kenneth gorelick, esquire

I'm torn out. I'm the capital city of the United STATES of torn out.

I know this because when people ask me to do stuff, or ask me to be there, or try and squeeze in that, or relentlessly haggle me for something, I have to remind myself to be polite and not say “fuck off you're really starting to bother me."

I sat and daydreamed last night about rolling green hills filled with neighing horses and their sweet smelling digested by-product;

I daydreamed about turning my bathroom taps on...and instead of water, Steri Stumpi/Iron Brew/Vodka Tonic comes out the taps instead;

I daydreamed that I can have sexual relations eight times a day on a tropical island with Mr 747 only dressed in palm fronds;

I daydreamed that someone dumps wods of banknotes onto my doorstep, or even gold, or something basically worth millions of ront, so that I can just retire and sleep.

Then I whacked Kenny G into my CD shuttle, and suddenly, I wasn't pawing at my face like a mental patient. It was all saxophones and electric pianos. And strange looks from the platinum bitch sitting in a Z4 beside me, but whatever.

Kenny G, you curly haired, saxophone puffing hippie legend.

Suddenly I'm driving slower, and I don't feel like I'm going to snap every five seconds. (At the moment, it's like a bell inside my head, going off, hammering away at my ever-fraying synapses. I really believe I'm close to losing it, due to general overworkedness.)

Mr 747 and I got takeaway after the poor bugger went to three Woolies last night just to get stirfry ingredients for my dinner, and the chicken turns out to be off and salmonella-infested.

Throughout yesterday, I went to my happy place and thought of this.
So Kenny G you perm-obsessed pornstar, thanks for saving me. 'Cos I nearly murdered a few stupidly-placed souls - before I settled in for a night with my boyfriend, who'd had an equally shit, if not worse, day.

I imagined massacre; starting with the Wongs that live next door to him. Who decided it apt to drill a fucking shrine and/or reclining buddha into their wall at 8:00pm, which turns out, is also the adjoining wall of 747's lounge. Yesterday was hardcore.

Luckily, Kenny G came along and blew a wind instrument through my speakers, and we all lived to see another day.

PS: That's his name. Kenneth Gorelick. Sexy.