The Hump

I hope to add more partially digested ruminations from my wilderness experience in the future, but I must confess, I am still grappling with what happened. At the moment, my recollections and scrawls are fragmentary at best and terrifying at worst (for example, I am reluctant to write it here, dear, dead Henry Miller, thou who taught me that self-censorship is a killer of art, but according to my log (oh pun scatological!), I, at one desperate point in my wilderness wildness, attempted the trick of coprophagia in imitation of the hyrax, cur, and gimmicky whore). Oh YHWH, oh Yoda, Thou who gives me life, let these dark memories be more fantasy than reality, and, like my carefully crafted personalty, lie more within the realm of the mythological than the physical.

Ah! But like the life of that bitch Elizabeth Taylor, I digress. You see the reason I write today, Dear Fanatics and Admirers (not to mention the more common, more pidily, Naysayers), is to tell you the story of my Wednesday, of my Woden's Day.

Hwæt! Now listen to my tale.

I was visiting a prestigious university (I shall not name it here) for the purpose of seducing a slut who frequents the campus café. Her eyes like emeralds, her skin like milk, her tits magnificent, I approached her like a tiger on the prowl. Wearing my blue and white seersucker suit and carrying my vintage WWII Triumph motorcycle helmet, I slipped down beside her and said,

"I would like to fuck you, when you are through with that coffee drink."

I then rubbed my snake-like hand up her inner thigh and inquired, "Vanilla?"

It was indeed vanilla, and with that she threw her bullshit drink on the floor and we headed to the campus bar to get tight. But as it was only 10:30 in the morning, we had to wait a half hour before alcohol was served, so we had a glorious make out session in the grass beside the bicycle rack and dumpster. Things worked out wonderfully because by 11:00 I was sufficiently bored with my exploration of her body and quite ready to get extraordinarily drunk.

For a bar the place was rather bright, and the light served only to accentuate the horror inside: a multitude of fat, balding graduate students getting drunk in their nerdy little sanctuary, the campus Grad Pub. Ah! It was awful to see all these cases of arrested development in one crowded place. Their socks and sandals! Their backpacks! (Reginald always said: "To avoid looking a fool, one must never wear a backpack past the age of 25"). On my way to the communal washroom I glanced at a paper being written by one particularly egregious member of the species (I turned a little pink with anger and embarrassment to see he had the same model of Dell as I) and was shocked by the terrible prose. Long, ambiguous sentences; sentences never using anything but a simple structure (please don't point out my fragments, Naysayers, I am quite aware of them). Such sentences would only pass as high prose to one unable to focus due to severe astigmatism, and yet, everything about these people was an attempt at screaming, "HELLO! I AM SMART! LOOK AT ME!"

GAH! Damned fakers!

Oh YHWH, oh Yoda, I ask you on my knees in prayer, in supplication: What ever happened to Dignity? Are these the modern Intelligentsia? Say it ain't so!

And yet the females were rather, well, hot with their glasses and their books. But I decided not to speak to any of them fearing my lofty illusions of studious seductresses--girls who would explore my gonads as though they were metaphorical meteorites and then calculate the optimal angle of trajectory with which to direct their cattish tongues--would only be destroyed. I returned to my slut and my alcohol, but my slut was gone. I do have such rotten luck.

I sat there and drank. Alone. And I mused. There certainly seems to be a hump that one hits around the age of 25. Now that growing up is done, what does one do to progress? Damn these cases of arrested development. But am I really so different? I still have a childish heart.

These are the thoughts that are dissolved in a bottle of gin. Fear not change; fear not darkness. This drink shall be my last.

Ah Nigel, you are a fucking riot.