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.