Flora > Recent Status Updates

Ah can stop aw this any time, through the sheer fuckin exercise ay my will.
Just end it.
But no right now.

‘I’d like you to think about what you’ve lost through being on heroin.’ He rises, and goes over to the flip chart, picking up a pen.
‘Poppy,’ Sick Boy shouts.
Tom turns with a puzzled look. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’
‘Best one I ever had,’ Sick Boy grins, as everyone laughs. Poor Tom stands as stiff and still as a vibrator withoot the Duracell.

—Ah wahnt tae ask you somethin. Somethin serious. Are you wan ay thaim?
This time he means junky, rather than poof.

Youthful libido versus chronic heroin addiction is perhaps the ultimate battle between irresistible force and immovable object

Ah start tae idly key a smart estate motor then ah think, fuck it, the class war can wait, the class As cannae.

A gadgie in a boiler suit shouts fae the landin above that ah shouldnae be doon here. Story ay ma life. Always somewhere ah shouldnae be. Like Planet Earth.

All that gone with the onset of breasts and hips, which heralded newer, more dangerous games and the deployment of disdainful sneers and aloof postures, those paltry defences against the unremitting attentions of feral boys. He regrets his role in her recent string of tragedies, but shrugs it off by rationalising that if it wasn’t him, then some other, less caring predator would be keen to take up the assignment.

—You… you’re packing me in, cause you wanna spend more time doin fuckin heroin?
Ah look at her. That’s it, in a nutshell. Nae sense denyin it. Ah’m fucked. —Aye.

‘She’d talked about us findin a flat together next year. Then graduation, nine-to-five jobs and another flat wi a mortgage. Then engagement. Then marriage. A bigger mortgage on a house. Children. Expenditure. Then the four Ds: disenchantment, divorce, disease and death. For aw her protestations tae the contrary, That’s who she was.’

‘ah eywis like tae avoid other people’s social conflict; ah much prefer tae start ma ain trouble.’

‘She might, at this moment, be nothing but a floating intelligence; not even a brain inside a skull, just a presence that perceives, as a ghost might. Yes, she thinks, this is probably how it must feel to be a ghost. It’s a little like reading, isn’t it—that same sensation of knowing people, settings, situations, without playing any particular part beyond that of the willing observer.’

“But there are still the hours, aren’t there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there’s another.”