You Know I’m No Good–Amy Winehouse

I try to forget.

Meet you downstairs in the bar and hurt
Your rolled up sleeves in your skull t-shirt

I can’t sleep tonight. I’m trying but my brain is too full of rubbish. Yes. Rubbish.

You say, “What did you do with him today?”
And sniffed me out like I was Tanqueray

There’s too many things going on in there. It’s driving me crazy. Pushing me. To the edge. How close can I get? I don’t know. Do I want to find out? Really? Does standing on the precipice of disaster make anything better? No. Not really.

‘Cos you’re my fella, my guy
Hand me your Stella and fly

Do you know that apparently, for suicide in Merlion City, they handcuff the corpse? Just ‘cos suicide is considered a crime. No shame in putting a dead body in irons just for a crime that has already been committed.

By the time I’m out the door
You tear men down like Roger Moore

Google.

Meditation. How to meditate. Breathe in. Sit up straight. Ah. Fsck.

I cheated myself like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble, you know that I’m no good

The air conditioning’s going but its not quite enough to cool me down. Fan on full blast but it seems too hot.

Upstairs in bed with my ex-boy
He’s in a place but I can’t get joy

There’s too many things to do. Too many loose ends to tie up. To finish.

Thinking of you in the final throes
This is when my buzzer goes

I wonder why I’m thinking of finishing anything tonight. Its too late to do anything productive. And my mind is still stuck on the fact that I’m awake at 2 in the flipping morning.

Run out to meet you, chips and pita
You say, “When we married” ‘cos you’re not bitter

This song weeps with regret. I love it. I’m imagining a girl torn to pieces on a black and white checkered kitchen floor. You know I’m no good. Yeah. That’s right.

There’ll be none of him no more
I cried for you on the kitchen floor

The repetitive melody seems slightly conducive for sleeping but the brass plays a tad too loudly for the instrumental bits in between. It jolts me awake. Again. I want the piano part to play a bit louder so it can lull me to sleep but the drums kick in and my toes beat in sympathy.

I cheated myself like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble, you know that I’m no good

You have no idea how long this blog post with this title has been sitting on the laptop. Taunting me to write it. To finish it. To finish things. To get one thing ticked off my to-do list that never seems to end. Put a video to it?  Huh.

Sweet reunion, Jamaica and Spain
We’re like how we were again

I’ve thought of at least three different ways to write it. I was hoping for inspiration. For a story. One of heartbreak and regret, obviously, to sympathise with the theme of the song. But it calls for alcohol or at least a bourbon and coke. And a drink costs too damn much in this stupid country.

I’m in the tub, you on the seat
Lick your lips as I soak my feet

Facebook comments on my status update of “Holy shit. I got moobs” had an old friend commenting that I’ve always been the more “feminine” one of the group. Fair enough. Even though I’m pretty sure I’m completely heterosexual, I still wonder on occasion whether I’m a closet poof.

Then you notice little carpet burns
My stomach drops and my guts churn

And lets not even mention how the lyrics interspersed throughout this post makes me sound like the “taker.”

You shrug and it’s the worst
Who truly stuck the knife in first

I’m desperately looking for sleep. My body cries for it. The potbelly states confidently that it is the hormone cortisol that is raised in my bloodstream, a reaction to stress and also lack of intense physical activity. But my mind races ahead, faster than my feet in a 5km run.

I cheated myself like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble, you know that I’m no good 

I need to quieten things down. I need to bring things back to an equilibrium.

I cheated myself like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble, you know that I’m no good 

Attempt 2.0 to go back to sleep.

I try. I try.