i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.

Pastor Nate Yarborough knew since early on that he wanted to be a clergyman. He grew up in a Christian home and believed in God as long as he could remember. He dreamed of being a minister someday and becoming the pastor of  his own church. At only thirty-one-years-old, his dream came true. He was young, yet head pastor at Hope Christian Church and had a medium sized congregation that was thriving. To add to his dream-come-true, he had a beautiful wife, Veronica, and darling three-and-a half-year-old daughter, Michaela.

Jesus was the center of his life, but Veronica was the one who kept him grounded. Michaela was just the light of his world, a special blessing in his life. She was a happy baby who was just a typical daddy’s girl. When her father came home from his job she would squeal with delight and go running to him, at first as a wobbly toddler and then to a quick, little girl who would sprint to the door.  

“Daddy’s home!” she would announce in a big voice.

Nate would swoop up Michaela up in his arms as he planted gentle kisses upon her little cheek. “Michaela, my sunshine girl!” he would shout. “There’s my little beauty!” He definitely wanted more children, but he was thankful and felt so blessed to have her be his very first.      

“That is how we should with our heavenly father”, Veronica told Nate, in admiration of those two in action, “and not run from him in fear.”

Yet one day Michaela was having seizures and became quite ill. She transformed from a bubbly child to one who fussed and cried and didn’t want to play very much.  Her worried parents took her to the doctor, and she was put through a battery of tests. The church was praying for little Michaela, but the diagnosis was grim and shocking. She had a brain tumor. Her parent’s worst fears had been confirmed. Her tumor was malignant and it was inoperable.

Veronica would open up the outpouring of cards and letters of well wishes from parishioners. So many people were praying for the family. Veronica had hope even as her husband was growing distant as his little girl became sicker and sicker. In spite of treatment, in spite of prayers, little Michaela succumbed to her sickness. Her bright, little spirit was forever gone from their home.

“We will have more children”, Veronica assured her husband through her tears. “We will get through this—together. With God’s help, we’ll get through this!”  

Nate didn’t respond. Veronica felt him stiffen in his lackluster embrace. She stiffened, too, for she knew that wasn't of Nate's character, and she could tell by his face that he wasn’t buying any of it.  

His sermons now became shorter, far less engaging. They weren’t full of encouraging stories or inspirational words of faith, of challenging the defeated to never give up, and imploring everyone to always turn to the Lord—in bad times as well as the good.  

People in the church rallied behind Pastor Nate and his wife. They offered meals during the time that Michaela was laid out in the funeral home and finally laid to rest. They offered more prayers, encouraging words, and hugs for the couple to make it through this rough storm in their lives. A pastor friend of Nate conducted the funeral but Nate hardly heard a word. Veronica grew worried.

There were many in the congregation who grew concerned, too. They still were supportive, but now the elders and deacons had no choice but to gather at a meeting and figure out what to do. Nate’s leadership role was falling apart. His life, no doubt,  was falling apart.

“Why does God punish some on this earth who are innocent?” he asked one time at the pulpit.  “There are no answers when your heart is torn out from you, when you serve God with all you have, and He does this to you. Why? Perhaps, there is no such being as God. Perhaps, it is wishful thinking and we have all been duped…I’ve thought about it and I’ve searched the Scriptures, yet I get nothing there . I think the atheists aren’t so out of bounds, after all.”

Sitting a few rows back, Veronica looked nervously around. She heard some of the gasps in the crowd, heard many whispers, and saw the shocked faces. She laid her head in her hands and was too scared out of her mind to even pray.

“We are sorry, Veronica”, one of the elders told her one day. “We tried to reason with your husband. We care about you both, but this cannot go on. We asked Pastor Nate to get seek out some help—to step down temporarily—but he didn’t even flinch. He says he’s never coming back. He just doesn’t believe anymore. And he just doesn’t care. ”

Veronica tried to get Nate to go to counseling with her. She needed it, too, and he wasn’t helping her any. This church was his dream, and sure his daughter had tragically died, but he needed to hold it together—for their sake. To crumble on her was too much on top of losing her daughter. He just couldn’t do this!

She could handle her grief far better if they could remain a team. But he didn’t want to talk, wouldn’t listen to anyone, and now how were they going to make ends meet without his role as pastor? Nate fell into a severe depression, and Veronica felt helpless to do anything about it.

After a few months of trying to get through to him, her faith grew dim. How could this happen to them? To save herself from going down with him, she decided she had to walk away. She didn’t want to, but she had made up her mind to move back in with her parents.

“It’s for the best, for now”, she told him. “It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Nate sat there, staring at the blank TV. “Do what you want”, he replied.

One of the parishioners, Craig DeArmond, decided to pay him a visit. His mother, Marge, always admired Nate’s sermons. She was a big supporter of his, and wept when she heard of the news of his daughter's death. It was evident to her that his faith took a huge dip—actually a crash landing—and his world that revolved around his belief lay in shambles.

