A Fucked Up Life in Books by Anonymous Page B

him for a month. And when I did hear from him, it was on an old social networking site that we both used to be on, that he used to blog on a bit as a kind of online diary. He had written about a girl that he had shared a lot with. A girl that he loved.
    It was me, obviously it was me. Except I kept reading, and it wasn’t me at all. It was his girlfriend.
    I emailed him and told him that I needed my fucking money back. He didn’t reply. His girlfriend did, though. She told me that she knew what had happened with me and him, and it was a ‘mistake’ on his part. They were in love and I needed to leave them both alone. He didn’t owe me anything, what a manipulative bitch I was for suggesting that he would ever take money from me.
    And that was that.
    I heard through a mutual friend that he moved to London a little while ago. I wonder what he’s doing, and if he’s still fucked up, or if he was ever actually fucked up.
    I still have his copy of
Trainspotting
. It reminds me of how sick people can be.

Lolita
    If you have ever got a train anywhere in your life you will know how fucking expensive they are these days. It is really quite dreadful recently, with a day return from Manchester to Newcastle costing five pints of your own blood, and an open return from London to Edinburgh costing your first born child, as well as both of your thumbs if you are travelling before 10.30am.
    This is why a lot of people starting travelling by the wonder known as the Megabus. The Megabus is like a train in that it travels between major cities, but is not like a train in that it is so cheap that you can buy a ticket to wherever you want to go without having to part with anything other than a small amount of money – in some cases as little as a quid.
    I used to live in a pretty big city in the North of England and travel down to London fairly regularly. As I was a student and had almost no money, the Megabus was the sensible option for my travel.
    I went to the bus station at stupid o’clock in the morning with my printed-out ticket in hand and boarded the bus. These buses are usually full to bursting, but every so often there are a few spaces. I sat down in a window seat and hoped that no one would sit next to me.
    In my bag, as always, I was carrying a book for the journey.
Lolita
. A wonderful classic and probably one of my favourite books. I was about halfway through. I took it out of my bag, put my bag on the floor and laid
Lolita
on my lap while I waited for the rest of the passengers to get on and the bus to leave for London.
    Two women got on the bus. They were loud and annoying. They were wearing bright, kind-of sporty clothes and were both caked in makeup. One was carrying a baby. The baby was crying. I knew that the one with the baby was going to sit in the seat next to me.
    They were moving towards me, the baby still screaming, the women without the baby now talking about some wanker that she had given a blowjob because she was ‘on the blob’.
    ‘I’LL SIT HERE AND YOU CAN SIT THERE, YEAH? WHAT WAS YOU TALKING ABOUT BEFORE? OH YEAH, I LIKE THAT KIND OF MOOSIC, I LIKE ANY MOOSIC WIV A GOOD BEAT.’
    She got out a phone and played something that sounded like a runaway train crossed with a factory explosion, with some cunt shouting ‘Yeah! Yeah!’ over the top. If I had a knife, I would’ve called my Dad, apologised, and ended it all there.
    As I had predicted, the woman with the baby plonked herself down in the seat next to me. The baby stopped crying and started looking at me. I am not a fan of babies, so I ignored it and turned my head to the window. The bus doors closed and we were on our way.
    The women were quite loud for another ten minutes. Then they both quieted down – must’ve been the exertion of being a complete pair of cunts that had made them so suddenly tired. I was still staring out of the window, keen not to look either of them in the eye lest I accidentally punched them.
    I felt something hitting me