I know what 5X would tell me to do.
"I'm in a bind, I want to blog but I can't get the words."
"It's easy," he'd say. "Just rate the superhunks."
But I'm thinking no. In this time, in this moment, I'm just thinking that I've only ever referred to the man as 5X in this blog. In the outside, to his face, he's been called Sire, Melwith Lippe Swillager, Del and a cunt by many, many of the ladies of Naas. But foremost he's been called an awful man.
Only in Ireland could you be called an 'awful man' and take it as a compliment, because it's meant as such.
And I'm thinking that the rain outside is reflecting the current mood perfectly. It's all a bit drab, but that's how life seems after a wedding, a wedding where everything's heightened. You like people you normally decry, you toast with those that would usually make you swear. You take fancies at women because of the situation and too much champagne.
Meet them the next day and they're not a bit special, and neither are you because you're wearing that old t-shirt from two days ago. That same t-shirt caked in sweat from the mad rush to collect the suit and buy the card you almost forgot. That same suit you've worn eight or ten times. That illusion-giving suit that's now a crumpled mess on the bedroom floor with a stain that will never be identified.
And I'm thinking I'm going to be told to cheer the fuck up, but I'm thinking I really don't give a bollocks and, what's more, I'll start sentences with conjunctions if I want to.
But I probably will cheer the fuck up tomorrow.
Oh, and it's George Clooney for me.