Craig was saddened by how quiet the place was, how unkempt and uninviting it appeared. He’s been to the house before, a once pleasant place to be.  Now, it was bleak and joyless. “Will you talk to my mother?” Craig asked him. “She’s sad since my dad passed away a week after last Christmas, you know. Forty-eight years of marriage has been much of her life . My mom could use some counseling.”

Nate looked at him without much emotion. “Let her talk to the current pastor. She doesn’t need me.”

Craig said, “But she looks up to you, and it might do you some good, too.”

Nate scoffed at that. “Look, I’m not in the faith business anymore. There’s no way I can be of comfort.” He dismissed Craig with his hand and said, “She goes to me or she goes to a fortune teller—tell her she’ll get about the same results, either way.”

Craig stood up over Nate, hoping Nate would look up at him. He wouldn’t, so Craig was about to walk away but turned around and replied, “God forgive me, for I want to make this clear. Listen to me, Nathan Yale! You are one selfish *******!”

Nate suddenly shot a look at him. “A what?” he demanded.

“You heard me”, Craig said, his arms crossed. “I know you are a man of God—or at least you used to be.  He grew more bold, was on a roll and said, “Look, you are pushing everyone away! People who love and care about you have lost you! Your wife, for crying out loud, is a wreck! I know you’re in pain, but—”

“What do you know of my pain?” Nate shot back. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Perhaps, he had been crying or even drinking.

“I don’t know!” Craig shouted. “But what do you know of faith?”

Nathan didn’t know what to say, for he was never prepared for this. Craig continued, “My mother lost both of her parents by the age of thirteen. She grew up in an alcoholic home, so she watched her parents slowly drink away their lives. She had no choice but to live with her aunt while her other siblings were spread out to stay with other relatives.”

Craig had Nathan’s full attention now. He took advantage of this and pulled up a chair and sat right in front of him, saying, “Her aunt’s husband—her so-called uncle—wouldn’t stop pawing at her and trying to put his hand up her blouse. She had no lock on her bedroom door and so this guy would sneak in--and guess what? He ***** her! At first, it was shocking! The second time, it was Hell. The third time it was worse! The forth time….should I go on?”

“Oh, God, why?” Nate said, tears in his eyes at the thought.

“Yes, he ***** her”, Craig repeated, “until one day she was pregnant and her aunt was demanding how she ended up this way , calling her a **** and shaming her. Mom finally blurted out that it was her uncle who got forced himself on her, and the aunt didn’t believe her.”

Nate was fully engaged. “What happened to your poor mother?” he asked, trying to keep his mouth from quivering.

“She was kicked out on the streets... nothing but the clothes on her back. With nowhere to go, she went to a friend’s house. The stress was so bad on her that she miscarried the baby, laying on the floor in agony. So the authorities placed her in a home for girls and never did she have to live in that house again…but the scars are still there--ugly, deep scars!”

So Craig left Nate’s house, but Nate had joined him in the car. Craig told his mother what he had revealed to Nate—without her permission—but he felt he had to do it. She agreed it was the right thing to do.

Nate gave Marge a huge hug during his visit. She was such a motherly figure, and he admired her for what she went through. “How on earth did you survive?” he asked her.

“Like you”, she confessed. “I was so angry with God. I hated Him, just hated Him. But when I was living in the home for girls, I met a girl who had huge faith. It was sickening to me, at first. I thought to myself, ‘How can you have such faith when you’ve ended up in here?’ And she didn’t know what happened to me, for I was too scared to tell anyone back then.”

“But you have great faith now”, Nate stated. “Better than even I ever had, I’m ashamed to say. I’ve seen your faith in action! ”

Marge put her hand to his cheek. “I fought for every bit of it”, she said. “I didn’t want to believe in God, but their was a nagging presence that wouldn't go away!”

Nate smiled. “I love the way you put it, Marge”, he said.

“Well, I had that friend who talked about Jesus, and then I went to rent out a room of a woman who took in boarders. She had a strong faith, and she took me to church. I’ve never been to church in my life, and I just wanted to get her off my back for asking! But my heart slowly softened, for I never thought that I’d ever believe in God…and didn’t want to…ever!”

“Neither did I…after loosing Michaela”, Nate said. “I loved her so much." He began to cry and put his face in his hands.

Marge put her arm around him and said, “But I found out that I really needed God. I needed to forgive a lot of people—my mother and father, my aunt and uncle—especially myself because I felt so hateful all the time.”

Nate sobbed, “I feel hateful, too—and guilty. I don’t know if I’ll ever have faith again. It scares me to feel that way.”

