All day long I’ve been bombarded with other people’s opulence, so much so that I prayed for war during the Queen’s Speech. When I calmed down, I watched in silence as rain got in through the window and extinguished my candle. I’m angry, yet do nothing about it. Too many whiskies last night has left me on the brink of death, but I’m well enough to open my presents and eat Christmas dinner. As I’m chewing a mouthful of turkey, I think about all the beautiful women I’ll never get to fuck and am overcome with despair. It’s not fair, but life never is. I run a bath and ignore the phone. The hot water soon washes away my sins, and I’m temporarily free once more. As I’m drinking beer, I think about an ex-girlfriend, and then about Jackson Pollock. Sometime after, my attention turns to Van Gogh and all the thoughts he must have had raging in his head after he shot himself in the stomach. I hope he appreciates me thinking about him. We were both blessed with red hair and a taste for madness, so I’d say that makes us pretty tight. Oh, all those wholesome hips I’ll never get to take. It’s simply not worth contemplating. Reading. Talking. Watching terrible shows on TV while reminiscing about dead relatives. Slipping into dreams, the girl with cat eyes dances for me before disappearing behind the sun. She teases me something rotten, yet I let her do it again and again. She’s so much younger than I am, but that’s nothing new. They always are. In the distance, the sirens of a police car cut through the sleepy streets where all the boarded up shops live. She’s in each and every one of them, beckoning me to follow; she’s invading every memory making them her own. I don’t mind, though, it’s nice to feel alive.