Ugly, Fat, and Diseased; or, I Don't Understand Myself, Let Alone What I Write About Me.

Nothing but truth here friends, comrades, lovers and fighters. I am ugly. I am fat. I am full of that stuff that clouds the blood and so the mind. That black and yellow bile mixed with phlegm. Yet, they can't get enough. All they want is more of my work and more of my skill. Do this, do that. Like this, like that. Get in the bin. I did once and wish I'd never come back. I don't know what this is; perhaps...a collection of thoughts wisping about my skull as another one drones on at me from 10:00 to 10:15. I don't care about your weekend Tracy, you smell like soup and your dog has a hairlip. Grim. Must be this, though, then it must be that I hate them. Each with their raw sexual magnetism, I cannot refuse them. They walk by and a squirt of their pheromones catches in the back of my throat and I wish I could roll it around my mouth, analyse their weaknesses, and spit it back out - but my body engorges itself on them, swallowing the sickly rich nectar until I am full of nothing else, clouding everything, making me murky. Where is mine? It has been cut up and put back wrong, like a misassembled mosaic. Things facing upwards that should be downwards, inwards that should be outwards, mountains made valleys. Without me, though, they'd have nothing. Take stock of that and take heart from it. You do their dirty work. They are nothing without you young one. Keep fresh up here and one day you'll dance fresh down there. See if you can make something of this, I'll go to bed, what a day it's been and I've an aching head.