Sweet solitude, I wish to conquer thee,
For oft I fill my heart with sin when thou
Art near.
Your silence makes me nervous; I fail
To comprehend your wordless ways...
But it is
Not you I fear...
I've lost my maid--a sweet
Reflection of l'essentiel Féminin.
(Now I spend my days in a television trance--a mere
vegetable life).
And yet I eat no veggies--
My diet is deficient... Oh god oh god
Oh god I fear I've lost my mind--a sweet
Reflection of Beauty's form is now perverted
By sloth and masturbation...
Sweet solitude, it is not you I fear...
For you are welcoming and calm. For you
I should not pour my poppy tea and drop
My trousers but rather welcome thee inside
For some Darjeeling, biscuits, and a book.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
A new maid
Dear Helga, I have hired a new maid. I hesitate to say that you have been replaced because it would be blasphemous to use such a term on such a singular creature. Oh, my ice-white Helga, I long, once again, to explore your smooth curves in our nocturnal rituals. Your landscape, explosive yet tender, I long to twine and explore... Your rivers, your hills, your valleys. Your words, your smells. Ah! I must stop because it is making me lovesick and lusty to write this. I fear I will spend the day--perhaps my life--in bed if I think of you anymore. I should never have laughed when you told me of your Elvish heritage because now I know it is true. I cannot believe I was such a skeptical ass--your magic will torture me the rest of my mortal days as punishment. And it is just... It is just...
And oh, you did know how to wield a sponge. The estate never shined in that gaudy manner you see on the television; rather, it was cleanliness on the verge of shattering--natural, yet unnatural. Ah! The new maid has caused my kitchen to sparkle and shine and it makes me feel filthy. It seems Lysol dissolves both germs and the stuff of beauty. I never appreciated the way you made the house mirror my soul. I fear I will never be home again.
But like a wild bird I must fly on. It is with a tinge of shame that I admit I have hired an American to clean my house. She is, as they say, "hot"--but not beautiful--and her gaze is full of vacuity, which makes things easier, I suppose, because there is nothing to corrupt. She was eager to please and had a crude charm--I knew it was a mistake but surrendered because I knew if I waited any longer I would need to hire a botanist, not a maid, for there is a taxonomy of organisms living in my toilet.
Her name is Carol. She performs her duties adequately but lacks inspiration. I fear my muse has left and that I will pass the remainder of my days in a sea of banality, the only beauty being memories that flit away from me like small, exotic fishes.
And oh, you did know how to wield a sponge. The estate never shined in that gaudy manner you see on the television; rather, it was cleanliness on the verge of shattering--natural, yet unnatural. Ah! The new maid has caused my kitchen to sparkle and shine and it makes me feel filthy. It seems Lysol dissolves both germs and the stuff of beauty. I never appreciated the way you made the house mirror my soul. I fear I will never be home again.
But like a wild bird I must fly on. It is with a tinge of shame that I admit I have hired an American to clean my house. She is, as they say, "hot"--but not beautiful--and her gaze is full of vacuity, which makes things easier, I suppose, because there is nothing to corrupt. She was eager to please and had a crude charm--I knew it was a mistake but surrendered because I knew if I waited any longer I would need to hire a botanist, not a maid, for there is a taxonomy of organisms living in my toilet.
Her name is Carol. She performs her duties adequately but lacks inspiration. I fear my muse has left and that I will pass the remainder of my days in a sea of banality, the only beauty being memories that flit away from me like small, exotic fishes.
Monday, January 21, 2008
To All the Suicides (on Blue Monday)
I awoke this morning with methods of suicide dancing in my brain. Initially I was concerned for the health of my psyche, but then it dawned on me: Ah, of course, it is Blue Monday--the most depressing day of the year as indicated by the number of suicides (though I'm sure a few blessed souls killed themselves out of sheer joy). I pranced downstairs wondering "razorblades or pills?" but just then I was struck by a wind of ennui that made me languish in utter suicidal impotence. I spent the day rubbing myself against the bearskin rug while watching "The View" and "Oprah."
I do not feel good about myself. I am quite used to filthiness, but not the smiling, self-help kind. It was not like a drug I could just puke out into the mirroring water of my toilet--indeed, I want to watch more episodes tomorrow...
