I’m sat down and then with a screech it all comes out; Ben, we’re bored of all that tits and ass business. This is 2020! We want adventure, a space opera, with fluffy bears. Oh, we want great medieval dramas at war for the very freedom you have.
Well fuck you. Maybe tits and asses are cuter than ewoks? Oh who am I kidding. Those fluffy little fuckers are great.
It’s just I’d feel guilty eating an ewok, but not an ass.
Why the actual fuck am I here?
I’ve spilt the beans and now a pair of hands are covered in luxurious decay.
Oh you know me well enough to know if you check my coat, you’ll find the coke darling.
Now I’m going to politely inform you that I’m going to sell your soul. I owe a really bad figure, some rather ugly things. They did me dirty with university. So now I’m in deep; 200 souls for reprehension. So that means you, you and you are going to the depths.
Yes, I fucked you but truthfully I don’t think I ever meant what I said? Or maybe I did? Oh of course not. Is this really relevant? To the depths with you.
There I was going about my day; drinking and smoking contently, and then she dutifully informed me an apology isn’t good enough and that I’m doomed to be alone. I was thusly reminded that if romance wasn’t a double-edged sword it’d be terribly constraining.
Oh if I said sorry, just know I never meant it. Frankly, I’m the asshole. I want to watch the world burn and to view your future suffering.
The leviathan is dragging me deeper. Sometimes I think about having coffee with Cthulhu. Other times I just stick to the demon underneath my bed.
Did you know I’m friends with the demon underneath my bed at university? They’re called Nigel. Once upon a time before everything got all chaotic, they wanted to be an Uber driver. Interestingly they like Wispa’s and Rizlas. I’d shake their claw, but they say they’ve been sharpening them, so I just leave them to their own devices. They promised to be there at graduation, and they help me with the rough nights: passing me the bucket when i’m throwing up and telling me jokes when I’m feeling down.
I looked around the sunken city. Liverpool, half-submerged by the weight of its own industrial might. Economically brutalist. The timbre of her imagination is purely disenfranchisement. Oh it’s never going to be the same? Fuck the same. The same cost you your father’s job, and your mother’s genitalia.
I’d watch a thousand blimps collide with your impregnable beginning just to watch it all come crashing down.
When the old furnaces of late had come to a stark halt, I met with a ghostly visage. He was draped in exquisitely tailored Carol Christian Poell. He talked intimately of the past defining future, saying what he said to push me towards the edge. Ultimately it turns out that for now the present defines the future, particularly as dear old Covid-19 rampages through reality without a second thought to anyone’s feelings. It’s a rather heinous turn of events, but the book on sharing humanity’s agony was written a while ago. You know in a rather strange way, we’re used to this, unfortunately.