I.
i promised myself yesterday night to write
what needed to be written and just leave it,
not bother bypassing the 502 Bad Gateway Error message,
to simply not publish... i promised myself
this for several reasons: i knew that Malvina
(the toddler, the one year old) was coming
with her mommy who was going
to do my mother's nails and toenails,
i wanted to be fresh for babysitting duties...
alas... i woke up at about half past 5am and lay
in bed listening to music...
waited until 8am to call my doctor's surgery
to book an appointment...
i almost lost it: these little Hitlers of receptionists
did my head in... first it was impossible to phone in...
then i was 12th in the queue...
i started doodling to calm down...
i finally managed to get through:
i'd like to book an appointment... what for?
oh... a follow-up appointment...
the receptionist replied: we don't do follow-up appointments,
you have to come in for that... what?!
i called in yesterday and i was told
i can't come in and have to phone in! no...
you... listen... listen... i need to book an appointment!
you're not gatekeepers to the medical professionals,
i know that general practitioners are merely bureucrats...
but it has been 2 years since i've seen a doctor's face!
i had enough at this point...
i played a little game with her...
she was going to listen to me...
what are your symptoms? she asked...
listen... i'm: PSYCHOTIC...
for a while i was considered a schizophrenic,
but i bewildered one psychiatrists when i told her
that i experienced auditory hallucinations in two languages:
obviously i didn't: i only experienced auditory hallucinations
in English... that's how i overcame schizophrenic symptoms
in my 20s using two languages...
oddly enough these symptoms diminished...
disappeared... you can't hallucinate in two languages:
the English aspect of my ontology is both the more
creative and at the same time the most sick...
then again: creative?
my ****** side is more creative... i use English as a veneer...
i told her straight out-right: i'm psychotic...
what followed was a quick arrangement for me
to see a doctor this very day... 4:20pm...
i had all the time in the world...
but i was waiting for Malvina...
by 9am my mother received a message that the manicurist /
pedicurist couldn't make it today...
she wasn't feeling well... could she come tomorrow?
i was planning for something like this...
**** two birds with one stone... well...
i was hoping to **** three with one today...
guess i would have to **** two today and two tomorrow...
well... three tomorrow... the day started with me
shuffling about the house: putting on the washing...
i have to admit: i rarely drink in the morning:
i have this ancient motto: gentlemen do not drink
in the morning... but i knew i needed something extra
to deal with receptionists...
i drank two Sols with lime and waited for a good
mood to come... a good mood came...
now i can talk... i started sipping the remaining
whiskey from the previous night:
i need to gear up for this sort of "conversation":
i'm pretty sure that if i mention i'm psychotic
i'll get what i really want, what i really want...
a ******* appointment!
these poems? they're "state sponsored": i'm currently
receiving Employment and Support Allowance...
which is... £120 weekly...
i pour that money into a translation of a diet
of helping my parents with food...
with buying whiskey, with buying cigarettes...
that goes into one account...
i set up a separate account for the money i earn...
i am legally obliged to not work more than
16 hours a week if i'm to still retain the state benefits...
and the money i earn?
it goes to the usual expenses... travel money,
lunch money, work clothes,
the Turkish barber, the female hairdresser...
PROSTITUTES...
that's why i wanted to earn money to begin with:
to calm my libido: i'm only earning money
to spend them on prostitutes: they can do all the pointless
spending in my place...
so the day started well enough: i was tipsy-happy
waiting for babysitting duties: tomorrow, tomorrow...
but while dearest mother looked at her Norman Bates
baiting a reciptionist with his final straw:
i'm psychotic... we talked about several important
things... me and my father's trip to Poland for
All Saints' Day to pay respect to the dead...
esp. grandfather...
come afternoon, finally! tickets booked!
we're flying into Cracow and flying out of Cracow!
finally! back to Cracow!
i never believed Warsaw to be the capital of Poland...
i'm old school... Cracow is still the same old capital
of old... i'm a feral creature in Warsaw...
but in Cracow i'm calm... ancient... grounded...
just like any Hebrew might say:
Tel Aviv is not the capital of Israel... Israel: he who struggles
with God... Jerusalem is the capital of something
more essential than Eva Braun and Adolf's project
of Israel... of moving so many Hebrews back into
the Levant...
i put on the first washing... mother was leaving for a session
in the gym...
i already booked my appointment with the doctor...
