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Tuesday, 11 May 2004 01:27 ammuh. moop. buh. mow. wibble. bleh.
there are holes in my middle, filled with fluff and old cake-tins with wet sand in. Nothing works properly any more. I think the house is filling up with rubbish, and it multiplies secretly, in the corners, and by next week I will wake up and the Diet Coke bottles, scraps of paper, old socks and stray chopsticks will be up to my neck, then over my head. I'm not sure what will happen after that.
I am very tired, but I do not want to go to bed. The cake-tins jolt every so often and it's not very comfortable. The fluff makes funny crinkly noises, the sort that nearly set your teeth on edge, but not quite. It's not a nice sort of fluff.
I am eating cooking chocolate and the odd handful of aged chocolate crispy cereal. Everything is all wrong and I can't fix it. I'd hide under the bed, but the coke-bottles and chopsticks have long since colonised it and made it their territory. The old socks are spawning under there as we speak, and the chopsticks, with a superhuman effort, have given birth to some dirty plates and bowls. Someday soon they will discover the secret of KNIFE, and then nothing will stop them.
I think the socks might be the worst of them. In their calculatedly mismatched baker's dozens they slither behind the radiators and behind crates and boxes, and lie in wait, developing their most fearsome (and indeed, their only) weapon - their smell. At any time, in any location, when you least expect it, you will be suddenly assailed with an odour so penetrating, so foul, that you will be temporarily paralysed. It's then that the serried ranks of chopsticks will emerge from concealment, and, clacking terrifyingly, will begin the attack. Splinters and pinched fingers will be the least of the casualties.
It seems months-old chocolate crispy cereal matures into a potent hallucinogenic. Sorry.
there are holes in my middle, filled with fluff and old cake-tins with wet sand in. Nothing works properly any more. I think the house is filling up with rubbish, and it multiplies secretly, in the corners, and by next week I will wake up and the Diet Coke bottles, scraps of paper, old socks and stray chopsticks will be up to my neck, then over my head. I'm not sure what will happen after that.
I am very tired, but I do not want to go to bed. The cake-tins jolt every so often and it's not very comfortable. The fluff makes funny crinkly noises, the sort that nearly set your teeth on edge, but not quite. It's not a nice sort of fluff.
I am eating cooking chocolate and the odd handful of aged chocolate crispy cereal. Everything is all wrong and I can't fix it. I'd hide under the bed, but the coke-bottles and chopsticks have long since colonised it and made it their territory. The old socks are spawning under there as we speak, and the chopsticks, with a superhuman effort, have given birth to some dirty plates and bowls. Someday soon they will discover the secret of KNIFE, and then nothing will stop them.
I think the socks might be the worst of them. In their calculatedly mismatched baker's dozens they slither behind the radiators and behind crates and boxes, and lie in wait, developing their most fearsome (and indeed, their only) weapon - their smell. At any time, in any location, when you least expect it, you will be suddenly assailed with an odour so penetrating, so foul, that you will be temporarily paralysed. It's then that the serried ranks of chopsticks will emerge from concealment, and, clacking terrifyingly, will begin the attack. Splinters and pinched fingers will be the least of the casualties.
It seems months-old chocolate crispy cereal matures into a potent hallucinogenic. Sorry.
