You're So Vain

Today had me taken to Glasgow. My mum entered my room at eight o'clock to wake me up, dismissing my own ability to set an alarm for myself. Arisen, cleaned, freshened and destined. I embraced the October spine-chill with all arms bared in a brown cardigan and a pair of multiple zipped trousers. Glasgow. The bus came ten minutes late and when the driver arrived he had only space for one. Glasgow. We got the bus ten minutes later and perched at the back. I am always conscious of how loud my music sounds to the other passengers around me, but this afternoon I did not care. I crossed one leg over the other and tapped the foot up and down, and as the voice of Adam Ant proceeded to whistle, growl and yodel I turned it back down. I did care.

Around forty or forty five minutes will get you into Glasgow. I was fine where I was seated on the bus. I am always happy on a bus. We got off at stance six.

A city like Glasgow is far too daunting for my sterile eyes. I was fine and then proceeded, the further we walked, to be taunted by barbie dolls and hipsters. I don't like anything that reminds me that I am not God. And they began to sicken me a bit. Though I am the world's best hypocrite. Only this morning I was shooting my mouth off about consumerism and then proceeded to blow cash on beautiful bullshit to make me look even more asphyxiated in bullshit vanity. I watched the lady in the shop stroking her scarf, browsing the tops in the rack. I felt disgusted enough for the both of us. Everybody likes new things. Nobody ever tried so hard. I am not really interested in fashion, and this bullshit vintage facade is now boring me. I like buying new things to detatch me from the rest of humanity as much as possible. To look like anybody else in the world must surely be a sin. Nonetheless, I know "individuality is worthless." I feel sick.

The further I walked the further I decided that a city was not for me. Although boys stroll past in their hundreds, looking more and more as though they are being dressed by their mothers, many of them looked like him. None, however, looked like him. And for that, I am thankful. I can hold on to that. Shall I tell you what I bought today? In order, the futile list goes; A pair of leather leggings so tight that they squeak when I walk, a large, black bow chain necklace for lack of finding a bow tie, a pair of dramatically long, red feather earrings, and a ring master jacket I just knew I had to have.

I segregated myself from my mother and auntie for a while to try and get some shopping done on my own. I managed to buy two things before I was calling them up and pleading to be reunited again. I didn't like the drama of using the changing room or the way the girl refused to respond to me when I told her I might like to buy it. The mirror in the changing room challenged my view of the world for a day.

We trudged home at the compulsory closing time and still hadn't had the chance to look around an admirable number of shops in the city of Glasgow. At the arrival of our feet in Kincardine, the two of them detoured to the chippy and I, rather unexpectedly, rushed in with "I'mgoinghomebye." And I bloody well did.

I rooted around in a large paper bag for my beloved musical device and tuned it into my ears, waltzing through the alleyway like some kind of lost orphan with my arms folded. Cars didn't phase me. Nor did the dark. Outskirts it was. I walked the same streets I walk home on my way from college and I opened my mouth to mime every syllable my conscious could keep up with. I did not dance. I walked with slightly more effort, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, hurriedly, and pretended I was on a catwalk. The world is my catwalk. I found it immensely enjoyable for about five minutes. Staring the darkness in the face. Swinging my hips with the movement of the wind. Then I had to arrive home. It was bound to happen sooner or later.