what to do? what to do?
last time i ****** Khedra she complained that
my moustache and beard were untidy: unfriendly...
i couldn't agree more...
you need the lips to be naked when kissing...
so? i cycled to my favourite Turkish barber...
i cycled up to the shop on my Rolls Royce of a Merlin 5
TREK... just about to chain it up to the fence...
the barber hollered at me... hey! bring it in!
i bring it into the shop: listen... i need to get something
from Tesco, do you mind? no no...
so i walk out of the backdoor reserved for
employees... walk in... pick up sustenance of whiskey
and Pepsi... only yesterday i drew out £200 from my
work bank-account... today i drew out £200 more....
finally! my debt to my mother is about to be paid
(i slapped the last £200 into her hand when we
got home)
i'm still left with enough work-money to spend
on prostitutes....
i went back to the barber shop and told my man:
trim it... keep it long: but if it's really thin after a while?
trim the hell away... i might as well have a shorter
but a bushier beard...
hey presto! i closed my eyes and... per usual:
a beard trim felt just as good as a *******...
if not better...
the owner just implored me: just don't fall asleep...
back home started hanging the washing...
put on the second washing-machine's worth of clothes...
put on PMQs: Wednesday? no? might as well figure out
the new prime minister: Lizz Truss... or is it Trust?
don't know... i fell asleep for a power-nap...
woke up while she was staged...
fell asleep on the cold hard wooden floor...
woke up dazed, but not confused...
hmm! Lizzie! you're not as bad as i thought you might
be!
you're a Thatcher-itch-*****-trooper!
i like you! no... Rishi Rushi Rushu Sumac couldn't have
performed as you just did...
so calm, so... stern: so in-control...
i think she'll do... she just might do...
i just started hanging the second load of washing
on the washing line when mother "dearest" called me up:
how about lunch in the Beefeater pub?
sure... i'll just finish hanging the washing,
how long do i have? half an hour...
half an hour later: bicycles and London:
**** me! i'm... MOBILE!
a nice lunch... two lasagnes...
mine with salad and flat breads
her's with chips and flat breads...
i was drinking Pepsi she was drinking beer...
it's a date... she was paying: after all:
i was just about to cough up the remains
of my debt of £400...
so we ate... talked... next to us...
two beached whales of... i think they were women...
i might have been wrong...
my mother even asked me: if you weren't living at home
and i allowed myself to become that size,
would you step in and tell me: no no no, no no?!
of course i would! being that sort of size
is a health hazard! it's dangerous!
all manner of complications come with being
so obese! i wouldn't care what you think of my aesthetic
concerns: i like plump plum girls to begin with:
but with that?! we're talking a beached whale...
**** me... i explained to my mother...
the aesthetic of eating in public... you need to leave...
you need to leave at least one mouthful on your plate...
you can't! you can't empty your entire plate
in public! you need to leave a bite-ful on the plate...
you can't send a plate back to the chef: completely emtpy...
but these two women?! it's not enough that they complained
to the waitress about their food...
they ate all of it: a dog would leave a dirtier plate
that these two...
you can't do that! a man wouldn't eat as much!
i'm serious!
a whole rack of ribs... something else something else!
some extra sausage... and then more complaints!
the sausage left a bad taste in her mouth...
so the one beached whale to the other beached whale:
might as well **** the bad taste in your mouth
with some ice-cream... oh for ****'s sake!
feed this ***** an entire starving village of Africa!
yes: cannibalism!
maybe it was watching these two women eat:
thank god i never watched them ****...
or maybe it was my second glass of Diet Coke...
my stomach... i excused myself...
walked into the bathroom... took a little ****...
wiped my ***... turned around and...
started to puke...
in that ancient Roman rite of bulimia...
no... no ******* down my throat...
i perfected the art of bulimia...
it's a "nervous" reaction... either i drank too much
fizzy drink(s)... or i ate too much...
perhaps both... or i watched with horror two female
gluttons... one **** followed by puking...
i couldn't... keep so much in my body...
by now it's automated: it's like farting...
or *******... i can keep it in for enough of time...
but sooner or later i exercise the Exorcist fantasy...
i start puking like seagulls or birds in general
perform regurgitation when feeding their young...
i think the momentum shifted from the original
straining of the esophagus into training the diaphragm...
the throat has little to do with the "nervous": the disgust
reaction... whenever i see people over-eat...
esp. women: i summon the puke-god of... puke and the *****!
i can't help it: it's unconscious...
i never know which is better:
******* *******, *******, diarrhoea streak of ****...
or... puking... i think puking is on par taking a ****:
it's like taking a **** through your mouth...
