SquashPosted: July 6, 2015
This is the kind of writing I want to be doing – I love the word pictures in this piece, written by one of my blogger friends:
I have a sick feeling in my stomach listening to Kevin, Wayland and Jasper. Three smug punks are missing a squash partner. They are inviting me to play. I hide under sunglasses and this stupid cap, indoors because I’m a coward tapping a screen in the middle of a panic attack.
I can’t play now. I want to throw up but not in front of them. You should hear them talking about you. They are so attracted to you. You’re beautiful, charming, fit. They brag about what you said to them, as if every word were an annointing from the Holy Spirit. I loathe them in Jesus’ name on a Sunday morning, because I think you like it.
I want to know what they whisper to you in private corners and in dimly lit chambers. I imagine you texting them huggy emotions, revelling in the attention, wanting them to want you, hoping they’ll crave you.
I can see you picking through them like fruit at the market. Caressing this one, squeezing that one, sniffing that one until you put them all in your basket for a rainy day.
Remember that mug you gave me? With all of my might, I slammed it against the wall thinking about that. Last night.