Marge held him in her arms like he was her little child. “Oh, but you haven’t really lost it, Pastor. You see, I didn’t want to believe in God, either, because I felt He was against me. If God existed…well, than how come my parents were alcoholics? How come my uncle ***** me? How come I got pregnant and the baby died? Ended up by myself? How come…how come? I think we all can ask our share of questions in this world.”

“They are valid questions”, he admitted, tears still streaming down his face. “Frankly, many problems pale in comparison.”

Marge couldn't have disagreed more. "No, Nate..,pain is pain. Yours is just as valid as anyone else's.  It just is just when it is an excuse to be bitter that is dangerous.  And I used that as a reason for being bitter!” she said. “But the bitterness was killing me. Slowly, I was dying.”

"But you made it through. You're quite alive, Marge, quite alive... and quite amazing."

They lingered in conversation, for they both needed this to take place. After it was over, Nate went home, feeling like a dam of walled up emotions had been finally released. It was certainly a start. He called Veronica up and he managed to say, “Veronica…please forgive me. Let’s start again…our lives together…” before his voice broke and the tears poured out again.

“Of course”, she responded, her voice trembling. “I already have forgiven you because I’ve been waiting and praying for this moment to come.”

did i miss something from having written familial estrangement? i must have... only recently, a day or so ago i went cycling... obviously i didn't check the weather forecast... the rain in a form of deluge came: deluge or monsoon... i was speaking to a co-worker about it... after the drought? it felt glorious... i couldn't see past ten metres ahead of me... i was sipping rain water that was getting lodged in my mustache... i told her: it reminded me of when i was 6 or 7... running barefoot in the rain with my cousin Justine... in a similar sort of rain... barefoot on the pavement... we went back home and cuddled while my great-grandmother her grandmother tended to us: obviously we caught a cold... what a glorious experience...

i must be mad... after today's shift i was asked by one
of the managers:
on the 21st... i know you're the supervisor at the London
stadium... but do you feel like working
Wembley too?
you'll finish the London Stadium shift at 4:30pm
you'll start the Wembley shift at 6pm...
Wembley are short-staffed...
me? being a single man...
that's the thing: the best lesson i have ever learned
is that you don't say NO...
wow! you're the first to agree!
that's why i'm a supervisor without the required
qualifications...
sure... i'll do it...
for me? there's not "drudgery" of work...
there's work and there's no work...
i like collecting the hours...
oddly enough: i enjoy it...
i like being a workaholic-alcoholic...
it boosts my ambitions to come across as
someone required: responsible... needed...

i left the house at 2pm today... train strikes...
missed the train toward Stratford by a minute...
it arrived on the platform just as i was walking
into the station: **** it...
took the 296 towards Newbury Park and got the Central
Line instead...
enough time to eat a double cheeseburger
at a McDonald's: sign in on time...
shook hands with the managers...
Dan "the man" asked with with wild eyes:
so you're working Oxford with me?!
yes? well... if you're imploring me to do so!
wild-eyed reply came as a yes: you are, aren't you?!
you're on the segregation line with me!

oh **** me... what a waste of time...
i'm out of the house for almost 10 hours:
i'm getting paid only £50 for it...
£10 of which goes into the fuel...
it's a waste of time...
but i'm looking to get good references...
i'm not going to say no...
i don't have a wife... i don't have children:
i'm elusive...
even today: even though i was breaker:
i helped the supposed supervisor to get her act together...

hold on: why am i writing about work?
who the **** writes about work?
people who enjoy working?
then again: as i learned from my father...
my ethnicity has bred workaholics and alcoholics...
i'm a workaholic-alcoholic... a terrible combination:
i only have time to myself: for myself...

i noticed that with Michaela today...
i pick up on subtle cues...
she looked tired... out of her past two times i was with her...
my totem: a fox... was rummaging the streets...
i gently walked up behind him:
he didn't look startled... neither was i...
something is up with Michaela...
mind you... it was a true beauty of a quickie...
******* can do that to a man
while she's all submissive and you're slapping her
***... pinching her thighs...
she started complaining about spider bites on her calves...
i told her not to squeeze the bites...
i told her: go to a ****** supermarket...
and buy some Spirit Vinegar... rub it in...
after the quick ******* we exchanged music
tastes... we talked about her changing her nails...

i must either change the brothel or...
i'll wait... she's going back to Romania for a month
on the 28th... i'll wait... i need a new ****** partner...
she felt like a painting of Picasso's blue period...
distant... i need a new ***** to ****...
i said: you look tired...
she started talking about her new eye-lash
extension implants...
i mentioned to her:
you know, those black girls?
eye-lashes the length of camels'...
and nails?! so long: they couldn't possibly chop
up an onion...