******* and *******? well: you need a *******
for that... *******? you need ******* for the passing
of yellow water... like a woman ******* under
the shower... and ******* *******?
you need a ******* for that too...
the ******* constraints the head of the phallus:
turning it baron purple... a choke-hold of an *******...
if Nero couldn't understand the Hebrew concept of fire...
i can't understand the concept of circumcision...
seems rather pointless to rob men of the pleasure
of ******* with the sheath:
and the "unknown" pleasures of *** when unsheathed...
of the *******...
hmm... there's nothing quiet like the feel of touching,
rummaging through: thinking about on "orchestra"
of a newly trimmed beard: a beard trimmed by
a Turk... no... wait... there is... it's kin-for-kin
aligned to touching up a woman's: ****!
is that rose petals i'm fiddling with?
i wonder: then again: i have absolutely no imagination
sometimes, pretty much all the time...
i'm concerned with the notion of "seeing is believing"...
so we ate our lunch.... mother and me...
talked about All Saints' day and my and her estranged
uncle / brother... about him moving back to Poland
with a sack of gold but no cultural referential hooks
of relate-ability... me?! back in Poland?
and... talking about what?
the only "news" that reached the shores of England
were about the Smolensk disaster...
that's it! i don't know the music scene...
i don't know any universal or partoicular
x, y & z... all my childhood friends were either
in some English prison or living in Southampton...
if i'll ever go back i'll go and visit graves: revive memories:
buy cheap cigarettes...
Poland is a myth to me... like for the diaspora of Hebrews
still unwilling to move back to Israel...
i like this beard-trimmed me...
i'm ready to go to sleep, early: i can't wait for
babysitting duties tomorrow...
like i can't wait for a London Stadium Shift come
4pm... working until 22:30pm...
and then ******* off to the brothel for some:
proper food...
once upon a time i thought myself subject
to exfoliating in the werewolf totem...
then i found a wasp, then a fly...
then a hedgehog... then a fox...
then i found a crow... then an eagle of sorts...
hmm...
then i found myself: started to pander myself...
groomed myself...
are al these "supposed" vampire so well shaven,
so well, groomed?!
sooner me touching a tarantula than me touching,
that SLIMEY... itch of... ugh!
my neighbour said: it's just a frog...
frog?! what frog?!
that's a ******* toad!
leave him be!
leave him be?!
that's a ******* toad! it's gross... it's slimy...
it's green hidden in darkness!
i don't mind touching the insects...
the locust food-stuff!
Hebrews are not renowned for being a clean
people...
so much for the Hebrew deity gobbling
the deities of Moloch and Beelzebub...
of the other Semites of the region...
they're not the most cleanliness-prone people...
toads, as... pets?!
what ever happened to the Gentile way
of fur: attracts fur?!
my reaction? i jumped back
and started to pretend to wash myself...
my hands turned into about a thousand toothpicks...
my sense of disgust was so strong it turned out
to be a reflexive-action... rather than something
encompassing time... i.e. a reflective "inaction"...
i'm aligned with the German in that sense...
perhaps this supposed "Islamic invasion"
of Europe is not that bad...
who is the mother of Islam?
who, is the mother of Islam?!
isn't she... Abraham's concubine?!
wasn't Islam born from the ***** of Abraham?
sure... it's bad because you don't get
the high-born intellectual crowd...
you get the: same-****-different-cover of any sort
of people... but perhaps... just perhaps...
you get little Pakistani men
thinking what little Pakistani men think about
when "thinking" about the collapse of the British Empire...
sure, collateral: what war is without collateral?
collateral? i'm not sure if i date a British girl, ever!
my... condolences?! my... nuisance
of a respect?! i didn't teach these girls' parents
the bogus nature of anti-racism...
i was taught: other, lessons!
oh: the lessons i was taught! i kept them on a leash:
i reimagined them as dogs and me the dog-walker...
the afternoon finished off amiciably enough...
i finished off my Korean-style slow-cooked pulled pork...
with some sticky rice and an all green salad...
the green salad? lettuce, spring onions...
green chilly, green pepper, cucumber,
fresh coriander, lime zest... lime juice...
