The Bullet Biter

I’m sitting on the big sofa in the main entrance to City University, facing Northampton Square, and I have just completed a two-hour long people-watching session. It’s one of my favourite activities: just watching people come and go. Weird, I know. But I’m easily bored and I find the act of observing random people doing random things extremely entertaining. I try to find meaning in their idiosyncrasies and interpret the motives behind their behaviour. Most of the time, I just find solace in the pointlessness of their actions when they think nobody is watching them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a single person, couples, big groups… they are all part of a story-line. I also give them fictional names, mostly for comedic effects. Yes Linda, I know you’re reading this. Remember that time you picked your nose in the cafeteria? I was there. I saw everything. I know what you did last summer. I guess it all goes back to my reckless curiosity and the inquisitive nature of my stud

Ops, I did it again. This is not a Britney reference. I actually did it again: I woke up this morning, had a cup of coffee (okay, three), brushed my teeth and wore a pair of beautiful, baggy, warm sweatpants. And then I went out, ready for class and the countless informal meetings throughout the day. Now, who knows me knows that since approximately 2010 sweatpants have been a sort of uniform for me.  Before then, I only wore them when I did sports (the last recorded episode of me doing sports dates back to 2007) or when I was feeling depressed. Then, at some point, I started wearing them every day. Maybe because I was chronically depressed or perhaps because I just loved how they made me feel on an inner, visceral level. I know that if you go out wearing sweatpants, people automatically assume that you have given up on life; you get followed around in shops because they think you’re a thief; people ask you if you work at Sports Direct… that sort of stuff.   M

"This room is shaking. And so am I. I check my watch.  It’s been four minutes and twenty-five seconds. I’ll look again. Oh look, you’re looking. And so am I. What is that you’re holding? Another glass? Take it easy, darling. Keep on going, honey. I turn around. What is that you’re putting in my drink? I don’t need no sleeping pill. You are the dream. Oh look, you’re looking. Is it my hair? Is there something in my teeth? This room is shaking. And so am I. It’s been eight minutes. But who’s behind this? It’s God himself. He’s crying on me and blowing on us. He keeps rocking this boat. And what are you? Easy! The prettiest thing in the room. I’m not strange. But I am mad. It must be the weather. Or the lights. Or this damn room that keeps on shaking. The devil made me do it. Or probably your eyebrows. Tattooed into my brain. Together with your eyes. And your dilated pupils. If you look closely, they’ll show you the future. Or they’ll mock you. Beauty is comfort

Margarita in one hand, quesadilla in the other. And here I am, getting ready to entertain you with another story that is, essentially, a non-story. I’m at the Mexican restaurant, alone. And by saying this I am not using a cliche’ technique to give you some context or create a powerful atmosphere. That’s the the story. Me. At the restaurant. Alone. Do you remember that Friends episode when Rachel discovers the beauty of lonely meals but then she stops after realising that it’s actually depressing and humiliating? Well it’s that kind of situation. If you’re not one of those ticklish folks who actually give a damn about a what a couple of overfed strangers or underpaid waiters* think about you, you might actually find that eating alone can, at times, be a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I mean, it is true. People DO stare a lot, mostly with pity, when you ‘re sitting alone at the table. As if eating a bowl of guacamole by yourself is