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May 17, 2010 | by  | in Opinion |
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Uther Dean. Profoundly alone. Tells jokes.

Horoscopal predictions for the week starting 17th of May.

If your name is Emma Abigail Rust and live on Bell Road, I have a sad prediction for you. The sun is positioned just so that it is clearer than it has ever been that I’m going to need my stuff back. Y’know? All that stuff I left at your place. My toothbrush. My socks. My lighter. My red wine. My towel. Oh, yeah and uh, something else. I left something else… What was it? What is it that you have and I need back? It’s something important, something, hmmm… Oh. I remember.

It’s my heart.

You still have the broken, bleeding shards of my heart in your cold heartless grasp. You prised it from my chest with your charm and life and hair and then you crippled it with your frozen distance. With your “let’s just be friends”.

I DON’T WANT TO JUST BE FRIENDS. I HAVE ENOUGH FRIENDS.

My friend locker is full. My love locker is empty and I gave you the combination. I showed you the opening to my soul and let you spelunk into it. What did you do? What did you do with that trust? You… you… you… left me. You drifted away like a sinking scarf. Like the gritty slowly shifting sand dunes of my soul you departed, leaving a hazy residue of pain over everything.

I walk the streets alone and all I can see blowing through the detritus of the modern world is how you left me. Every homeless person whispers “You’re alone” as I scuttle past. In the clouds I can see anything except your face. Because you’re gone.

…You can keep my stuff. I, uh, mean, uh, Saturn says you can keep my stuff. All of it. You’ve just gotta give me another chance. We’ll just have a coffee or something.

Like old times. We’ll talk and we’ll laugh, everything will be alright and perfect just like it was before.

You remember before, right? We’d hold each other and it’d be warm and comforting and everything would just be alright. There was a balance to the world. A level. Life was bird song and joy. But then…

Look, what I’m trying to say is… Is there someone else? Is it Karl? Did you sleep with Karl? Why did you sleep with Karl? How many… Was it… I just, he’s my best… Well, was my best friend. Why not Duncan? No one likes Duncan. I mean, it would have still hurt, but at least you’d have been doing him a service. Karl spreads it around like a giant knife with a car-sized tub of butter.

You… Oh. Duncan as well. Good for you. I don’t want to hear it.

But I forgive you. I really do. I promise that if-slash-when you take me back into those large forgiving sticks you call arms, I will only yell YOU GODLESS WHORE YOU TASTE OF VOMIT one or twice a week.

The perfect glass coffee table of our love is marred with the cup ring of your betrayal. But with the spray and wipe of reconciliation, we can restore it to its former gleemingness. We just need to buy that emotional cleanser together. We should reopen the flat account of feelings and deposit an interest-bearing installment of rekindled love. Together.

EMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Or, uh, that’s what the stars told me to tell you. Because, uh, I’m totally fine, yeah. But, can’t really argue with what our solar overloads demand I speak unto you. But, yeah, I may have mentioned it before but I am totally fine. Totally amazing. Just moving on with my life. People ask me about you and I go, “I hope she’s happy.”

And I hope you are Emma. I hope you’re really fucking happy with what you did. Ripping out my heart and chewing it up like the beclawed diplododocus of ice that you are. Do you enjoy that? The iron-flecked tang of my heart? Hmm?

Well, choke on it!

If you are anyone else, have a good week. Everything is going to be fine.

Editor’s note: Emma Abigail Rust is an entirely fictional character. Put down the phone. Now.

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About the Author ()

Uther was one of the two arts editors in 2009. He was the horoscopier and theatre writer in 2010. Alongside Elle Hunt, Uther was coeditor in 2011.

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  1. Sonny says:

    Uther – I love you.

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