Today I cried. Nominally because I was printing out massage forms for a case study and it wasn’t The Racconteur. This is the first course I’m doing that he isn’t one of my case studies. My tutor in Glasgow is never going to tell me she thinks I made him up.

For the last fortnight I keep thinking that I must tell my Dad things that I’ve come across. This includes random physics jokes that I hear in The Big Bang Theory (I’m going through it in some weird completionist manner) which im pretty sure he wouldn’t have actually liked. The Teenage Boy and I are going to be headed down to Empire on the anniversary of his death so I am going to be a bit fucked. I also wonder if I’ve run out of new stories about Dad, I’m going to if I haven’t yet.

Current favourite is the snowball fight in my sister’s dining room.

I’m also baking and making breakfast burritos for Empire and I’m not making vegan burritos or midnight cake for my exs and cried over a Noel Coward poem earlier.

Everything is just a bit much.

I Am No Good At Love – Noel Coward

I am no good at love
My heart should be wise and free
I kill the unfortunate golden goose
Whoever it may be
With over-articulate tenderness
And too much intensity.

I am no good at love
I batter it out of shape
Suspicion tears at my sleepless mind
And, gibbering like an ape,
I lie alone in the endless dark
Knowing there’s no escape.

I am no good at love
When my easy heart I yield
Wild words come tumbling from my mouth
Which should have stayed concealed;
And my jealousy turns a bed of bliss
Into a battlefield.

I am no good at love
I betray it with little sins
For I feel the misery of the end
In the moment that it begins
And the bitterness of the last good-bye
Is the bitterness that wins.

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