WHAT’S the fucking point, when you think about it.
That’s the one thing that just keeps running through our minds as we sit in this trendy new cafe in town, with the chef’s special pulled pork and apple slaw sandwich sitting on the plate in front of us, getting colder by the second. Cold, like the days that seem to stretch endlessly in front of us. Cold, like her side of the bed since she left.
There’s joy to be had from the sandwich, probably. Everyone we’ve spoken to has said it’s divine, a mouth-watering delight. It fits all our usual criteria. It’s served on a bathroom tile. It costs 19 fucking euro and it looks like we could eat three of them at the same time. All we need to do is eat it and then write 400 words about how it’s amazing and how we hate poor people.
But today, it all just seems so fucking pointless.
Lovin’ Waterford… ha, that’s a joke. Are we lovin’ Waterford? Is Waterford lovin’ us? It doesn’t feel like it any more. It feels like we were loved, once, but by now our schtick is played out, hollow. We can write all the articles about chicken wings and dole scum we like, but it’ll never feel as good as it used to.
So yeah, we better get to what you clicked for. The pork is moist and tender. The slaw is crisp and tar. The bread is soft and the rain beating down on the window outside is a grim indicator of the tough days that stretch in front of us.
“You should come to this restaurant, it’s lovely!”… there you go Mr. Restaurateur, one quote as paid for by our agreement, complete with the last shred of our dignity, the last shard of our soul.
Stick that on your poster. Five star review from Lovin’ Waterford, do with it what you want. Now if you please, just leave us here to deal with the utter mess that we’ve made out of our miserable life, because we honestly just do not fucking care anymore.