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Picture the scene. It芒聙聶s my birthday, I芒聙聶m ill, I芒聙聶m 17 years old. Mum and dad are still on speaking terms at this point but the cracks have long since started to show. There芒聙聶s a cake in front of me. This is the moment right now as I look down and feel that serene sense of dissatisfaction at how things have turned out, this is the moment where I realise I don芒聙聶t enjoy birthdays anymore. I resolve to drink nothing but alcohol for the rest of the night.

Picture the scene. It芒聙聶s the last summer I spent at home before leaving and not going back. I芒聙聶m standing at the bar serving lukewarm drinks to lukewarm people and smiling to myself as I realise I芒聙聶m going to steal the tenner from the 12.50 I just got and run that whole round through as just one drink.

Picture the scene. Me losing my virginity a lot later on than I芒聙聶d led everybody I know to believe I had. My drunken hands fumble at her bra and my solitary bloodshot eye traces the outline of her lips and teeth and the fair hair at the corners of her mouth. I wonder how on earth I have managed to do this. I do not realise that this is all going to end embarrassingly for me in just five minutes time.

Picture the scene. I芒聙聶m 13, I芒聙聶m alone and I芒聙聶m burying my brother芒聙聶s guinea pig in the back garden after it finally died. I drop it into the shallow grave I have dug for it and I fill it up with spadefuls of decomposing grass and dirt stone and compost from the heap nearby. I don芒聙聶t feel anything for him but for days afterward I have nagging feelings of remorse about burying him in compost and I think about the grass and clay sediment clumping down on him, getting in his fur and teeth as he lies there on his back, feet facing dead upright in the air. I conclude then that I am against the ownership of animals.

Picture the scene. I芒聙聶m sat at a funeral right at the front of the church. It芒聙聶s his funeral. I芒聙聶m watching the vicar read the eulogy that I wrote but was too scared to deliver. I look down at my hands and remember how they shook so damn much when I was writing it that I could scarcely hold the pen much less write the words. I stare down dry eyed, listening to the people around me sniffling away, knowing that nothing will ever be the same again.

Picture the scene. It芒聙聶s me on holiday in Spain aged twenty and devouring pages of Hemingway and Vonnegut. I芒聙聶m sitting and thinking and folding pages so I can come back to them to reread and saying over and over to myself,
芒聙聹God could I ever write like that?芒聙聺
No I decide. I don芒聙聶t bother even bother to try.

Picture the scene. Its five minutes ago and I芒聙聶m stood looking out of my window watching the child on the roof a couple of doors down from me aiming a toy gun at the traffic below and pretending to kill everyone out there. I sympathise with him and I want him to turn round and see me watching him so I can give him a fraternal wave. He doesn芒聙聶t though and I find myself feeling actually a little bit relieved.

Picture the scene. I芒聙聶m drunk yet again sitting opposite a girl on what I think might be a date. The boundaries have not been set so I pepper my conversation with eye contact and genuine interest rather than my usual mutterings and ignorant grunts of acknowledgement. Her thespian friends soon arrive though and I feel strange and out of place and unable to contribute to the conversation in any meaningful way. I make my excuses and leave, walking to the bus station and feeling in some way vindicated for going. On the bus I feel like a ....
Picture the scene. Pick that one or that one or any one of hundreds of others like it. Pick any one you like if you want. There芒聙聶s no narrative. There芒聙聶s no rich interwoven tapestry, there芒聙聶s no fabric of meaning to it all. It芒聙聶s just several choice cuts of things that have happened. That芒聙聶s all it is and it芒聙聶s all over and done with and no one is really any the wiser for it. You may as well just not have bothered.