Three weeks ago...
Morag: Why don’t you blog about me?
Scat: Eh? I do.
I so do.
Morag: Not really.
Scat: Oh. Well, I guess maybe I don’t really want to.
Morag: How come?
Scat: Dunno really.
Maybe I don’t think it would be fair on you.
Morag: What am I, six? You think I can’t handle it?
Scat: It isn’t that.
Morag: What is it then?
Scat: I just don’t… it’s a bit too personal isn’t it?
Morag: What – so you’ll write about a cat sucking you off but you won't write about your life with – with whatever I am?
Scat: My special lady?
Morag: Whatever I am.
Scat: First of all, that cat didn’t ‘suck me off’, as you so charmingly put it.
Secondly, I guess some bits of my life I want to keep to myself if that’s alright.
Morag: But I want you to blog about me.
Morag: Because I’m part of your life, you fucker.
Scat: So it’s all about your ego really?
Morag: Pffft. You’re so difficult sometimes.
Why are you so difficult?
Scat: I’m just trying to understand.
Morag: I think your public want to hear about me.
Scat: I think you’re insane.
Morag: Seriously though, why don’t you want to? I don’t understand.
Scat: I don’t know. Maybe I like you too much.
Scat: Is it?
Morag: Isn’t it?
Scat: Yeah, OK. It’s crap.
Morag: You’re cold.
Scat: I am NOT cold. I am probably the warmest person you will ever meet.
I’ll blog about you when you do something interesting. How’s that?
Two weeks ago…
Morag: Anyway, I want to ask you something.
Scat: Ask away.
Morag: I just want to know how this is working out for you.
In your opinion.
Scat: What are we talking about?
Morag: Me. You. Us. Our “relationship”.
Are you happy with it?
Scat: How’s it working out for me? I’m happy, yeah. Thanks for asking.
What about you?
Your silence is speaking volumes. Are you not happy?
Scat: Yeah you’re happy or yeah you’re not happy?
Scat: Hmm. That ‘happy’ is sitting there on my screen like an empty pill bottle on a hotel bed.
Morag: I’m thinking I might move back to London.
Scat: Really? But you love Brighton.
Morag: I know but it’s like, what am I doing here?
I need to start thinking about my career.
I need to start thinking about the rest of my life.
Scat: Shit, man. Sounds serious.
Morag: Well it should be serious shouldn’t it?
Scat: I don’t know. Should it?
Morag: Of course it fucking should!
Scat: OK, OK.
So move to London.
Morag: Well what about you?
Scat: I already live in London.
Morag: That’s not what I mean.
I mean, what are you going to do with your life?
You’re not getting any younger, you know.
Scat: You’re rather inquisitive for a fuck buddy.
I care about you, for fuck sake!
I care about you and I hate to see you wasting your life!
Scat: I didn’t know I was wasting my life!
I thought I was having more fun than I’ve ever had before.
I thought I was having The Time Of My Life in fact.
At least I was before this conversation started.
Are you ignoring me now?
Morag: I thought you were supposed to be looking for love?
I am looking for love.
Morag: Oh alright then. So you’re looking for love, but you’re perfectly happy with us carrying on the way we are.
It doesn’t make sense.
Scat: But that’s like saying, OK, I really want to go to Mauritius but I can’t afford it this year, therefore I’m going to stay at home, even though I’m being offered this fantastic trip to Torremolinos. Of course I’m not – I’m going to go to Torremolinos and have myself a helluva time.
Morag: So I’m just a second-rate Spanish holiday to you, am I?
Scat: I could’ve picked Blackpool. You should think yourself lucky.
And you’re deliberately missing the point.
I have a great time with you. That’s what I was saying.
Look, I don’t know what’s going on here.
If you want to end it, you should just say so.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly in a big flap here trying to defend myself.
I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.
Morag: You're the lucky one you didn't pick Blackpool.
I think you’re the one missing the point too.
I don’t want to end it. That’s not what I’m saying.
Scat: What are you saying? Help me out here.
Morag: I’m saying that I’ve started to feel recently that our “relationship” as it stands is not really enough for me.
Scat: Well, I offered you “more” months ago.
Morag: But I didn’t want it then.
Scat: Oh well.
Morag: Oh well what?
Morag: That’s all you’ve got to say, is it? Timing.
Scat: Well what do you want me to say?
Morag: If I have to spell it out, I’m not so sure I even want you to say it anymore.
Scat: Well, is that all you’ve got to say?
I’ve got my pride you know.
Morag: What’s that got to do with anything?
Scat: Well, I’m just saying, when we first met, I wanted to be with you, to go out with you, whatever, and you turned me down. Now you’re saying you want more – I presume you mean with me but you’re not really being explicit enough for me to be sure – and I don’t know how you expect me to feel.
I don’t know how I do feel.
You can’t just pick me up and put me down like a cat playing with a crisp bag.
It’s not fair.
Morag: Oh fair schmair. You’re like a fucking child sometimes. I tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you.
Fuck your childish pride and fuck you. OK? Done.
Scat: So. I’m going to blog about you. I’ve just send you an email. Tell me what you think. Obviously I won’t post it if you feel you’ve been misrepresented.
Are you there?
Morag: I’m reading. Hold on.
Morag: I sound like a buck-toothed harpy.
Scat: GoogleChat never lies.
You’ve censored me!
Scat: Hardly. A bit of salient editing. It’s hardly censorship.
Morag: Where’s the stuff about [CENSORED] then? If you’re including the stuff about [CENSORED] then you surely have to include the stuff about [CENSORED].
Scat: Oh, God. Really?
Morag: Fuck yeah. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Put it back in. I insist.
Scat: OK. I'll put it in later though. I’m going to chop it up and move it around. Like Pulp Fiction.
I reckon I can get a week’s worth of stuff out of it.
This stuff writes itself...
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