Saw off the unicorn's horn. Shatter the gilded mirror. Clip the wings of the dragon. Dismantle the white castle. Throw the sword into the lake. Poison the wishing well. Execute the shining knight. Cage the hapless fairy. Shred the magic carpet. Fell the enchanted forest. Scatter the sands of the hourglass. Extinguish the blue flame. There is no ever after, after all.

Passed out on the couch, tired from trying to find myself.

The three of us emerge onto the usually busy, but now deserted, main street in the wee hours of the morning. After hours of battling terrorists, demon-possessed soldiers and xenomorphs, our ears still ring with the sound of gunfire and battlecries. We didn't rescue all the hostages this time, nor save mankind from being enslaved by orcs, but that's okay. We had fun, the three of us - Monkey, Didi and I, the original three amigos. We never demand anything of each other, never fuss, never argue. Everything is as it should be between friends who have known each other for a long, long time.
We say our brief goodbyes, and go our separate ways. The air is unexpectedly humid as I walk towards the car, and also very, very cold. I clamber into the car, shivering. A minute into the journey I realise I'm driving the wrong way - well, to the wrong 'home' - and I loop back round again.
I hurry up the stairs, scrutinise my set of keys for the right ones, insert them into the locks, and turn. The door opens with a slight creak, and I step inside. The faux floorboards feel warm and welcoming beneath my bare feet. I imagine the unit to be some giant living thing, and I the child within its womb. I feel safe; it belongs to me, and it's a place for me to belong. For now, I guess it's home. Where else can I sit on the couch at four in the morning, listen to a piano rendition of Puccini's Madame Butterfly and write whilst wearing nothing but boxers?

Finally, a happy happy weekend. On Saturday I had a Christmas BBQ and housewarming party with the Honkie group. The next day I went bike-riding for Chengy's birthday in perfect sunny weather. Burnt chicken wings, soccer, cooking, Taboo, sunburn, presents, photos. Why can't every day be like the weekend past? Fuck the leaking pipes, the rattling window, the overgrown bushes and the creaking door.

Luck come lately, fortune be familiar.

When you make me smile, can you feel me beaming?
When you anger me, can you sense my murderous intent?

No more nagging me to fix the computer. No more complaining about my room being messy. No more cooking a kilo of pasta to feed an African nation. No more being a cabana boy.
I've got time (well, I will when everything is sorted) and space to sit and think with no distractions. I can start on that stack of books sitting on my bookshelf. Listen to every song on my iPod, from start to finish, with the volume up. Have the morning radio on whilst eating breakfast, and have TV dinners on the couch. I can sleep at 3, wake up at the last minute in a panic and arrive late to work.
I can be me, and everything you don't want me to be.

It's been a strange weekend. It hasn't felt like a weekend at all. Time has disappeared amidst a flurry of cardboard boxes, clattering plates and plain white walls. My life, packed neatly into fruit boxes and refugee bags.

I've worked so hard these few weeks, sacrificing precious summer days to inhale Ajax and pine cleaner, but it's just... not... happening. Late at night as I drive back for the hundredth time, eyes tired and bleary and blinded by the angry glare of a truck's headlights, I realise that this is not it. This is not home. It's just another lock, another chain.

I crawl into the fridge, and escape to the North Pole.

I once read, on a geek forum, life being compared to the software release lifecycle.
'Life starts in alpha, moves to beta, and then slowly, for most of your life, goes through release candidate 1, 2, 3....40 etc. And finally, when everything's fixed up, all the mistakes ironed out and you're ready to do the final release, you're already obsolete.'

'But everytime I reach for you, you slip through my fingers, into cold sunlight; Laughing at the things that I had planned' - Spiralling, Keane

This is probably the tenth time I've called an ambulance.
And then the car crashed.