they are really minor queues...
we ****** for the 3rd time and i could feel tension:
the thrill was gone... she wasn't as willing to kiss me...
she even implored that i was lying too far away from her...
she wanted cuddling...
talk of nails... talk of spider bites...
          no... oh god no... this is not going to work...
i think we passed the threshold of casual ***...
some scamming mommy is going to come out of
Michaela: right about now...
i'm out...
            don't blame your apathy on your newly implanted
eye-lash extension... you're bored of me:
after two *****...

she's going back to Romania on the 28th...
i'm going to wait until she's gone until i pick a new
****** partner...
i'll wait...
  of course she was surprised that i ******* too soon...
i blamed it on the heart and the tiredness after a shift...
i asker: but... but now all women ****** during each
****** encounter?
i blame her "beached whale" physique...
i'm extremely attracted to slightly overweight women...

it's not premature *******: but it's ****** close...
i can't help it... i can't control my ontology...
she's not pretty: she's just unique!
unique toward satisfying my palette of "inhibitions"!
i like plump-plum girl...
but the awkward body language read-itself
to me immediately... the dynamic changed...
she blamed the lashes: i blamed her...
although i didn't actually blame her...

no no no... my totem is the fox... i can suss if something
is becoming awry... strange... tense...
i know better to simply stage
a mirror peering into glass dynamic...
or a glass peering into a mirror dynamic...
the body language changes... dramatically...
eye-lashes my ******* ***!
i gave Michaela a promise: i kept it...
i'm guessing she's used to men giving promises
but not keeping them...
me? i'm tired of women being treated like ****
by ****-boys...

i had a headache travelling to the brothel...
some woman was having a pseudo-conversation
with a man...
she started... explaining... how:
sound travels to her ears from his tongue:
******* and you crack-******* *****...
i switched off...
i either need to change the brothel...
or the rota of prostitutes has to change...

of the three available... i did want to chose another
one from Michaela... but Michaela was there...
and i promised her...
aha! that's what it was... she probably realised
that i wanted some other...
cold... *****...   kalthündin....
    mmm...
                          mmm: sine in trigonometry...
www: cosine trigonometry....
                  i love women... they deal with such subtle affairs...
a man can become loved up at first sight...
three of them were sitting pretty...
Michaela among them: but i noticed this youngling
among them... Michaela must have noticed me
noticing her first... this... doe...
makes sense...
sure sure... "eye-lashes"...
no no... this was the magic of jealousy at work...
before i even blinked the women knew what
was afoot... the youthful thrill of renewal hit me...
but i promised that i would come back for her...
that didn't ******* matter...
shorter than a blink: an exchange of glances
between love at first sight and a blink...
and what the women told each other in between...

a jealous *******? i think i just spent half an hour
with a jealous *******...
i thought prostitutes were immune to jealousy?!
how many are to be shared among one?
but a man comes along and he's like:
i'll share A with B... create an AB...
i'll share B with C... create a BC... etc.
that's why we started talking about her spider bites...
why we started talking about her nails...
it was like lightning: the three of them sat there while
i walked in... but the one i was familiar with
lost the plot of her parade of pride... because:
she felt: **** me! undermine by a younger updated model!

sure! great! she still didn't get it!
she's probably my age... overweight...
yet i still find her attractive... and she's asking
me why i ******* the 1st and 3rd time so early?
why? i say: you have your eyelashes excuses?
i have mine... you beautiful *** is blocking my picture!
you beautiful plump torso is also blocking the picture:
your fat **** are also blocking the picture:
mind you: there's "no picture":
because your fat *** plump torso and fat ****...

i adore imperfections that create an individualism...
but even she couldn't catch me off guard
today... i might have felt tired...
come on... we started talking about music:
we this || close to being clued up into
becoming a bickering couple...
the honeymoon period was over...
she was already willing to the next ******
partner: as i was i...

              change of gloves: change of hands...
i think i need to find a new brothel...
this isn't working for me...
                   the body language can be easily read...
there's this stiffening of the body:
a way of giving birth to the shadow
with the mind:
with the ****:
a sleeping foetus along with the live
one via the ******....

women made awkward: become stiff:
two-dimensionally...
esp. from a "compromise" of competition...

why did i join up to these shifts: well... as a single man
you rarely get to say NO...
this Oxford shift is going to punish me...
**** it...
      then i'm the currently sole lonely
happy-camper doing both the London Stadium
and Wembley...
                 it's hardly the drudgery of work...
you ******* from the workplace for about 10 years...
return to it: invigorated...
you sort of build up a stamina of being happy
to be out of the household...

arbeit macht frei!
                 it's so true... it's truer than true....
i need a new ****** partner...
i just need Michaela to ******* back to Romania
on the 28th before i can revisit the brothel...
i don't exactly like the idea of jealous women...
i'd need ****** to deal with that...
i don't have eunuchs...
        
                i need to start seeing a new *******...
the body language: sort of skewed...
you can sort of sense that you're
borderline necrophilic when a person starts becoming
counter-responsive.