Where Are You? Where Are You? Where Are you?

The curtains in my bedroom are too thin, pointless little skin-strips. If I were doing a naked-naked-sexy-windyourbody-boomshakalackandalldepeopledemwant-style-dance then I reckon the erotic spectacle would be rendered all noir-ish and enticing out there in the real world (IRL IRL IfuckingRfuckingL). Once, I did this and someone knocked the window, they were all like ‘ can I come in please sexy snake man?’ and I was like ‘No, my lair is my own- there is no space for your a-rhythmic voyeurism in here, stay out there you twat. You are like a statue of an idiot, do you know that? Like an idiot, but less mobile and alive, oh, and when I say statue, we are not talking fucking Henry Moore or Brancusi, or anyone good- I am talking about some statue carved by a no-armed convict, made solely out of rotten GM ginger and embalmed in his own dribble’

As I SCREAMED this response, I never dropped a beat, not one, I kept it going like Usher: all crystal-methed up and ready for the bumming… but without the pip-head and the  ‘King of Pop’ coffin-stroking. I once did have anal intercourse with Usher, it was rubbish; he had painted a gold penis on his penis and he kept waving his meta-penile creation about like Paul Daniels slow dancing with a foetus.

I once saw Paul doing this; it was genuinely quite moving.

Only joking, obviously.

Though it was quite sexy.

He saw me watching, I felt embarrassed, so I jumped into his lawnmower box. Amongst the grass and needles, I found a piece of paper with this written on it:

‘Debbie, that time, when you did that thing, to me, you know?

I felt all, like really, properly, you know? That way I feel.

So I thought I’d write this thing, to say that.

Remember that time when I said that thing, about that thing you did?

And you said, that thing you wrote was really full of feeling.

Yours and mine, all of the feelings we had, all mixed up nice.

I felt nice then, and you felt nice, about those things, the nice ones

( Debbie, I will give you the other half of your sonnet when you agree to be my wife)’

And then, I cried. And wrote this thing, you know? About that thing that happened and that thing I read.