(Perhaps I am the vomit and the television is the toilet in which I twirl. Or perhaps I am just a failed poet looking for connections in a disconnected world...)
(I want to smash Clay Aiken's skull with a bone, but yet I want to see his performance, too. These are sick, perverted times. And yet not sick and perverted in a good way--what ever happened to simple animal-evil? Now we have this vacuous evil that society sees as a virtue, necessary for success).
I am full of digressions because I am lacking in proper thought. There is a death-chill in the air. I am dying for a walk in the woods culminating with a primal scream atop a lookout point. But nature has trapped me inside and I do not even have a gas oven in which to stick my head.
I am full of hot air with no room to expand.
It is a failure of a Blue Monday... Suicides: you are more motivated than I.
Requiescat in pace.
I do not feel good about myself. I am quite used to filthiness, but not the smiling, self-help kind. It was not like a drug I could just puke out into the mirroring water of my toilet--indeed, I want to watch more episodes tomorrow...
(Perhaps I am the vomit and the television is the toilet in which I twirl. Or perhaps I am just a failed poet looking for connections in a disconnected world...)
(I want to smash Clay Aiken's skull with a bone, but yet I want to see his performance, too. These are sick, perverted times. And yet not sick and perverted in a good way--what ever happened to simple animal-evil? Now we have this vacuous evil that society sees as a virtue, necessary for success).
I am full of digressions because I am lacking in proper thought. There is a death-chill in the air. I am dying for a walk in the woods culminating with a primal scream atop a lookout point. But nature has trapped me inside and I do not even have a gas oven in which to stick my head.
I am full of hot air with no room to expand.
It is a failure of a Blue Monday... Suicides: you are more motivated than I.
Requiescat in pace.
Friday, January 18, 2008
An open love letter
Dear Ms. X.,
Though I am wealthy and clean, I am infatuated with dirt and squalor.
I wish to make love to you, jubilantly, beneath a yellow moon, amidst a pile of rats, dirt, and bones. Meet me in the graveyard and wear your finest clothes. I will sing to you a lullaby--a dark lullaby, one where sleep is the facsimile of death. I will sing to you in whispers so my voice does not drown out my breath.
The next day we will be precious. We will sip upon tea and munch upon cucumber sandwiches. We will pretend we are not beasts. Ms. X, shall we speak of our erotic graveyard life or shall we leave it unperverted by words, untainted by the sun? Often I have asked this question and I have decided that, like most questions, the answer does not matter.
Fly falcon fly! Search out those souls who are both filthy and pure. Fetch for me the plain and complicated truth and a woman landscaped with curves. Let her have the smile of an angel in mid-fall.
I haven't had a drink in days. I feel like the Overman--powerful and suffering. Am I happy in this state, or have I, in fact, transcended happiness and entered the world of ambiguous beauty? Well, clearly I am unhappy, but clearly am I fool? Not to me. Haha!
I have spent too much time alone--meet me beneath the moon, where words are like witches' spells. Diagnose my madness with your touch--it is not the kind you'll find in books.*
Lasciviously yours,
The Orphic Man
*Search high and low, you will not find me in your DSM IV.
Though I am wealthy and clean, I am infatuated with dirt and squalor.
I wish to make love to you, jubilantly, beneath a yellow moon, amidst a pile of rats, dirt, and bones. Meet me in the graveyard and wear your finest clothes. I will sing to you a lullaby--a dark lullaby, one where sleep is the facsimile of death. I will sing to you in whispers so my voice does not drown out my breath.
The next day we will be precious. We will sip upon tea and munch upon cucumber sandwiches. We will pretend we are not beasts. Ms. X, shall we speak of our erotic graveyard life or shall we leave it unperverted by words, untainted by the sun? Often I have asked this question and I have decided that, like most questions, the answer does not matter.
Fly falcon fly! Search out those souls who are both filthy and pure. Fetch for me the plain and complicated truth and a woman landscaped with curves. Let her have the smile of an angel in mid-fall.
I haven't had a drink in days. I feel like the Overman--powerful and suffering. Am I happy in this state, or have I, in fact, transcended happiness and entered the world of ambiguous beauty? Well, clearly I am unhappy, but clearly am I fool? Not to me. Haha!
