Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

I wanted to write tonight but cannot. I am bloated on turkey and have been drinking heavily as of late. I became afraid of the tap-water after some slut flushed poison down my toilet in an attempt to get it into my pipe-system (I admit, my knowledge of plumbing is rudimentary at best). I have been drinking Double Diamond beer as a replacement. I am looking a little bit tubby, I'm afraid. There are mice droppings in my bed. And yet I shall sleep there tonight.

I shall sleep there tonight, most likely under the influence of an opium tincture. I am growing more and more withdrawn each day. I cannot come to terms with the world outside me. And the world inside me is no longer my own.

Oh Blog, you are nothing like my boyhood diary. You are a cheap gimcrack whereas my diary was a hidden flower pollinated by my private thoughts and words. You are a tabloid, and I, your perverted publisher.

We shall go to sleep angry at each other tonight.

Yours,

Nigel Tewksbury

Pig in the City

Fluently through the dark foliage of the city night, I walk; I walk and I stalk with a profound nonchalance, a panther on the prowl, looking for a mate, or possibly for food. I have not eaten in days; I am growing weak and tired; my insides burn. Perhaps I will stop at a fast food place, a drunken dandy hungry for grease; or perhaps I will simply press on with the faith that I will not die from hunger when I have gold coins jangling like reindeer's bells in my pocket. Jingle jangle. Jingle jangle. Jingle jangle jeroo.

I stumble around a corner and see the flash of an urchin's eyes. The protein of her eyes is white and shining in stark contrast to the grimy rags she calls clothing. She is begging for coinery. I toss her a big one and tell her she would be beautiful were she not so filthy, but upon further reflection I think it is because she is filthy that she has the potential for beauty. I feel that if she showered and dressed she would be just a common slut--one of those whores in this city who give it away for free. Often it is best that the veil of Maya be not lifted.

I turn around and toss her another coin before laughing at the absurdity of it all.

What is this city in which I live? It is built on dreams, true, but they are the dreams of Capitalists, not of Dreamers. If only poets had the background in construction and engineering necessary to build! Ah, what a sight it would be to behold, the city of poets, golden and true. Nymphs and prophets would emigrate from Arcadia (but we would keep the satyrs out).

I walk with a funky swagger straight into a McDonald's restaurant. I gobble four cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake--I have never felt dirtier in my life! And oh the salty fries! I remove my belt and whip the table. I paint my face with ketchup and mustard--I am out of my fucking mind and loving every moment--my monkey heart pounds and I hope I die like this, a complete and utter failure, a complete and utter fool.

I hear the river calling me and run out into the night. I run down a hill and push through the trees. I am alone and it is quiet... I am out of the city. The river flows on and on. I cannot believe what I am. I was a child once... Mother I am sorry. I have strayed further than any man in history.

I watch the ripples and the ducks. They flow on, always forward. "Oh hell," I mutter. Oh hell. I suppose I should go home. Or return to my damn house.