I run from the building screaming and flailing my arms like a whacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man. Considering I’ve only met this man once and will probably never meet him again, and he has no influence over my life or fortunes, you might think that having a full-on panic attack after leaving his office is a bit unbelievable, a bit of an overreaction from an underdeveloped character with no third dimension to speak of... But that’s exactly what I do. I sit in the driver’s seat of my best friend’s car, and hyperventilate, crying and ripping up pictures of myself while thinking holy crap you’re a pathetic idiot pull yourself together holy crap. 

   Holy crap.

   Once I’ve managed to compose myself, I clean as much of the shit off of the seat as I can from where I just soiled myself and do some breathing exercises in the car. To help me come to my senses just a little bit, I put on some thumping indie music: George Formby, the most modern indie artist this writer seems to have listened to. Er, I mean character.

*

   When I get home, I feel so tired I want to sleep through the next three weeks, and I still have to deal with my gal pal pressing me for details about what happened today. I just know she’ll be desperate to hear every little detail. I drop my bag down with a thud, spilling my collection of Twilight books, DVDs and posters all over the floor, and start to change into my work clothes for this evening’s shift at work. And that’s when Jilly Plumage walks into my room.

   ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ She asks, rifling through my drawers to permanently borrow another of my frumpy tops. She’s so quirky, I love her. But I also hate her for making me meet that man. Everything is just such a big deal to me that I can’t decide whether I hate or love her. I just know I’m a misunderstood twelve year old trapped inside a twenty year old character’s body trapped inside a frustrated middle aged woman’s imagination.

   ‘Erm...’ I hesitate, pathetically.

   ‘What’s that smell? It stinks in here, Cinderella. Haven’t you heard of hygiene? Jesus.’

   Here it is. The Jilly Plumage Inquisition. With all these questions, it’s pretty clear that she wants to know everything about my meeting with the terrifying Mr Rainbow. 

   ‘Oh, it went horribly,’ I say, blushing as usual. ‘He’s so imposing, overpowering, violent, dark and attractive. But why didn’t you give me a bio?!’

   Jilly just stares at me. ‘What on earth are you blabbing about? Shut your mouth, you stupid bint.’

   I huff. ‘He was also mesmerising, knee-weakening and he smelt of strawberries.’

   ‘Where is that peephole bra you bought, thinking the holes were for letting your boobs see if your nipples ever grew eyes?’ Jilly asks as she stares deeply into my underwear drawer, clearly wanting to know if I’ve fallen in love with this man.

   ‘Of course it’s not love! I only just met him!’ I yelp, emotional and delicate.

   ‘Never mind, you mental case. I’ve found it. I’m leaving now. Open a window or something, you stinky cow.’

   ‘Yeah, I hope he’s a vampire too,’ I reply dreamily, ‘Oh! But I have to rush off to my shift at Crayfish’s now.’ 

*

   I’ve been working at Crayfish’s for about three years now. It’s a family-run pet store, and I work here because animals understand me more than humans ever could, and the smell of pet shops reminds me of my room. One day, I’ll own a house full of cats.

*

   Throughout this book, you’ll find these puzzling one- or two-sentence paragraphs just planted in the middle of a couple of line breaks. Just warning you now, in case you’re used to flowing, well-structured prose - there’s not much to be found here.

*

   When I get home, Jilly is frowning at me. ‘Rainbow e-mailed me,’ she says, ‘he reckons that you started asking inappropriate questions and putting off customers by crying over your insecurities in his hallway. I only asked you to deliver a package, Cinderella.’

   I flush. Holy crap. 

   ‘He called here?’ I ask. ‘Do you think he likes me?’

   ‘What? No, I think he thinks you’re a fucking weirdo. He wants me to pay for all the bloodstains you left next to the fireplace as well. What’s all that about?’

   I hide my face with the pieces of bread I was using to make a sandwich. Occasionally, I peek out from between the slices to see if Jilly is still looking at me, and she always is. Eventually, I give up hiding behind bread and continue making the sandwich. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply, ‘He can’t like me. I’m hideous.’

   ‘You’re literally the stupidest person I’ve ever met. Do you even hear what people say to you?’

   ‘Would you like a sandwich?’

   ‘Yes.’

   ‘What would you like in it?’

   ‘Cheese and ham please. Is this dialogue really necessary?’

   ‘How else are we going to fill three 500-page “novels” with this tripe? By throwing in an actual plot and well-formed characters? Don’t make me laugh.’

   ‘Good point.’ 

*

   The next few days are all spent at work. Every evening, my mother phones me to check I haven’t killed myself over some inconsequential problem that I made a huge deal out of yet. Then one night, she says, ‘How are you, Cindy?’