I have spent too much time alone--meet me beneath the moon, where words are like witches' spells. Diagnose my madness with your touch--it is not the kind you'll find in books.*
Lasciviously yours,
The Orphic Man
*Search high and low, you will not find me in your DSM IV.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I will not cease from mental fight...
There exists great political turmoil in my brain. It has become worrisome. In the general populous of my mind there exists a growing faction that desires a "common" psychical world. They are led my Avery Mann, and they argue for domestic bliss. He is unassuming but powerful; he is funded by Ikea; he is not as affable as he appears.
I fear if he were in power, the self would die and beauty would wither. In 10 years they would be viewed as mental perversions; in 20, they would be forgotten.
Constant spending
Brings joy and
Asphyxiation--
A rotting of the brain.
In my interior territories, the Aesthetes have been in power for 20 years now. They are led by the magnificent Joseph Whitelilly--an Ahab-like monomaniac, driven by beauty. He is growing old (though remains quite dapper). He has created spectacular monuments and has written all our laws in verse. He puts poppy oil in the water instead of fluoride. His reign has built grand monuments of the imagination--paintings and architecturally arranged words--but I fear he has underestimated the power of the common man and this magical paper he calls "money."
Also, the trains never run on time and the stupid are put to death. I confess: The regime is imperfect.
Avery Mann hides in the bushes: an affable proxy for a bloodthirsty beast.
I dream of growls and snarls... But I also dream of acceptance... Perhaps I should just fall into the domestic sleep and perish gradually and imperceptibly. I'll laugh the stupid laugh. I imagine being an idiot could be a lot of fun.
If only it were possible... But I cannot forget my dreams--I am forever an opium puffer, a servant of Beauty. And now I find myself sounding like Milton's Satan--fighting for a lost cause--but there is a difference: I would be surrendering to a vacuity rather than an Absolute.
Dear Satan, hear my words: Mee miserabler! King of the Underworld, I am King of the Beautiful Fools.
I am a recluse in darkness,
The only light my computer screen.
My mind hums and drones
An electronic "Om"
(or is it Ω)
And I pray that death accompanies
My next and final binge.
He-hem... Excuse me. There is someone at the door (Mephistopheles as a poodle, perhaps?). Stiff upper lip and all that. Please, Dear Reader, don't tell the world that I feel and am perhaps a little fragile.
I fear if he were in power, the self would die and beauty would wither. In 10 years they would be viewed as mental perversions; in 20, they would be forgotten.
Constant spending
Brings joy and
Asphyxiation--
A rotting of the brain.
In my interior territories, the Aesthetes have been in power for 20 years now. They are led by the magnificent Joseph Whitelilly--an Ahab-like monomaniac, driven by beauty. He is growing old (though remains quite dapper). He has created spectacular monuments and has written all our laws in verse. He puts poppy oil in the water instead of fluoride. His reign has built grand monuments of the imagination--paintings and architecturally arranged words--but I fear he has underestimated the power of the common man and this magical paper he calls "money."
Also, the trains never run on time and the stupid are put to death. I confess: The regime is imperfect.
Avery Mann hides in the bushes: an affable proxy for a bloodthirsty beast.
I dream of growls and snarls... But I also dream of acceptance... Perhaps I should just fall into the domestic sleep and perish gradually and imperceptibly. I'll laugh the stupid laugh. I imagine being an idiot could be a lot of fun.
If only it were possible... But I cannot forget my dreams--I am forever an opium puffer, a servant of Beauty. And now I find myself sounding like Milton's Satan--fighting for a lost cause--but there is a difference: I would be surrendering to a vacuity rather than an Absolute.
Dear Satan, hear my words: Mee miserabler! King of the Underworld, I am King of the Beautiful Fools.
I am a recluse in darkness,
The only light my computer screen.
My mind hums and drones
An electronic "Om"
(or is it Ω)
And I pray that death accompanies
My next and final binge.
