I've
upped my daily intake of water to eight glasses, which is to say
since watching Food And Drink last night, I drank a bottle of
water then and have had three glasses today. It's supposed to
hydrate me more, make me less tired, and hopefully more alert and
creative. So far all that's happened is I've pissed more than
usual: I have a bladder the size of a two year old (or should
that be '...a two year old's' ?). The skin on my hands is all
peeling off. I think it's unrelated to the water, but I can't be
sure, so I'll keep to the same paragraph. I'm considering lightly
scoring my skin at my wrists, and just peeling the whole lot off
like a pair of gloves made from freshly slaughtered butterflies.
I'll sell them to the Japanese for vast quantities of sake and
sushi. I've also decided to quit killing after accidentally
drowning my ex-girlfriend's little sister in a vat of KY jelly
(Dry women of the world: unite. Also sincere apologies from me
for contaminating your lubricant with death. If this doesn't turn
you on, I believe KY are fully prepared to fully offer a full
refund). On my way home from reporting this senseless waste of
life, liberty and jelly, I also accidentally imbedded some
hedgehogs face down in the earth and pogo-sticked along them,
popping them as I went. No, no, wait; scratch that. I drowned the
hedgehogs in KY and pogoed on the sister. Anyway, details
details. No need to get bogged down. The simple fact of the
matter is that I've given up killing, am gonna make millions
selling my dead skin, and can spend all day pissing without
anyone questioning my devotion to the cause.
I'm
happy and bubbly, perhaps only by osmosis, but happy and bubbly
nonetheless. I've discovered I can type with my eyes closed, with
relatively few mistakes. (You were expecting clever, funny
mistakes in that last sentence, weren't you? Ah ha, but I am too
clever for you: I ran it through the spell checker). I've
discovered I'm incredibly paranoid and will jump at the slightest
thing walking past my window (or, of course, falling down my
chimney). Life works out perfectly though: if I don't want to be
scared I type with my eyes closed, if I can't think what to write
I open my eyes and channel the fear. I thought I'd be jealous of
a Tulsan festival, but apparently I'll be there in spirit, my
name adorning the naked breasts of at least one woman. Anyone
else going to festivals who wants to write my name on their body,
email me for further details.
Offers of sex and love are flying in all over the place, music is
pounding at my eyes, my mind is booming with free thoughts and
fresh ideas, I'm buzzing from what can only be described as a
mild speed rush without having to resort to spending money on
drugs or taking a caffeine bomb, and and and I'm typing like a
mofo mufukka motherfucker with that lovely fast clicky comma-less
clicky lovely fast sound.
Woohoo!
My legs are bouncing like some crazed drummer; it's almost
erotic, in a curiously narcissistic way. My legs can stop and
move into transcendental crossed-ness at any time, but they
don't. They bounce. It's a strange disease, this happiness thing:
it grabs you by the ankles when you're perfectly happy being
tired, bored and miserable and makes you just wanna jump around
like a crazed drummer pogoing on hedgehogs. It's not who I am to
be happy, but I'll put up with it for as long as it lasts; take a
look at how the other half pretend to live. Most touchingly, it's
so wonderful to be able to use the phrase 'happy happy joy joy'
without being sarcastic to the point of stabbing. For some
inexplicable reason, dead, dry, readers, this crazed drummer is
happy.