14/11/2013 - IS IT DONE?

Is it done? The treachery? I feel like it's bleeding out of my ears like ox blood straight from a friend's lap. Godhood is supposedly ascension for most cool-headed bridesmaids but these wretched cases of spoonerism will hold no conduct as closely as I do my own brow. The circling harpies devise my verdict and twitter it on the breeze, as if I could never hear them from all the way up beyond my hat brim. There's no telling when this chair will decrease in altitude, no foretelling the end of the dog's pernicious tail. My curls are stylised. My webbing is controlled by deft, dexterous singsong. My renal failure is apparent. My left hand side has become my right hand side, it has been precluded in the facetiousness of TA VERY MUCHLY.

            So much for the race. I've got my legs bent around crooked bar stools, one for each side and I can already feel the bath salts slithering up my inner seam. Don't get out of that hallway without your episodic features, your mastery over shoddy screenwriting, your existential, eggs essential lording. The hatter is climbing down the trees to see if the steel merchant has made any good failures recently. The pins holding his papery limbs together can be plucked out of place with just a nod of the head and a spit on the shoe. You don't get anywhere without wearing a bronze belt. I have spent many a septic year accumulating spare money towards buying a bronze belt but these years have been wasted because I realise now that there was always one round the back of my grandfather's son's wardrobe.

            Could we? Might we? Shall we? Should we? Must we? Now we? Can we? Mister we? Mister Wi wants to send you out on the field to bring down that lanky fidget Neil with his own hairpin rifle. He foolishly kept it round the back of the sheds whilst he was fingering the corporal for good measure. We've checked and there are bullets but not enough for us to give it a try ourselves. We're not field agents like you. We just question and question and put all those yummy questions into bright green envelopes. This move is what I like to call TOUGH TITTY, BUGALUGS.

            Come quietly and four pasta bowls will be at your disposal and then maybe some of your finesse. There's nothing Glaswegian about this offer so don't go getting your hopes in a tizzy. We are truly reliant on your honesty to make us better people. I, for one, need to wear all of your hats from the past eight months and I will get them as soon as you've padlocked all your doors. Just do this once as a way to comfort me, to save me from the lost files of my youth coming back to eradicate me with wrinkly buttons. It's wet down there like a comic shop in heat. It'll hold off the tide but I need you all the same.