One Stop Stop

Ah, now here's a blip. With my dual miseries out of the way — the fuckers kept me till four — I am free to drip, drip, drip into the hours rejoice. What's that — thirty? Well, thirty-three. Well, thirty-five. Stop me if you've— The point being that the previous marked day, in May, was, by all accounts, severely lacking in the whelm department. In fagged, it was so piddlesome that some thought it the end of the matter, rather than what it actually was: the beginning. But thisteenth is where we really begin the begin. Ing. I'd do the dance, but I'm too into lacteal — though in a non-arrogant, 'stud in student' kind of way.

Now, I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, 'He doesn't know what I'm thinking. He has no idea. He's just pretending to know what I'm thinking.' Well, in a way, you'd be half-right. The wording, I'm sure, would differ quite substantially. But I am a medium of substance. Like literature. I concern myself not with triffles of style or steed. I aim for the bones of the matter. The philistines can toy with the meat. Worth, then, is that peculiar substance which hones in on the skeleton, as if a dribbling, mutant X-ray. As if, hurt by the ways of the world, it shuts off its senses and drowns in the toilet bowl, a tragedy heightened by low-angle viewings and improved by vigorous editing.

Oh goody. This is not, this is not! a trumble (9ah!) or anything of that ilk, creed or ilk. It is butter deeply dodgy clutch of powder which the faintest of breezes could scatter. I thus suggest you keep your facial orifices in check, or wait for the cold to conclude if you have one. Summer, then. When the winds are low. Plus, it'll look better with the sun beating all over it and grey summer skirts nearby. Rabbits, gardenias, ugly small people. The distraction helps, believe me. Hm? Oh good, it's over. I hope you realise how much this hurts.