Margot Derails.

Dear Diary#237 Margot Derails.

Margot is sick again. Even though her illness isn’t conventionally contagious, its symptoms are part of me. I carry them too, but try not to show the strain. They put lead in my boots, with every step I take with her heavier and chafing more than the last. I’m raw with it all; tender to the touch. She never asks how I am, but I don’t expect such leniency as nobody asks, and that’s fine. I’m not fine. But Margot is my everything: from her thickest thighs, chubby cheeks, casual liaisons, (her name is bragging rights scrawled on the tiles in the gents’ toilets of the local pub), and a mean streak she’s spent a lifetime honing. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say, and I’m beholden by Margot’s dirty beauty. We’ve tried intimacy a few times but it was akin to the worst games of Twister ever played: salacious limbs contorted with spastic, nervous giggles and awkward eye contact, were too much to share with a friend and meant...meant nothing but everything, and were a choir of wake-up calls for us both; but I know I’ll always want more than Margot gives...and that’s fine...not fine.

I’m part of her illness, but unfortunately, as of now, im not a part of her cure. I don’t really know the cause or the remedy, but I have told her to be wary of searching on the internet: it’s her second home. She puts too much weight into the veracity of keyboard doctors and YouTubers with their opinions...their influence. Much like the cosy hug of heroin, they offer only a brief respite with the potential to do more harm than good. She needs to be careful as she’s easily steered...especially when she’s suffering and in that kinda mood and mindset. I must convince her to seek professional help...there isn’t time for trying anymore...there is only time for action.

Margot is 29 years old and fine/not fine.