He-hem... Excuse me. There is someone at the door (Mephistopheles as a poodle, perhaps?). Stiff upper lip and all that. Please, Dear Reader, don't tell the world that I feel and am perhaps a little fragile.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
A Reclusive New Year
For the Recluse, the holidays are complex and ambiguous. He views them with a heart that brims with fear and excitement. He is fearful because, oh hell, he must emerge from his warm cocoon. And yet he is excited because, oh hell, he must emerge from his warm cocoon that is so stifling.
Throughout the year he has accumulated new artifacts in the museum of his mind--up till now he has horded them for himself--he has shined and restored his magnificent discoveries and knows, were he to unveil them to the public, it would respond most viscerally--the morons would be repulsed while the appreciators of beauty (roughly 1/1728th of the population according to my esoteric friend) would experience profound epiphanies that give meaning to their lives.
On the Solstice my cocoon felt awfully stuffy; thus, I accepted an invitation to a New Year's Eve party. The stage was set for my grand reveal. I remembered my new theory of beauty and how it could be proven with calculus--sure to be a hit amongst scientists and artists alike--perhaps it would even reconcile their ideological differences.
I would hire a whore to accompany me--a fantastic one at that, Scandinavian if possible. I would wear my finest blue blazer and show the world that sprezzatura is not dead. I would even give up my favourite vices in the days leading up to the party and exercise 16 times a day. And I did, I did! Everything was perfect. I was ready to emerge a magnificent butterfly.
Relaxed and enervated from all the masturbation, I went to pick up my whore at her house. Cerberus Weasel came along. Indeed I was not disappointed--she was a buxom Swedish beauty and I wanted to lap up her milk-white skin with my freshly detoxified tongue. Cerberus also took a liking to her and they played a delightful wrestling game with his squeeky toy--it touched my heart to see her--a whore--so jubilant and pure. The whore and I shared a bottle of claret and then decided to pop into an opium den before going to the party. We took the roadster, Schubert on the radio, wind in our hair, ferret in the backseat.
We only took a few puffs and then rang for a taxi to take us to the party. I think the party was a good one, but I must admit I was so focussed on my whore that I did not notice the surroundings. We began to get drunk on straight vodka--it was nearly midnight and I was partially blind--I had forgotten all about my theory and the revealing. Indeed my mind was preoccupied with what was beneath that red dress and when I looked at my watch I realized I had missed the big moment--it was already quarter past twelve--and yet I remembered a fleeting kiss.
But when I went to ask her if it was all an opium dream, she was gone. I searched for her madly and even poked my head into an occupied loo. Eventually she found me, but my marvelous erection instantly disappeared when she said to me, "Nigel. You look tired. You should go home."
I laughed and said I was fine, but inside, I was heartbroken and decided to give the bitch what she asked for. I grabbed my coat and wandered to the opium den to fetch my roadster and ferret. The walk seemed like an eternity. I had a premonition that 2008 would be a year composed of these awful eternities with little disasters interspersed between them.
As I walked alone, a band of ruffians yelled at me from across the street: "You're alone you faggot!"
Still a worm, I longed for my warm cocoon.
And, of course, when I found the car, Cerberus had frozen to death. It was a cold night.
I spent New Year's Day with a bottle of Absinthe while poking girls on Facebook. I was a drunk as a skunk when I heard the slide of a letter beneath my door. It was from the whore, Natasha.
It read:
Nigel,
I apologize for disappearing on you last night. You see Sebastian Horsley was there and I do adore him. It was though he cast a spell on me and I was all his. I am sorry. I have had a rough time at the brothel lately and Sebastian seemed a good temporary solution.
I did not mean to hurt you. As I said, the brothel has been chaos.
Natasha
January 8th, 2008
I am alone at my estate, back where I started. I am drunk again. Dear Reader, never fall for your whore.
The holidays are always such a disaster. Next year I will simply smoke hashish and listen to music. I will not emerge. The world is not ready for my museum, and my museum is not ready for it. Damn you Sebastian Horsley, you prim piece of affected shit.
Throughout the year he has accumulated new artifacts in the museum of his mind--up till now he has horded them for himself--he has shined and restored his magnificent discoveries and knows, were he to unveil them to the public, it would respond most viscerally--the morons would be repulsed while the appreciators of beauty (roughly 1/1728th of the population according to my esoteric friend) would experience profound epiphanies that give meaning to their lives.
