For the last nine years I've kept a daily diary of my feelings. Here it is:
Nothing yet.
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Obviously it's quite small so I can take it with me everywhere. I don't go everywhere, though, ever. Usually I go here and there and somewhere else and the overall effect equals going nowhere fast.
Some people I know are going places. They tell me a monkey could do my job. I tell them a monkey does do my job. And he's my boss. And he uses his pointy Italian shoes to highlight my errors.
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Tarpaulin Sky are accepting submissions and I submitted a post-something bleaklarious joke/poem about a man who is held down by unknown hands whilst a caterpillar full of doom crawls up his arse and afterwards he finds living a normal life slightly difficult. This actually happened to me in a dream, [actually happened to me in a dream, know what I mean? Deeeep...] and it lent the following day an enjoyable heaviness, like being pregnant with a balloon full of black sick.
Soon I'll be able to show you two things I wrote for a niche online publication for specialists and enthusiasts of esoteric vigorous pursuits not suitable for everyone. In the meantime thanks for reading and do you like owls? Do you like Elvis? Then I'll meet you at the Hootbreak Hotel! Fuck!
[I was going to put in a picture of Owlvis, but I can't find the right one. It seems that just like The King, there are several.]
