We're out of pens again so I'll
just pop down to the shops and then step outside before the rain falls down and
drinks the evening away. It's a hard day's graft, walking with a bottle of milk
in one hand and a pack of chocolate cigars in the other. It's a fad and a right
ol' one at that. Howl out the classics and tap your toes along with the
sidewalk and all its petty ribbons. I see a girl, I think she's gonna hurl. I
see a Buddhist and think he's going to buy my livestock. I see a loose
flagstone and think it'll conceal a frog at me. Green paint is all over my
house's door knob and I suppose that's what you get for not lying around the
shop when there's a paper clip sale on. The till assistant turned me and asked
'Savvy?' and I imagine I said something along the lines of 'Cervical cancer is
a serious problem and you really shouldn't write a song about it. It's a
scourge! It's a scourge!' It really rather is a scourge. I should really stop
talking about it before they assume the joke isn't unintentional. That would be
sickening.
We're out of pens again so I
return you to your husband and ask him for a fiver. He's a cheap git and
probably wouldn't offer chopsticks to save your lap dog from certain mushiness.
The cables are unwinding and if I trip on one again it's your head for the
chopping block, mistress. Blowhards and cheapskates are a dime a dozen if you
know where the docks are and how to get at them from a low-hanging cloud. It
really depends on the cumulus, trust me. I've been nubile before, you know; you
don't get to look this good without being of a dark sentiment. Visiting hours
are for pussies. Be dedicated why don't you? Gawd. I haven't even crossed the
threshold yet and you're asking me about the prudence of my lettering. It's
none of your business, okay? Get back to your beeswax and have a nibble.
We're out of pens again and I
guess that's my fault for chewing all the lids so that they don't quite fit
anymore. I don't know why: it's a physical tic, a micro-tell if you're into
that sort of thing. Wizardry makes me nervous so when you do it I can't help
but masticate quietly in my corner. It's lovely and dark there and you can't
bother me without a yellow ticket of leave. The telephone rings and I won't
answer it because I am comfortable in my corner. You can answer it because it's
probably for you anyway so why don't you, huh?
Nobody just comes round anymore, they always insist upon checking up
first. Beforehand I like to trigger a delicate death trap and see how long it
takes for the guests to realise their certain doom. I'm playful like that. I
suppose it's time to shop.
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