The Dewy Grass

I.
"Come live with me in my sick estate. We'll get well. I'll feed you tea and oranges and we'll make love in the out-of-doors. In the dewy grass, baby. The dewy grass!"

But this gal was closed-off. "Dear Prudence," I said. "You've spent too much time in false paradise. It's really messed you up."


II.
For three weeks I renounced Holy Paganism and saw the world as it is, as a machine, self-interest as its oil. No fun, no playfulness, no little faeries tying Celtic knots in my pubic hair. I was miserable. I'd say I was in Hell but the concept was dead. What I was was in Starbucks, drunk and stinking, staring at an old woman with purple hair. Oh how I long for those weird demons!

I filled my canteen with Oban whisky and sat by the Italian Fountains. "I will kill myself," I laughed, then offered some whisky to a squirrel. His jerky rejection of my finest scotch stung my little heart. Why don't you like me? This is really good stuff.

I had to make a decision. It was either suicide or calisthenics at the gymnasium. I have always wanted abs like Satan's.



III.
Enervated from the workout, I sent a letter to my baby: "If you ever have purple hair, I won't speak to you. Also don't go ugly. I can't stand ugly girls. Not when they do it to themselves."