   ‘Oh...’ I sigh, drawing it out as long as possible, ‘...I’m okay.’ I sneeze loudly, IMETABOYTHATILIKE, and then try to regain my composure.

   ‘Cindy? Have you met a boy that you like?’ Wow, holy crap... How does she read my mind like that?! 

   ‘No, mum, it’s nothing,’ I reply, ‘just Mr Right, strolling into my life with a delivery of anal beads.’

   ‘You’re the kind of obsessive girl that men fear as stalkers, Cindy. You need to get a grip on your emotions and social skills.’

   ‘You’re right,’ I agree, flushing, ‘I do need to get his address off someone.’

   She sighs.

   ‘Anyway, look behind you!’ I scream. ‘It’s Spider-Man!’ Distraction is the best policy. 

   After that call, I call my stepdad. That’s a totally irrelevant conversation that wastes page space, so I won’t include it here. 

*

   Then, my gay friend Julio comes over. He’s an artist, he paints paintings with paints for a living. He’s totally gay, but he’s always asking me out on dates because even though I’m ugly and I have painfully low self-esteem and no one could ever love me, I’m still surprisingly desirable and can turn gay men straight.

   And when he’s gone, I go to bed and dream of violent men, war zones and rainbow coloured eyes. That’s right, I dream about eyes. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? That I would dream about one body part, detached from the body it was part of? Most people would think that’s pretty strange. It’s not made up because this is a real story and the fourth wall here is pretty solid, but if it was made up you’d have to be asking questions about the writer’s imagination, right? If they can’t come up with a more imaginative dream than that... Well, anyway, there it is. I dream of Ronald Rainbow’s eyes. 

*

   The next day, at work, we’re besieged by people wanting pets, besieging us with their requests until we’re all besieged. It’s besieging. That is, until Ronald Rainbow walks in, and I immediately piss myself.

   Once I’ve mopped up the wee, Rainbow looks at me like he’s amused. ‘Hello, Miss Porkchops.’

   ‘Hello, Mr Rainbow,’ I say, flushing. I’m always flushing, never blushing. Flushing seems like an odd word to be using all the time, but that’s what I do, okay? Also, holy crap... What’s this guy doing here?! In my shop?! Today?! With his thick hoodie, jeggings and Dr. Marten’s?! Holy crap!

   ‘I was in the area,’ he says, attempting to explain himself, ‘looking for gerbils to put up my arse. Do you sell gerbils?’ 

   His voice is like macaroni and cheese with melted chocolate over the top... Or some shit like that. 

   ‘We do sell gerbils. Would you like me to show you them?’

   

   ‘Yes please, Miss Porkchops.’

   I lead him through the store, barely able to keep my legs straight because my knees are juddering so damn much. He smells a bit sweaty, like he’s been lifting weights or vigorously masturbating or something, but the smell just makes me wetter with every inhalation. It’s just so lucky that I decided to wear my ball gown to work today.

   ‘So are you here on business?’ I ask. There’s a weird voice in my head, one that never seems to cease screaming narcissistic things in italics at me, which is saying why is he here? Did he come just to see you? What are we having for dinner tonight? If I fart now, is it safe or might I follow through? But I kick these thoughts out of my head. Don’t be ridiculous, Porkchops. 

   ‘No. I like to commit sex crimes as far away from my own house as possible, so that I’m never a suspect,’ he replies. See? He’s not here to see me at all. 

   ‘Here are our gerbils,’ I say, pointing at a cage of gerbils.

   ‘I’ll take them all,’ he says, looking into my eyes with those rainbow striped irises of his. Holy cow, he’s handsome. 

   While I’m putting the gerbils into a plastic bag and tying it up so that no air gets in, I ask, ‘Can I get you anything else?’

   ‘Yes,’ he breathes, holding up a shopping list in his long-fingered hand, fingers so long that they nearly poke my eyes out as he lifts them even though I’m standing a metre away, ‘I’d like some rope, some gaffer tape, cable ties, a knife and some Rohypnol please.’

   

   Rope?!

   ‘Are you redecorating?’ I ask, naively. Holy poop, Cinderella! Wind your fucking neck in!

   ‘No,’ he sighs, half amused, ‘I’m going to do a rape.’

   ‘I’m sorry?’ I ask, flushing but not blushing. 

   ‘I said I’m going to repair some damage to my car’s bodywork.’

   ‘Oh, because it sounded like you said you were going to rape someone.’

   ‘I did.’

   ‘What?!’ I flush. 

   ‘I didn’t.’

   ‘Oh.’ That's a relief. Holy crap, he's too sexy for his shirt.

   He pays for his car repair goods and his dead gerbils, then turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, he turns to me and stares into my eyes. I faint, and when I wake again he’s still looking at me, so I faint again. Waking for the second time, I see his delicious lips forming the words, ‘Oh, by the way, those anal beads were terrible. One broke off and it’s stuck up my bum, and I don’t really know how to get it out. I would just leave it up there, but I read a book once where a guy got really ill from exactly the same thing. So, I’m gonna need some compensation.’

