A Fucked Up Life in Books by Anonymous Page A

of this fucking book have you fucking ruined for me?’
    ‘Basically all of it.’
    ‘Great. I hate you.’
    I threw the book at his head. It hit him in the head. Remarkable, really, because of all the stuff that I’d ever thrown at him over the years that was the only thing that I was on target with.
    He screamed out. ‘I’M SORRY! It doesn’t really turn him bad! It’s an awesome ring. Awe. Some.’
    I glared at him for a while, then continued reading. After that I never talked aloud while I was reading again, and I recommend that you do that same because the chances are that some fucking dickarse is going to ruin everything for you.
    To be honest though, while I read the rest of
The Lord of the Rings
I didn’t really feel too put out that he’d fucked everything. Lucky he never did it with Harry Potter or I would have stabbed him. He lives to tell the tale.

Trainspotting
    A long time ago I met a Scottish boy. As well as having the hottest accent I’ve ever heard, he was also incredibly beautiful.
    The first time he stayed at my house overnight we didn’t get out of bed for three days. We didn’t eat or sleep, just lay there talking and fucking. He’d write me letters every day and hide them around the house for me to find. He was romantic and I adored him.
    One time he came to stay over, he brought his favourite book with him.
Trainspotting
. We sat up all night and he read it to me. I had no fucking idea what it was about at the time, I didn’t understand how Scottish he’d suddenly become reading
Trainspotting
. I just sat and listened.
    The next day we got up and went for lunch at a Moroccan café nearby. It was raining so we’d ran there both sharing the same umbrella. We ordered green tea and sat and watched people around us.
    When we got back from lunch we sat down on my bed and he told me about the time he tried to kill himself. He tied bits of scrap metal to his legs and jumped in the sea, hoping that the weight of said metal would just gently pull him down to the bottom where he could stay. A man had seen him jump in, and he’d only been in the water a minute or two when he was pulled out and taken to hospital.
    To say I was a bit shocked is an understatement. How could he have not told me that? I was confused, but talked to him calmly. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, I said.
    He told me that when I went for a shower in the mornings he cried. He cried because he’d made me so dirty that I needed to get out of bed straight away and wash myself.
    Fucking hell.
    He went into the bathroom and I sat, waiting for him to come back, thinking about what I could say to make it all better. He was gone a long time.
    When he came back he was crying. I waited for him to calm down. That’s when he told me that he was bulimic. He’d been bulimic since he was a teenager. Since his Mum died, and he’d found her dead in her flat when he’d gone round to visit.
    The rest of the time we spent together that weekend was a lot of him talking and me listening. And him crying and me comforting. It was fine. I felt awful for him, and I hated anyone that made him sad. I hated his dead Mum and his violent Dad and his friends who didn’t have time to talk to him.
    Then he went away, went home. While he was there he phoned me every day and talked and cried, told me how much he hated himself. Then he ran out of money.
    He needed to borrow £300. I didn’t have £300. I told him. He went fucking mental. He was too far away for me to go and comfort him in person, so, not seeing anything else I could do, I transferred money from my credit card into my account, and paid the bill that he couldn’t afford to pay.
    ‘I love you,’ he said.
    And then I didn’t hear from him for two weeks.
    When I did hear from him, it was a text. He told me he’d gone out for a walk, late one night and that he’d collapsed. He’d been taken to hospital and had just woken up. He missed me.
    And then I didn’t hear from