On the Solstice my cocoon felt awfully stuffy; thus, I accepted an invitation to a New Year's Eve party. The stage was set for my grand reveal. I remembered my new theory of beauty and how it could be proven with calculus--sure to be a hit amongst scientists and artists alike--perhaps it would even reconcile their ideological differences.
I would hire a whore to accompany me--a fantastic one at that, Scandinavian if possible. I would wear my finest blue blazer and show the world that sprezzatura is not dead. I would even give up my favourite vices in the days leading up to the party and exercise 16 times a day. And I did, I did! Everything was perfect. I was ready to emerge a magnificent butterfly.
Relaxed and enervated from all the masturbation, I went to pick up my whore at her house. Cerberus Weasel came along. Indeed I was not disappointed--she was a buxom Swedish beauty and I wanted to lap up her milk-white skin with my freshly detoxified tongue. Cerberus also took a liking to her and they played a delightful wrestling game with his squeeky toy--it touched my heart to see her--a whore--so jubilant and pure. The whore and I shared a bottle of claret and then decided to pop into an opium den before going to the party. We took the roadster, Schubert on the radio, wind in our hair, ferret in the backseat.
We only took a few puffs and then rang for a taxi to take us to the party. I think the party was a good one, but I must admit I was so focussed on my whore that I did not notice the surroundings. We began to get drunk on straight vodka--it was nearly midnight and I was partially blind--I had forgotten all about my theory and the revealing. Indeed my mind was preoccupied with what was beneath that red dress and when I looked at my watch I realized I had missed the big moment--it was already quarter past twelve--and yet I remembered a fleeting kiss.
But when I went to ask her if it was all an opium dream, she was gone. I searched for her madly and even poked my head into an occupied loo. Eventually she found me, but my marvelous erection instantly disappeared when she said to me, "Nigel. You look tired. You should go home."
I laughed and said I was fine, but inside, I was heartbroken and decided to give the bitch what she asked for. I grabbed my coat and wandered to the opium den to fetch my roadster and ferret. The walk seemed like an eternity. I had a premonition that 2008 would be a year composed of these awful eternities with little disasters interspersed between them.
As I walked alone, a band of ruffians yelled at me from across the street: "You're alone you faggot!"
Still a worm, I longed for my warm cocoon.
And, of course, when I found the car, Cerberus had frozen to death. It was a cold night.
***
I spent New Year's Day with a bottle of Absinthe while poking girls on Facebook. I was a drunk as a skunk when I heard the slide of a letter beneath my door. It was from the whore, Natasha.
It read:
Nigel,
I apologize for disappearing on you last night. You see Sebastian Horsley was there and I do adore him. It was though he cast a spell on me and I was all his. I am sorry. I have had a rough time at the brothel lately and Sebastian seemed a good temporary solution.
I did not mean to hurt you. As I said, the brothel has been chaos.
Natasha
***
January 8th, 2008
I am alone at my estate, back where I started. I am drunk again. Dear Reader, never fall for your whore.
The holidays are always such a disaster. Next year I will simply smoke hashish and listen to music. I will not emerge. The world is not ready for my museum, and my museum is not ready for it. Damn you Sebastian Horsley, you prim piece of affected shit.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Urgent: A note to all my Facebook friends
Dearest Friends,
I regret to inform you that I have been exiled from the Facebook community. It seems the administrators have deemed that I violated their "Code of Conduct." Perhaps it is so... But I would like to take this opportunity to explain myself to my friends, for you are, indeed, my friends, even though I only know a few of you in this fleshly world.
First, I would like to say that the medium of Facebook allowed me to communicate with several wonderful people, and, in some ways, it gave me a new hope in this world. It is so rare to meet others who share my interests, and I confess, I messaged and "poked" several individuals simply because we shared a favourite author or composer. And is that really so wrong? Part of the beauty of Cyperspace is that it tears down the walls that separate--whether they be geographic or social in nature--and I was overjoyed when people with common interests replied to my little electronic missives... Indeed, it reminded me of the pen-pals of my youth (one of whom, I must say, confronted me one dark Guy Fawkes Night with a pistol, but was thankfully too intoxicated to aim... We remain friends).
