Lockey vs. the Apocalypse by Meadows, Carl (love novels in english .TXT) 📗

Next few days are going to be busy as we run back and forth to clear it out of said goodies. I probably won’t write for a few days, mainly because (a) I’ll probably be absolutely beat from all the work and (b) I’m a god damn bard and no storyteller lists how many cans of chicken soup or boxes of paracetamol they transferred between homesteads.

I’m going to get my shit together and will take my shower at the end of the day when I need it the most. Adios.

September 1st, 2010

LOVE, ACTUALLY

The weather has turned today. Welcome back to northern England, where it goes from bright sunshine to totally pissing it down within a day.

You know, last night I spent ages copying down all my first entries from those scribbled notebooks to add to this record. Reading them back, I must have appeared like I was on drugs. It was all hyperactive and making light where I can, then I look at this later stuff where I’ve toned it down and sound like a semi-intelligent woman instead of Tigger on cocaine.

On reflection, those early entries when it was just me, I think I was just trying to keep myself sane. I am pretty hyperactive, and I get a kick out of making people laugh—even if that person is an imaginary reader—and I don’t like to get melancholy. My moods can swing to the extremes, I’m self-aware enough to realise this. I can be hyper and not take anything serious, seeing the light in everything, which I always try to do. To a large extent, I wasn’t lying to Nate when I said I wasn’t taking it seriously. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen some shit now and I take the dangers very seriously, but I meant it when I said that laughing at this whole shit show was how I wanted to get through it.

Life was so fucking miserable before the world suffered critical prolapse, and now that misery has increased by a factor of X. If I let everything blot out the light, then what’s the point? There’s no point in surviving the end of the world if all we do is mope about how shit everything is. Granted, people like Alicia and Laura have damn good reason to be hurt and scream at the injustice of it all. And everyone here in this lodge has lost someone in some way, sometimes they’ve lost everyone and everything they’ve ever known, but if we all sit and think about that, if we don’t try to push forward and make something better of this shithole existence we find ourselves in, we may as well all just give up and turn these damn guns on ourselves.

Now, I have my bad days. Believe it or not, despite all my spectacular awesomeness you’ve already been dazzled by in the adventures of Flint and Locke (shut up Nate, I’m keeping it), I do get down at times. My moods are extreme, so when I’m up, I’ll do my best to drag everyone around me to my lofty heights of wacky stupidity. When I’m down, however, I’m an absolute shithead to be around. I just want to be left alone, question myself constantly, wince at some of the things I said that I thought were hilarious at the time, and generally tell myself how useless I am, how nobody will ever love me, that I will die alone, and all that other good stuff.

I’m human. Hard to believe, I know, please, tone down the applause, you’re making me blush. I’m human, and as much as I jokingly say how awesome I am, I am far from fucking perfect.

I’m 26 years old, and I’ve never been in love. I’ve had boyfriends, flings, one-night stands and the like. Shit, I’m not a nun, I’m a woman with needs. But they’ve always been that; just physical needs. I’ve never met anyone I really connected with emotionally like that. I’ve never thought, “This guy could be the one.” My thoughts after sex are usually, “I’m fucking starving, I could smash a Big Mac right about now.”

It makes me doubt myself. Makes me wonder if I’m broken in some way, because I know what love is. I’m not a sociopath who lacks empathy; shit, I’ve got empathy to burn. When those I care about are hurt, it’s like a knife to my heart and I feel that pain with them. I’ve seen love portrayed a thousand different ways in prose and in movies, and I know what love really is. It’s not the storybook starry-eyed lovers destined to be together that are consumed by a bright and luminous fire of passion. Maria and Dean showed me what love really was.

It’s hard work, it’s compromise, it’s sacrifice. It’s giving, it’s two people working hard to help the other be the best version of themselves. It’s living with your best friend.

I’ve never even remotely felt that for any guy I’ve dated or slept with. I quickly lose interest, throwing them away like some old clothes that don’t fit any more, that look a bit frayed and worn.

Now the world has come to an abrupt and undead halt, and I have to wonder if I’ll ever feel that. Nate’s basically become my dad, Mark’s a sweet guy but not my type, Isaac’s kinda cute in an awkward way, but he’s more like my buddy I can chat geeky shit with and connect to my old life in some way. As much as I crack jokes about Freya making me question my sexuality, I’m not into women, though she makes me wish I was sometimes. I’m still baffled by the idiot who let her go. There’s no accounting for the stupidity of some people. She’s just so bloody nice.

So where do I go from here? There are no post-apocalyptic singles bars. Online dating sites aren’t accepting new subscriptions and most of the viable candidates now all have the same milky eye colour