August 2021. What is it about men? ~ GDH
– There are a lot of ways that we can fool ourselves. Some of us fool ourselves through our dreams. Some of us don’t dream, because we got all the bullshitting out of the way while we were awake.
That is actually soooo trueeee. I can’t remember the last time I had, like, a proper dream. –
– I dream all the fucking time. A lot of the time I feel like – even when I’m awake…
What is it? –
– No, no, it’s nothing… I’m just being dumb.
D’y’know you’re probably literally the smartest person I think I’ve ever met. Literally. Like, I don’t think you’ve gotta worry about sounding stupid talking to me, honestly… –
– No, you’re not stupid.
I feel it talking to you sometimes… –
– Now that is stupid…
Come on, what was you gonna say? –
– Well, I was just – it’s just that sometimes, even in real life, when I’m awake, I feel like I’m dreaming. Right here, for instance, where we are now – I mean, I know I’m awake now, I know I’m really here right now, I know this, this sand is real – look at it, running through my fingers. That level of detail… every single grain accounted for… I mean, that just couldn’t be a simulation. It just couldn’t.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream that was that realistic. I feel like you can tell when you’re in a dream cus of how weird everything is, like sort of off? –
– Is that a question?
Oh I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Sorry. –
– People will never take you seriously if you don’t talk properly.
I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. –
– Yes you can. You can help it. It’s your voice.
It’s just how I talk. It’s how I was made. Whoever made me must have liked it. –
– Maybe I made you. Maybe you’re just a figment of my imagination. Maybe you’re just my dream girlfriend and the real one is way fitter and never doesn’t get my jokes, and never goes up at the end.
So what am I then, the nightmare? –
– Exactly. You are pretty scary.
Naw, I think I’m the dream girl you’ve dreamed up to cope with how horrible your real girlfriend is. She’s probably eight feet tall and five hundred pounds and smells like… like… like Pepperami all the time. –
– Well, she’s got you beat, hasn’t she?
Oh my God, shut up! –
– You love it!
I love you. –
– Aw, don’t…
Why not. I don’t care what you say, I love you. I – love – you. Look, look here. Look at me. Read my lips. That’s right, come a little bit closer. There you go. Mwah. –
– I love you, too.
I know you do. –
You’re my dream man. –
It’s only week five, but I’m pretty sure Shiv’s going to ask me to be her boyfriend tomorrow. And I know, I know the others might say that’s too soon, especially after everything that happened with Timberly – that was only week two. But time goes so quickly in here. It definitely speeds things up, this place. This process. It’s hard to even tell how much time is passing, the days blur together so much. I suppose time flies when you’re having fun. This place is fun, oh yes, it is most definitely that. Last week on the ferris wheel when we were all coming up off the mystery pills… and the ferris wheel peaked in its cycle and I just got this surge, like I was being commanded by someone up there, just picked up like a puppet almost, and I just stood up, I just stood up right in the ferris wheel carriage and I didn’t even wobble, I just threw my hands up and looked out and I screamed. I could see everything, the whole island, and the ocean, and the sunset was so brilliant and golden… it was like hugging the world. Fable and I did spend most of the next two days vomiting but, my life, my life, I have never had so much fun.
But nothing’s as fun as being with Shiv. I am in love. For the first time in my life… and I hope it’s the only time… I can’t believe it but I’ve dared to let myself believe that it will be. The only time. The only one. Her lips. Her skin. Her hair…! Even her name, I love her name… Shiv. Shiv. Shiv. Stab me, Shiv, stick yourself into me, fuck my open, beating heart, cut it up, shred it to ribbons. I’d do anything if it would make you happy. I hope the public doesn’t think it’s too soon. I know they don’t trust me already. The other day the producers said that everyone thinks I did Timberly dirty with what happened in the secret garden. I have a suspicion they might have edited that to make it look like it happened before the vow renewals – but it was after! It was after. Shiv and I know that. The public can go and fuck themselves anyway. I came here for one reason, and now, I’ve found it.
