From Here to Hurling

Events of late cast a streak down reputations, as has oft. been predicted. It seems that to truly break with tradition one must truly break with verve. Envious, as accused, I hurtled my fingers off at this whole world and found that my true carnal desire was to lack. The follow, I'm sure, you can picture: Me, hands raised, head back, knees grounded, screaming into the rain, below the balcony, my object fluttering her eyelashes coldly behind the window, hair in a bun, as per. And the following you may wish as aural accompany: "Me? Oh, just someone who rode a bus with you". The reply was vicious, in a hit-me-with-a-brick kind of way, and choice was whittled into merely leaving as quick as p. and chewing pride, dignity, lust. To slice ease through my embarrassment, I spurned six-hundred pages of poise and prose upon returning: self-pity and bile et cet., aimed at us. That's how the guilty artistes live with themselves. And that's how I found myself, guitar in hand, the following morning, murdering my favourite uplifting anthem beneath 'er window.

"And it felt like church bells or the whistle of a train," I sang, attempting to maintain the strum while thumping my chest heroically.
"Jesus Jesus Jesus."
"As I pray that you will hold me dear."
"You had better get the heck off my property."
"When the sun— What?"
"You heard me."
"Oh. I guess this is goodbye then."
"No, this is me telling you to get the hell off my property."
"Heck."
"What?"
"Bye."

At times like that, the only thing you can do is sit upon the highest limb of a tall tree and chew awhile, so I went back home and watched television.