It's
still hot, damn hot. The smell of sweat is the thing I hate most
about summer. Wheras the anonymity of the big city appeals to my
unnatural nature, when summer has sprung and naked people wander
the streets in marauding gangs looking for abandoned mineshafts
(which may or may not be true, but I'll leave up to you to
decide), I find myself repulsed by the tautological olfactory
odours that tickle my prostate mockingly. It makes me go icky
icky yuck yuck eww eww that's so nasty (join in if you know the
words), oh yeah, it makes me go icky icky yuck yuck eww that's so
N.A.S.T.Y. Call me shallow (but just call me. Actually, don't,
cos I hate using phones. Write me a letter, write me an email,
just call me shallow), but I could probably forgive beautiful
people if they stank of decaying sweat. Sadly for me, and my
immense shallowness - which, I guess, makes me deep - as many
beautiful people that come out of the woodwork during long hot
summers of love, there are equally many buttugly people. I'm less
forgiving; feel my wrath sweaty ugly people. Roar.
There
once was a lady who had a huge gash down the front of her face.
Her gash was not from any hideous industrial accident or from any
deeply erotic body modification, but instead her face was
sharpened to a point, with her features imposed upon this point,
and a deep canyon running down the middle of it. Now, I only saw
her for a second, as you must with those that haunt you until the
day you die, or get bored, or can no longer remember the face, or
get buggered by a Catholic priest and block off all memories of
life before. In this second, I took in the huge gap down the
middle of her face (where the huge sub-woofer from my free
surround sound speakers would go, if her face were my free
surround sound speakers, which of course, it's not, but were her
face to be my free surround sound speakers, that's where the
sub-woofer would go), which may have only been a particularly
gappy set of teeth, but was probably some hideous deformity that
I shouldn't mock, and (to continue an excessively long sentence
that should probably be re-written in a better way, with the
thoughts separated somewhat, but that's just word apartheid. Fuck
that shit. If I had. My way. Every word would be part of one big
sentence, with a few natural commas, a semi-colon or two, loads
of parentheses and dashes, and not one single.) she stank of
sweat. Beads of rancid pus masquerading as sweat ran down her
face, into the groove, and she walked past before I could see
where it went like that. I mention her sweat and odour only to
impress upon you the total package of repellance. It was,
however, her face that made me want to be a ballerina.
Fully formulating
my thoughts, I realise that I have never seen a real live nasty
pussy. (Just to maintain my shallowness, I say for the record
that I've seen loads of sweet pussies though). A nasty pussy was,
however, what her face reminded me of. Putting aside the literal
meaning, which only serves to rotate the issue, her face was
labial. I don't know where my image of nasty pussies was formed.
Teenage years, perhaps. Just a wild and kraazy imagination.
Anyway, I have an image. It's congruous with her face. Go figure.
I don't know what deep meaning you care to infer from any of
this. I don't know what cheap jokes I'm going to put in at the
end to trivialise a defining moment in my development. All I do
know is that this pointy faced, canyonlicious, blue eyed (not
irises, but make up, or felt pens, a fucking magic marker), ugly,
sweaty, malodorous woman walked past me. She affected me. My life
will never be the same. I am a changed man. From this day forward
I will only ever __________.
Beautiful people
smell. Ugly people smell. Society (by which, I z(ed for Ams) I.
Btw, I ask again, does anyone know the Japanese for moi/me/yo,
etc?) is more forgiving. Fuck it. Accept. That's just the way it
is. I'm no oil painting (if I were, I'd be more greasy,
multicoloured, hanging in an art gallery, and have no central
nervous system - except for some later Gainsboroughs), but I
don't smell of rancid sweat and apparently chicks seem to dig me.
So fuck it. Go bowling. See if I care. I'm happy. You're happy.
The ugly sweaty woman tells people she's happy, and as long as
she doesn't kill herself, delaying the trains, that makes us all
happy. If shallowness truly were a crime, there'd be far fewer
people in prisons today, because jails only perpetuate
criminality, and so with billions of hardened criminals, they'd
all take to murder and doing other prisony activities. Wow,
that's deep man. That's almost a haiku.