As acid creeps up my oesophagus, stilted rays of sun piss in through the window. It seems as though I forgot to close the curtains the night before, and now daylight sticks its nose in looking as stupid as those bastards outside mowing their lawns and washing their cars even though it’s on the verge of raining. Closing my eyes, I tell the world to go away but the world keeps picking and picking causing me to itch and itch until getting up is the only option. Several cups of tea open my eyes, but new visions make way for regret and mishmashed thoughts regarding masturbation and erect nipples swimming in toffee-coloured areola, and all that does is hurt my head. As time passes the hangover eases and then worsens until all I can do is run myself a bath and attempt to jack-off, but I fail miserably and so instead just lie there imagining what it would be like burning to death. Imagine the pain. Imagine flesh sliding from bone as nerve endings burn and frazzle and pop. It’s a mess, as is everything else, and not even sticking a Johnson’s baby bud deep into my ear can make me feel any better. Ear dildos they call them. Reminds me of those old cartoons when someone like Donald Duck would stick a file through one ear until it came out the other. Or was it Roger Rabbit? Can’t remember. Opening a beer, I sit down and attempt to write but after a few minutes retreat back to bed and curl up like a baby. There’s a little music, but with a pillow over my head, it’s barely audible. Still, it’s better than listening to the balding cokehead next door as he chews the fat with one of his mates. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, then the pair of them stood together remind me of Lennie and George from Of Mice and Men. They talk for hours on end about nothing. Sometimes I listen to them through the walls when I’m writing. Their banal ways annoy me, but there are worse things in life, so I let them be.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

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