But, I admit, there was a more sinister side to my Facebook escapades. It is with a slight blush that I confess to occasionally writing sexually suggestive messages to those whose pictures sent blood rushing to my nether regions. Now, these messages were never vulgar in nature and were always complimentary and never ever degrading. If anything, I am being punished for my honesty, and it saddens me that declaring my desire to make love to a few beautiful creatures is seen as violating some sort of "Code of Conduct." Indeed, this code is one an animal such as I cannot live by--it is suited for automatons, not men.
But, I believe, it was not the suggestive messages that made me hear that fearful word, "banished"; rather, it was my exceeding "the poking limit." Perhaps it is fitting that, like Oscar Wilde, I am being punished for poking one too many.
I live my days in constant fear of being thrown in gaol.
Regarding my messages, I never once received an angry response... All in all, I felt quite loved on Facebook, and I must say my banishment pains my bastard heart to a fierce degree. Shall I return? Well, it is hard to say, but for now, like Dante, I am eating bread salted by tears.
Dear Isabelle, I loved discussing Bjork with you (please think of me when you play Vespertine), and Dear Elizabeth, it saddens me that we are forced to play our game of Scrabulous covertly. Ray, you are a dandy to the core--I shall think of you whenever I don a bowtie. You are all my friends and please do not hesitate to email a poor exile for he has nothing in this world but his Dell.
Yours truly,
Nigel Tewksbury
I regret to inform you that I have been exiled from the Facebook community. It seems the administrators have deemed that I violated their "Code of Conduct." Perhaps it is so... But I would like to take this opportunity to explain myself to my friends, for you are, indeed, my friends, even though I only know a few of you in this fleshly world.
First, I would like to say that the medium of Facebook allowed me to communicate with several wonderful people, and, in some ways, it gave me a new hope in this world. It is so rare to meet others who share my interests, and I confess, I messaged and "poked" several individuals simply because we shared a favourite author or composer. And is that really so wrong? Part of the beauty of Cyperspace is that it tears down the walls that separate--whether they be geographic or social in nature--and I was overjoyed when people with common interests replied to my little electronic missives... Indeed, it reminded me of the pen-pals of my youth (one of whom, I must say, confronted me one dark Guy Fawkes Night with a pistol, but was thankfully too intoxicated to aim... We remain friends).
But, I admit, there was a more sinister side to my Facebook escapades. It is with a slight blush that I confess to occasionally writing sexually suggestive messages to those whose pictures sent blood rushing to my nether regions. Now, these messages were never vulgar in nature and were always complimentary and never ever degrading. If anything, I am being punished for my honesty, and it saddens me that declaring my desire to make love to a few beautiful creatures is seen as violating some sort of "Code of Conduct." Indeed, this code is one an animal such as I cannot live by--it is suited for automatons, not men.
But, I believe, it was not the suggestive messages that made me hear that fearful word, "banished"; rather, it was my exceeding "the poking limit." Perhaps it is fitting that, like Oscar Wilde, I am being punished for poking one too many.
I live my days in constant fear of being thrown in gaol.
Regarding my messages, I never once received an angry response... All in all, I felt quite loved on Facebook, and I must say my banishment pains my bastard heart to a fierce degree. Shall I return? Well, it is hard to say, but for now, like Dante, I am eating bread salted by tears.
Dear Isabelle, I loved discussing Bjork with you (please think of me when you play Vespertine), and Dear Elizabeth, it saddens me that we are forced to play our game of Scrabulous covertly. Ray, you are a dandy to the core--I shall think of you whenever I don a bowtie. You are all my friends and please do not hesitate to email a poor exile for he has nothing in this world but his Dell.
Yours truly,
Nigel Tewksbury
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
An Empty Christmas Parcel
Happy Holida... Oh, let's just skip the trivial phrases... Although, for me, the phrase is not quite so meaningless because it rings in my ears like the mockery of a grammar school ruffian. My holidays were far from happy... but, in hindsight, I see that they contained a grain of truth similar to that found in a well-crafted parable.