Walking the island, you wonder how somewhere this beautiful could even happen, and how anyone who comes here could possibly manage not to fall wildly in love with their intended. The wilderness of the jungle touches everything and injects it with so much life and nectar and sweet vibrancy it just bleeds off the scenery. I never thought in my life that I’d ever feel so free. There’s a bit of everything. They put everything in here, sort of as a kind of temptation. You’re supposed to figure out who you are as you move through all the attractions. There’s the zoo, and the petting zoo, and the log flume, and the waterfalls, and the ubercoasters, the funny ghost train, there’s the cable cars that go all the way around the entire island, there’s the Tower of Love, there’s the glass elevators, there’s the tunnel boat, there’s the bobsled, there’s the bamboo maze, there’s the paradise strip and the bars upon bars upon bars and the nightclubs and there’s Always Christmas market, and there’s Summerland, and then there’s the bumper cars, and the main pool, and the jacuzzi, and the spa, and the sweat lodge, and the ice baths, and the flight simulator, and the arcade, and then obviously there’s the ferris wheel, and the mud wrestling, and the red light district, and the mushroom cafes, and there’s Little Italy, and there’s the main villa, and the secret villa, and the super secret villa, and the rose garden, and the lover’s forest, and the hideaway, and the Halfway House, and the magic window, and the lagoon, and the wishing well, and the flying carpet rides, and then on top of all that there are the surprise treats like the pottery-making classes, and the flamenco instructors, and the celebrity cameos, and the private concerts, and the gigs, and the family visits, and the letters from the outside world, and the helicopter tours, and the jetskis, and the yachts, and the rap battles, and the dance-offs, and the karaoke, and the outdoor cinema, and the planetarium, and the lazer tag, and the sports days, and the food fights, and the campfires, and the hikes, and the paragliding lessons, and the creative writing seminars, and the strawberry picking, and the mini Olympics, and the yoga, and the sexy yoga, and the drum circles, and the ceilidhs, and the barn dances, and the chocolate fountain, and the ice sculpting sessions, and the group therapy, and the choir practice, and the life drawing. It’s hard to believe that all of this was made just for us. I’m so grateful. And then there’s Shiv… there’s Shiv, walking towards me now, her hair and her body glistening in the sparkling sunlight as she shakes off the sea. And her soul, and her love, which always glistens, whatever the weather.
– Hi. Hi, love. What do you have for me today on this, this magnanimous, glorious afternoon?
– Oh, hi.
– Hello, love. Where are you going?
– I’m just going for a walk.
– Where to?
– I’m just going over by the, um, jacuzzi.
– Wonderful idea. Shall we?
– I was going to go with Asher.
– What?
– I was going to go with Asher.
– … I – I don’t, uh –
– Just move!
She shoves past you and you stumble slightly backwards in the sand. You watch her hurry away into the arms of a man who is vague and out of focus. They hold hands and turn around and run off together. Your head begins to buzz like a fat black fly. You realise that someone has been watching you. It is an extremely hot and humid day where your pants are sticking to your inner thighs and everything seems to be melting and cooking around and in you. Someone from out of the jungle. You blink. You blink again. A man with extremely defined, ropey muscles is darting towards you at full speed. Every muscle flexing and clasping on and off in rapid patterns like a kaleidoscope on his skin. He looks as if underneath his skin in fact there is nothing but bound and knotted bundles of rope. His hands are sharp pointed Vs as he makes a beeline directly for you without the faintest hint of slowing down. Not knowing what else to do, you are pinned to the spot simply staring into his cold eyes which are coming closer and closer until the balled fist of terror in your stomach madly claws its way up and out of your throat and delivers a punch straight to your frontal lobe translating into the gradual accelerating gathering of the feet into a staggered walk that breaks into a run and then explodes into a fevered sprint like you’ve never known before. You cut into the jungle at a maniac’s pace. He is coming, and faster than you.
You don’t know where else to go. The Tower of Love is all there is aside from the endless green and the ropes of vine and the brambles and twigs and bark cutting into the soles of your feet. You fly through the doors and are met with a grey concrete spiral staircase lit only by the slivers of fading daylight which squeeze through the tall thin gaps in the stone. You thunder up the stairs like you did as a child when all the downstairs lights were turned off. You go on and on and on, up and up into the tower until your breath is like sandpaper scraping the inside of your throat. Never mind that, he is coming, he is coming, here is the pitter-patter of his feet like wet gunfire on the concrete, no no no how can he be barefoot too? You pick it up again, up and up the stairs, ever slower and slower, and now you know for sure that your feet are bleeding, because it’s slick and slippery and you slip and you crack your knee on the hard grey step. You turn around just in time to see his face, a leering, bug-eyed slab, and his hands, which slosh like liquid before turning into long, protruding needles which sink deep into your body.
When you wake up, you are restrained on an operating table. The room is stark and sterile. Shaking frantically, you twist your head to see that the man is there with his back to you. Absurdly, he is wearing blue jeans with a tucked-in, tight, white t-shirt, very bright white, without a drop of sweat on him. He is inspecting something that you cannot see, but calmly turns when he hears your thrashing and you see that he is holding an oversized chrome-plated scalpel. He smiles at you. You thrash and thrash. He takes the scalpel in one hand and raises his other hand. The hand turns soft like liquid again, turns into a rippling stump, and he inserts the scalpel handle-first into the stump, where it closes around it and hardens into skin again. He walks towards you, still smiling. He raises the scalpel-hand above your chest.
There is a window in the room. About three feet across, and about a foot wide. The man is bringing the scalpel-hand down, but time has slowed down too for this. You are like a wet sponge as you slide off the table, out of your restraints, and towards the window. You fly into it and squeeze out of it like a letter being posted through a letterbox. His hand comes down onto the table and makes a horrible scraping sound on the metal. He turns his head curiously to see you leave.
You soar away and you can see the entire island now. This is the only way you can really take in everything at once, all at the same time, every nook and cranny, and all the others down below like ants. What are they doing, you wonder? Don’t they see; can’t they? For some time, you are like a kite on the wind, twisting and somersaulting… but soon gravity has you plummeting down. And because you know that there was no other way, you can close your eyes and there is some fear, as the ground races up harshly to meet you, but you know that you were right, there was no other way, but through the window.
