Schrödinger’s Flatmate

So, as my ‘friend’ is insistent that I ‘never leave the house’, despite this being wildly untrue, I’ve decided to prove her version of events wrong. Being outside isn’t an issue, except that I’m skint and everyone I know (not that I’m particularly sociable anyway) is at work. Which leads me to where I am now: sat in the cemetery in the centre of town eating warm Quorn sandwiches I brought from home and waiting for time to pass by or, for the junkies to take back ownership of the grounds for some recreational drug use.

My friends have been pretty negative about me lately. Obviously, modern times do not call for actual, face to face confrontation so, instead, I have heard third hand; which is three times as scathing and possibly twice as embellished. It turns out being honest about having Bipolar Disorder can really fuck you over. Everyone has an opinion and no one wishes to share it with you; speculation and a myriad of conclusions. If you look hard enough for something there is a huge chance you’ll find it.

Acceptance and understanding are different things. I accept that you are a dick, I definitely do not understand it. I’m bored of talking. My sentences are still punctuated with the “have you taken your tablets?” if I seem a little ‘high’ or ‘low’ or being given ‘the look’ if I’m on the scale to being extroverted. I doubt this will ever change. You can’t re-educate idiots.

Anyway, the junkies have prevailed and have forced me to sit at the far left of the bench so their leery arses have somewhere to park. For appetisers: Extra strong pear cider and stolen Melton Mowbray pies. How do I know they are stolen? Because I have to listen to a blow by blow account of the gentlemen telling his two lady friends how he stashed them in his underpants. No one appears shocked and they all continue eating. This must be their meeting point. I don’t usually sit here. Now I know why. I usually sit around the back behind the works’ fire doors where it alternates between smelling like tattie scones & beans and spicy chow mein.

“Ye cannae buy friendship…” this is getting remarkably deep but very appropriate as I doubt they have bought anything in quite a while, least of all personal hygiene products. The topic swiftly moves over to puppy farming as a young dog walks by with his owners and recoils at their outreaching hands. I then begin to realise that no one is actually having a conversation; not with each other anyway. They are just talking. The gentleman mentions a greyhound named ‘Murray Mint’. I leave before I become too invested and make new friends.