The Magic Black Book

Writer and Editor. 21. London. Get Stable or Die Trying.

And on that bombshell…

An artist is turning a Jeremy Clarkson book into genius poetry…

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Best. Thing. Ever!!!

Happy Friday and blessed Samhain to you all xxx

I know

I know that there is absolutely no point in even thinking about it, but that is easier said than done. I often think about why, how, when you fell out of love with me. I know that you did love me, once upon a time, so I do not need to question if you ever loved me at all, because I know that you did.

I think about the little things, the little things that made us happy, the little things that made us angry, the little things that made us upset. The little things that slowly added up over time and were used as low-blows in bigger arguments. Comments that once seemed insignificant now recalled and amplified to make a dig, actions that seemed irrelevant now exaggerated to illustrate the bigger problems we faced. We don’t know how this happened, we don’t know how we fell apart, and so we searched frantically for things to pin the blame on: we blamed the little things.

The big things left their scars too. Things that were sent to try us, things that posed challenges to us, things that we had to make difficult decisions about, the big things that happen in every relationship. We always muddled through, always jumped the hurdle, always made it out the other side. But again, we needed something to blame, so we blamed my mental illness, my degree, your job, our finances on the breakdown of our love.

I know that there is no point to dwell. I know that. There are a lot of things that I don’t understand about the end of our relationship, a lot of things, and there are a lot of things that I don’t know about what exactly happened around the end of our relationship. But I do know that there is no point in dwelling on the past.

There are things I would’ve done differently, things I would not have done at all, things I would’ve started doing. Millions of things. And I know if I asked you about this, that you would say the same. There would be a long list of things that you wish you didn’t say or do, and things you wish that you did. But it’s too late for that now, we can never go back. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. So I often think about it, even though I shouldn’t… “Should have cooked dinner more often” or “Could have quit smoking altogether” or “Wish I never threatened suicide.” But all those things fucking happened/didn’t happen and there’s nothing I can do about it now. I know that turning into a nicotine-free, mentally stable domestic goddess would not have saved our relationship. Or would it? There is a nagging part of me that thinks maybe if I was your perfect little housewife then we would still be together, that if I wasn’t cursed with mental illness then we would be engaged right now. I don’t know.

One thing I do know is that I wish I had told you that I loved you more often than I did.

We said it to each other a lot. More than most couples, I think. We told each other ‘I love you’ all the time, certainly everyday, but multiple times a day.. in a serious way, in a silly way, in a sarcastic way, regardless, we said it a lot. But I wish I had said it more.

I know that I should have said ‘I love you’ more. I know that now.


Do penguins have knees?

It’s too early in the morning for this mindfuckery, and I just asked my dad (the bearer of all useless knowledge and winner of many-a pub quiz) and he said he doesn’t know. My brother is similarly baffled. Gah!!!



You know when you encounter one of those rare songs that you are certain will haunt you for the rest of your life? Yeah, this…

While I powder my nose,
He will powder his gums,
And if I try to get close,
He is already gone,
Don’t know where he’s going,
Don’t know where he’s been.
But he is restless at night,
He has horrible dreams.

So we lay in the dark,
We’ve got nothing to say.
Just the beating of hearts,
Like two drums in the grey.
I don’t know what we’re doing,
I don’t know what we’ve done.
But the fire is coming,
So I think we should run,
I think we should run, run, run, run…


My dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
~ Falsely yours

Everything that Bukowski writes, I wish that I had written myself. I wish that I had thought of it before he did, I wish those overly-quotable quotations belonged to me, I wish those were my words all over Tumblr feeds and bedroom walls, my words inked on the forearm of a handsome young man. Why must everything you have written be so relatable? Dammit, Bukowski.


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