day long. I wake up and stand next to my bed and think of your radio; the blue and the red; they are kinda the same but they are not. What are the called, they have a name. I wait and wait and sweat again and again and drink cranberry juice and visit friends and think of my vagina and you lying on my sofa. And how my sofa is so dirty that you will never come back to visit. And I can see, clearly now, all the stains in my apartment; the toothpaste stains, and all the hairs stuck on the inside of my bathtub. And I know now for sure that that is the end of our relationship.

last night I dreamt of you. My belly was naturally a killer and we were stealing post it from your work. Then we took the elevator to visit the countryside. We went through all the trees and landscapes. We were the two of us. Two sissies together. And you decided you wanted to keep the purple post it, you didn't care about the green, and we rowed and rowed and loved each other's breaths and blinkings.

Now I am going away. I am leaving the small shitty town I never loved or cared about. I am moving away with such joy. I will pack, again, all my little things and hope you will come and find me in Walthamstow. Did you hear the good news? I am fucking off from this shitty place, from this big whole of poodle, from the worst of the worst of places. I am fucking off and never coming back. Because I love people and places, because I want to wake up brave to face this shitty world, because I want to have someone who will appreciate my red satin kimono. Because there is no way it will take me so long to wear my kimono again. I hand it behind the door for a time of emergency. I I wake up in the night and I want to pee. Or if there is a fire in the building and I want to escape. And sometimes, you wear it too. Did you hear the good news? I am fucking off, you big piece of shit, you nasty little number. Bye bye.

Blue

Now I know. Now I know for sure. My mother is reading my blog, every morning before going to work. Does this change things? Can I still say fuck off and you big piece of shit and hold your prick, baby, until I come back home and wrap it in sugar and eat it? Can I still say how much I love you, although you are never there, how much I think of you in Liverpool? Once or twice, I know now, you think of me. You know that I have never spilled my drink, I have never shat on the brink of the wall. But I do not have blue hair or small lips. I have brown hair. Is that the prerequisite? Is that the prerequisite for your love. My blue hair for you darling.