Everyone pretends to lead more exciting lives than they actually are.
Especially when they’re fannying around a freaking art gallery. And the need to have an obtuse knowledge of the centrepiece that looks like a chimpanzee finger painting because of your ‘art lessons after hours’ or such crap, when in fact you go home and make fucking hot dogs and call your mother.
‘So what do you do in your spare time?’
I’d find that one hard to answer if I was pretending to live an extraordinary existence. So one always has to be honest. Brutal in fact.
In my free time, which is mostly at night, I drink red wine until my teeth look like I’ve been siphoning a jugular, then stand in front of my mirror naked, pull faces and clench my buttcheeks, smoke a cigarette in the bath tub, watch a whole bunch of comedy or an E! True Hollywood Story, and then wank myself retarded. Until I fall asleep. To a background accompaniment of 90s techno music.
Yip, that pretty much sums it up. Oh and I think about the Berlin Wall once every nine seconds.
But if one wants to be taken more seriously than Zuma in a shower gel commercial, one has to verbosicise it up a bit. Especially at these such art galleries, where stereotypical queens called Eugene, flailing a glass of claret around and talking with an air of pomposity/pretending to be from Oxbridge, turn an eyebrow up at your common, very ordinary lifestyle.
So, Eugene – I love your very expensive-looking manbag by the way – adorable - what do I do on a day-to-day basis?
I sip from the burgundy grape, until my dentitious gnashers, on visual examination, tend to approximate that of a mortal, suckling on the vena cava of a sanguine-hungry sub-species. Thereafter, I design amusing twitchery with my frontispiece, before my polished speculum. Then I vapourise the heady fumes of tobacco flora, until the point of utmost derailment; observe a quantum amount of vaudeville hilarity on the television screen, and then self-fornicate until I’m defectively feeble-minded. To a shroud of repetitive musical cadence, circa of the 90s period.
Sometimes, like last night, after a day of talking to my ex Dick on Skype, who told me I was as alpha female as Madonna herself, and I need to start hanging out more at cookery demonstrations, but sent me a Lindt Easter Bunny anyway – bless – and then phoning Dove at work in various accents until she realised it was me and the receptionist is now on a manhunt to have me arrested - I find a simply terrifying note under my doormat.
What have we here?
A note from two weeks ago that I have only seen now. It is from the giant man-ladies in number 126. Inviting me to spend Earth Hour with them.
Not dinner, in the light. Earth Hour. In the dark. For one hour.
Maybe they were being nice, and usually I wouldn’t be scared of a clutch of beautiful lesbians, vying for my attention, even if they insisted on showing me their boobs. Whatevs. The immediate problem with this late – thank fuck I only found this now – scenario is the sheer quantum size of these poen lovers. They’re seismic, they openly fondle in their garden and frankly, I’m terrified.
I’m just waiting for the rat-a-tat-tat on my door enquiring of me
1) can I borrow some brown sugar
2) can we have a threesome
3) are you that blogger Mushy Peas On Toast, (‘Absolutely not. What a bitch’), because if you are, we’re going to throat slam you into your kitchen counter and then feed on your earlobe.
Well fuckwankery, at least I have a yale lock. And curtains.