Songs for the Sick

C is my favourite person in the whole of London, England.

I fell in lust the first time I saw him in his cord flares and tight denim jacket.

And it wasn't just because he was a pop star with nice shoes.

He was one of the kindest, sweetest, most generous person I had met since arriving here.

He treated me like an actual person whose opinions were valid and appreciated.

We made eachother laugh...like really laugh....we would crack up laughing on the tube and make everyone around us uncomfortable.  We always seemed to run into the weirdest of people on our travels.  Like the guy who pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket whilst waiting on the nightbus...everyone in the queue took a smart step back, but C and I just stood pointing at him and laughing.  Even when he started to come towards us with the screwdriver we still laughed.  Even moreso when he bent down and out of his pocket fell hundreds of elastic bands which he then proceeded to pick up with the screwdriver...one by one.

Strange things always happened with C.  My tummy would do little somersaults when he called and said we were going out for the day.  He was like a much needed cool breeze on a hot smoggy day.

We were the perfect couple, C and I.  He was dashingly handsome and popular with the best of vintage clobber.  I was quirky in my Mary Janes, babydolls and clips in my hair.  He once told me I looked like a freaky porcelain doll.  And I felt strangely complemented to be compared to a doll.  I certainly felt unreal and unhuman at that point.  We were strangely fabulous together.  I daydreamed of us having a baby together, a cute little girl with my snow white skin and his dark hair and eyes.  We'd be the coolest little family in town. 

Of course C is gay.