It was Christmas Eve and I was on my way to see my favourite whore when I ran into a friend of a friend outside of Marks & Spencer. His name is Avery Mann and he is the singular model citizen of the modern world--he lives an unspeckled workaday life and worships, above all, the holy notion of Family. Needless to say I despise the chap and would stab him if I knew I could get away with it. But, my goodness, the man is a master of persuasion and somehow coaxed me to his house to eat a Christmas goose with his family. I'm not quite sure how he did it--I think I was so taken aback by his constant chatter and positive demeanor that I simply could not turn him down.
Now, Dear Reader, the conventions of the season would lead you to believe that I am going to tell you a heartwarming story of family and "love" because we communally ate a roasted fucking bird. But I assure you, if this was true in the Victorian Age (and who's to say it is), time has altered the truth to the point that it is as trivial as saying "Happy Holidays" to the miserable automatons of the world who are incapable of experiencing emotion.
First off, the bird was dry and the wine was like cat's piss. Second off, the family had nothing interesting to say--the teenaged son spoke of nothing but explosions in awful Hollywood films and Avery spoke only of his job as an accountant and his superficial love for his wife (who, I believe, might be made of plastic). Still, despite the awful wine, I got extremely drunk and the wife demanded I give her the keys to my roadster. I, conversely, demanded she lay with me in her husband's bed. She never responded and the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur (though I vaguely remember a game of Scrabble--Trivial Pursuit would be more apt).
Oh how I wish I had woken face-down and shivering in a pile of snow! But I was not so lucky... Rather, I awoke in a twin sized bed in a room that smelled of potpourri and Lysol. Thankfully I found my way to the washroom where I found some children's Gravol and a bulk bottle of NyQuil to help ease the pain and sorrow. Oh, it was absurd to drink four doses of NyQuil in the sterile hell of the guest room while exploring the upper registers of cable TV, but at least the absurdity combined with the intoxication of the cold syrup put a smile on my face--though it was a devil's grin.
Upon awakening in the early evening I found a note on the floor in my own handwriting. It said, "I am an old-fashioned devil in a new-fashioned hell. How I long for the good old days."
It was Christmas Eve and I was on my way to see my favourite whore when I ran into a friend of a friend outside of Marks & Spencer. His name is Avery Mann and he is the singular model citizen of the modern world--he lives an unspeckled workaday life and worships, above all, the holy notion of Family. Needless to say I despise the chap and would stab him if I knew I could get away with it. But, my goodness, the man is a master of persuasion and somehow coaxed me to his house to eat a Christmas goose with his family. I'm not quite sure how he did it--I think I was so taken aback by his constant chatter and positive demeanor that I simply could not turn him down.
Now, Dear Reader, the conventions of the season would lead you to believe that I am going to tell you a heartwarming story of family and "love" because we communally ate a roasted fucking bird. But I assure you, if this was true in the Victorian Age (and who's to say it is), time has altered the truth to the point that it is as trivial as saying "Happy Holidays" to the miserable automatons of the world who are incapable of experiencing emotion.
First off, the bird was dry and the wine was like cat's piss. Second off, the family had nothing interesting to say--the teenaged son spoke of nothing but explosions in awful Hollywood films and Avery spoke only of his job as an accountant and his superficial love for his wife (who, I believe, might be made of plastic). Still, despite the awful wine, I got extremely drunk and the wife demanded I give her the keys to my roadster. I, conversely, demanded she lay with me in her husband's bed. She never responded and the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur (though I vaguely remember a game of Scrabble--Trivial Pursuit would be more apt).
Oh how I wish I had woken face-down and shivering in a pile of snow! But I was not so lucky... Rather, I awoke in a twin sized bed in a room that smelled of potpourri and Lysol. Thankfully I found my way to the washroom where I found some children's Gravol and a bulk bottle of NyQuil to help ease the pain and sorrow. Oh, it was absurd to drink four doses of NyQuil in the sterile hell of the guest room while exploring the upper registers of cable TV, but at least the absurdity combined with the intoxication of the cold syrup put a smile on my face--though it was a devil's grin.
Upon awakening in the early evening I found a note on the floor in my own handwriting. It said, "I am an old-fashioned devil in a new-fashioned hell. How I long for the good old days."
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