Bimodal after-party blues

I should tell you, before we do this, that there's black hair all down my chest. Now don't be surprised if you dig it--it's a cue that you're a starving artist, which I'm into, sort of, that is, until I see the bill.

I don't look like a model, but I've been told that I've got depth. And now you've got the hiccups because I revealed to you the low-point of my life--the funny one, I mean. Not the real one. That one hits too hard.

Now be a dear and fetch me a bottle of water... and a can of peaches if you can.

I see you've got the hiccups because I told you how I crawled upon the pubic ground in the space between two toilet stalls. I didn't mention that I could have escaped easily by opening the door. Then you would realise that I like, for no particular reason, nothing more than a good, dirty crawl.

I am a pig, but lately I've found that some chicks fancy that.

Can I be so bold as to ask if you are "some chicks"?

My God I wish you'd finish your wine because I'm on this bimodal sleeping pattern that leaves me a wreck every sunset. And I've run out of things to say. So I'll gaze past all the pretty girls with my eyes stretching miles and miles and miles and miles.

I notice there are many, many girls here--usually around the age of 24--who are prettier than you. I gaze. Sexy, awkward, I really can't tell right now. Am I awaking the starving artist? It exists in every girl. But I would appreciate it if he stayed asleep until after you've purchased your round.

Now you've got the hiccups and I'm drunk and home alone. But I'm happier than a handsome model because yesterday someone called me a little rebel monkey. Oh, oh yeah... It's really quite late, but as I'm awake in the fucking predawn, I'll text you a message to remind you of our mortality. I have an idea (ouch!). For our first proper date we can see King Lear and maybe slit our wrists.

Have you read the play? It's dark.

Dinosaurs/Blue Whale

I saw a child wet himself upon encountering the animatronic T-Rex at the Natural History Museum. I nearly wet myself too. He was scared of it, and I was scared of him, and all the others of his ilk. God they make such noise... But the big dinosaurs don't frighten me. It's the little ones that do it. They are devilish, familiar. I fear they might run up my trouser leg, and, for a few reasons, I don't want that. No no no.

The blue whale was disappointing. Yes, it was big, but I had built it up too much in my mind. Plus it's not right to be hanging from a ceiling.

Happy fucking birthday you old dandy asshole

"How was your weekend?" She asked--a perky Lancashire blonde with crooked, rotting teeth.

I was moody. Do fuck off, baby, I thought.

"It was bad," I slyly replied. "I spent it croaking up reality. It's left me with a hell of a god-damned hangover."

I thought of sleeping with her, but she was young and scared of men like me. And I realised I was too beautiful and that she thought me too strange.

The Croak. I should have written it down. I intended to write it down. The great, collective Croak! A round-table discussion on the net hosted by Matthew and Mark-O preaching the gospel of bitches and pizza (good stuff, bitches and pizza). They dance all night to the tunes of DJ Unpronounceable and they forget to write down the moves (thrust-twist-thrust!). And there they are, forgotten to history, going to hell and waste.

The Croak. The song of the Holy Tramp. Too beautiful, too weird, too strange for a pity Lancashire babe to understand. To her it's a garbled mess.

Happy fucking birthday you old dandy asshole! Exchange my party toy for some whisky. To celebrate the occasion I've purchased a MacBook Air. The Dell was hurled out the window in dramatic fashion. Inspiron my ass. I am anew.