   I did notice he was walking funny when he came in, but I just imagined the weight of his humongous penis was affecting his balance. Not that I know what a penis is or anything, I’m a twenty-one year old virgin, don’t you know. ‘Well, I don’t have any money because I spent it all on feeling sorry for myself. How about I get my artist friend to paint a picture of you as compensation?’ I reply, weakly.

   He looks at me, half amused. He’s literally always half amused. The guy has no other emotions. ‘Yeah, alright. See you tomorrow, sugar tits,’ he grunts, before exiting the store. When he’s gone, I finally let out and that trapped wind, and discover that it wasn’t safe after all.

The below screenshot, which I stumbled across earlier when buying Lady Gaga tickets for February next year, gives a whole new, quite disturbing, meaning to the word CAPTCHA. 

   People who know me well (which is probably you, since no one except my mum reads this blog - hi mum!) will tell you that I'm no stranger to moments of anxiety or paranoia (or, according to this test, narcissism; it claims that while I'm not a psychopath - phew - there is a "strong indication that [I] have a narcissistic personality disorder... but I reckon it's just jealous of my boombasticity). Most of the time these surface as harmless, barely noticeable blips in concentration, fleeting seconds of worry that any man on the street experiences every now and then. But once in a blue moon, something bubbles up inside me. Something big.

   I want to describe one such situation to you now.

   Waiting for my bus home the other day, I noticed a woman at the bus stop who looked like she was dressed in a jumper that appeared just a couple of sizes too big for her. Not that this seemed too unusual to me - I wear clothes that are too big all the time - but it must have flagged in my mind for whatever reason, and just for a split second, because it was pushed right to the back the very next moment.

   When we got on the bus, I shot her a smile as she passed me to take the seat directly behind mine. Nothing creepy, like; just a smile like you give strangers on the daily. She sat down, the bus started to crawl toward home, and everyone was happy (or at least, as happy as one can be after a long day at work and a slow journey home).

   After less than a minute on the bus, I heard the tinkling of metal on metal. A light swish-swish-clink, as quiet as a kitten. I'd heard the sound a million times before, more than I could ever count; I knew straight away that it was the sound of knitting. The lady behind me was knitting something. Big whoop, right?

   But wait. What if the knitting was just a ploy? Knitting needles, although blunt at the end, are still sharp enough to pierce skin if they make a forceful enough impact. What if she was knitting to bide her time, until the right time came to stab me in the neck?

   Fuck. I'd heard stories about this before. Madmen or madwomen on buses, chopping off the heads of the people in the row in front, and waving them around like an Olympic medal. And now, I was the target of one such madwoman. Waiting until the bus was empty enough to grab her chance and stab me twenty-three times in the neck with a knitting needle.

   I had to protect my neck. I started to hold my hand over it, pretending to scratch it so that I wouldn't look strange, so she had nowhere to poke her weapons. I moved my head around more than usual, hoping that it would be impossible for her to hit a moving target. My heart rate increased, as I desperately tried to devise a plan that would get me out of harm's way before I ended up as this woman's first victim.

   But I couldn't. I couldn't run off at the next stop, because it wasn't my stop, and just going downstairs and standing there instead is the kind of thing crazy people do. I didn't want to appear crazy, even if it meant dying.

   So I stayed there. I stayed in my seat upstairs and protected my neck. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was the only plan I had. But then, a horrible thought struck me: what if she wasn't after my neck? What if she wanted to poke them into my skull? Or worse, straight into my ears? One of those things prodded directly in my ear, and I was a goner for sure.

   There was no way I could protect myself from that. I could shield my neck or move my head as much as I wanted, but if she wanted to get me, she was going to get me. There was always a way.

   I spent the last few moments of my life trying to keep my head moving and force my body language to show that I wasn't afraid of her. But I was. I consoled myself with the fact that although I was definitely going to die, the other people on the bus would stop her from exiting, and she'd pay for her crimes. The bus wasn't emptying as she'd planned, so she'd have to do it in front of a bus full of people. I would be avenged. But it didn't reassure me.

   The seconds dragged on, as I awaited my fate. Every metre we traveled was a step closer to my death.

   Then she got up. She stood behind me, ready to strike. My heart was pounding in my chest as hard as I've ever felt it. Here it was: my last breath. I was about to be exterminated by a knitting needle in the ear, and I hadn't even told my loved ones what they meant to me. It was all over, and my murderer towering over me wouldn't allow me any mercy before she dealt the blow.

   But she didn't murder me. She got off the bus, and went home. And one stop later, so did I.