Cotton Wool World by Eve Westwood - HTML preview

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Eve, That’s me. Named after the first woman God placed on this earth. Not that I could even begin to compare myself, how could I.

Anyway, it’s getting late and I need to have my quiet time. Open my eyes Lord, I want to see Jesus…


Fuck. Why can’t my recurring dreams be tinged with a touch more excitement? Always that God-bothering shit. It’s like being brainwashed in your sleep…as opposed to when you’re awake like a lot of people I know.

Yes, Eve, that’s me. Named after the first woman god placed on this earth. Bollocks. Well, I suppose I should be grateful. I could have been wandering around with a name like Ezrazekial. Infact I should be very grateful indeed. Thank fuck, my new god.

I wouldn’t call my parents cruel. They’re just stupid.

They on the other hand would call me the stupid one but as I often try to explain, I’m not the one who believes a heavenly body lives beyond the stars waiting to escort folk to the party of a lifetime. I just hope that Jesus is aware of the fact that my mother would be more than disappointed if he didn’t serve pink champagne and Marks and Spencer’s hake goujons.

Frankly, the grim-reaper sounds more appealing.

Than the goujons.

It’d be more fun if I got to dream about orgies but knowing my luck everyone would be ugly and fat and there’d be a distinct smell of cheese in the air.

Still, at twenty-six, I wish my imagination would do me a little more justice sometimes.


The other recurring nightmare I have is of a plane crash. Luckily, for me not for the poor bastards on the plane, I’m not a passenger. Mind you, having said that I wouldn’t be surprised if tonight I’m strapped firmly into seat 9a. No, I’m stood directly beneath the monstrosity as it veers out of control and crashes just to my left. My second piece of luck in this whole aeronautical experience is that there’s always something to hide behind to shelter myself from the debris. Perhaps tonight it won’t be there in which case I’m fucked.

I don’t know why these dreams keep pestering me, it’s not as if I’m a writer that keeps a notepad beside my bed in the hope that my subconscious mind will create the talent lacking in my real life.

If Freud was still alive, he’d probably tell me that subconsciously I wanted to kill my father and dress my mother as a dog but I arrived at a sane conclusion about this matter a long time ago. Freud was a sick fucker. Either that or I’m in denial.

In your dreams you can be whomever you want to be.

I’ve always wondered about this. Thoughts along the lines of, that’s comforting, at night I can be beautiful, successful and funny and then every morning I wake up the same boring cunt I was the day before. What a great ego boost that must be.

Well, I suppose I’d better start this damn story somewhere.

I’m a writer. No, correction, I must have dreamt that.

What I meant to say was I’d like to be a writer. That’s what I meant to say. What I really should say is that I’m sick of having a shit life and wondering if I can sell my cow for magic beans that will pay the council tax. Only one flaw in my plan. I don’t have a cow.

And if I did it’d probably die on the way to the market. And I don’t know where the market is. Oh, forget it, it was a shit idea anyway.


I quite like cows. Up close they’re quite beautiful. The way they scratch their necks on fence posts is a sight worth seeing. Who says they’re not intelligent. And they can’t half do an impressive shit. If I could do that, I’d never have to work again. I’d be in fucking agony.

Writing, it’s something I’ve always loved doing.

Describing flowers in the spring, the breeze rippling through the trees, the way swans journey through their lives with only one partner. The way my first boyfriend dumped me after fingering me in the park.

How I married a complete twat who thought anal sex was at its best when it came as a complete surprise.

Writing is what gives me the will to carry on day after day. I’ve written all sorts of stories. They live on you know. On my bookcase to be precise. Next to my boyfriend’s copy of Babyface.

No guessing what he dreams about then. Sadly for him, he too has to wake up next to the same boring cunt he went to bed with.

Boring. I think that’s possibly the most insulting thing you could say about a person. Wouldn’t you rather be a complete bastard than a boring fucker? How’s the new girlfriend? Fantastic in bed but boring as fuck.

I’d rather be shit in bed and be a fucking loony who makes people laugh telling arse jokes. In fact, I’d rather have a face like an arse than be boring. I have got a face like an arse but I figured it’s okay. Most men like arses. Most men are arses. We don’t live in a perfect world. If we did, we’d all be able to flick shit at each other like hippos.

I sometimes wonder if I write stories just to get away from it all. To lose myself inside a tiny world that I myself have created, rather like a raving lunatic.

Perhaps I am a raving lunatic, who’s to say. As the theory goes, the diagnosed lunatics might be the sane ones, it might be everyone else that’s fucking nuts.


Sometimes it seems that way. Why else was 3-2-1


Writing is like dreaming because you are in control of the story, the characters and the emotions they go through. Slight difference. When I dream, Jesus always seems to be the all-powerful one but when I sit down and write, I’m more than capable of having him give Judas a very pleasurable hand job whilst dressed as a Zeigfreid folly.