and an avocado dressing... perfection...
the Korean-style pulled pork? secrets are secrets...
me and "mother" already had our share...
our neighbour came in: a proselyte Hebrew to the faith
of Ishmael... (i.e. Islam)
from a terrible holiday... she talked: i complained:
that's no frog! that's a toad! blah blah...
while serving my father his dinner he was eating alone...
i thickened the sauce with some corn-starch...
oh: all these Albanian banana-boat men...
me and England...
me... and England... what a spastic-mr-fantastic:
special relationship i have with her...
it's so: special... it's ultimately special:
the double standards she has employed with her
anti-racist thesis...
me? i'm taking the side of the Russians...
why? like the Russians... being European:
i would abhor to be constantly demonised!
of course i'll be siding with the people that do not:
spielen ein spiel von schlechtgrammatik
(play a game of bad-grammar)
at least the Russians respect language!
mindestens die Russen hinsicht sprache!
not this, English-inborn cosmopolitan growth
of: pilzintellekt (fungus-intellect):
*******... pilzüberschuss: kamelbuckel...
auswuchs von ein affen arschloch!
fungus excess: camel ****...
outgrowth from a monkey's *******!
English men and their: stupendous "observations":
must have accomplished most of them
not being invaded: over... cricket...
wait a minute: wait a minute:
why am i siding with the Zeppelin brigade
of insomniacs?
there must be a, reason...
perhaps i'm seeing the English language like i'm
seeing the toad for the first time?
i'm itchy... i don't want to touch the **** thing...
i want to **** the Romanian prostitutes because?
the English girls favoured the Pakistani men...
these people don't even know what being
conquered equates to...
they are a people so lazy the best they equate
conquest to is: conquest by being sub-dued...
i can't help you there...
of point of interest... what's the combatitive position
of looting a train for its worth of time...
when commuting?
hmm...
Satan "vs." Catiline ...
the Dirt-bag - John Milton - the Toast -
how are the arms positioned?
almost... identical...
II.
i'm sometimes fond of being reminded that i'm not English,
i get lost in the fact that i predominantly write in English,
why? if i had an easier access to the diacritical marks
in my mother's tongue i think i'd write more in my mother's
(well, and father's, well... in my own) tongue...
after all... i'm unlike like all these Asian "English"...
these African "English"...
i'm my own version of English... i'm my own English...
i'm not going to allow the natives to dictate what
being English is all about... i'm going to show what
the "new" English is: without a curry house, without a mosque...
without wearing pajamas in public...
i have three tattoos in my psyche: nope... it's not
about the Battle of Hastings:
i'm an Anglo-Slav...
i have my dates too...
i'm a first generation immigrant: i don't have to
boast or bemoan any fact that my parents didn't retain
the native tongue when i was growing up...
i've learned a few tricks in an unwritten book
of migration... me? i remember the death of Princess
Diana really clearly... the Home Office officers
were knocking on our door on Coventry Street in Ilford
that pretty morning when news filtered through
that Diana was dead...
the night before i was rolling ***** into holes
winning my mother a giant cuddly red dog toy...
i was in a mood to win ****... i was beating adults...
rolling those ***** into holes and roles
while the adults couldn't keep up with my "camel"
above on the bypass... i won that **** thing:
went on some magical ride that started off horizontally
spinning then turned into a vertical spinning demon...
next day was amazing though...
the Home Office officers knocked on our door
with a few police officers... Osama bin Laden lives here?!
my father did a runner through the gardens...
i remember them... handcuffing him and my mother...
two of the Home Office officers checked up on me
while i was holding my cat and facing the wall...
i had a personal computer in the corner of my bedroom...
i just started high school...
he walked in and said: that's a nice computer...
i never gave anyone a DEATH-STARE before...
but i gave him one that day...
my grandfather ****** off to drink his miseries
looking for my now estranged uncle...
me? i was back home... "home": pounding the walls
with my fists until i must have grown a fifth knuckle...
crying...
it's so ******* easy these days! isn't it?!
banana boat men from Albania smuggling
Syrian children... it's so ******* easy these days...
you get a free pass in England these days because
you're olive skinned...
let's skin 'em... let's see we're all flesh and ******
underneath...
we were nicely asked to be deported back
to our homeland...
thank god this happened: if it didn't...
i don't think i could find the proper sort of cushion
of my current state of bilingualism...
i would have forgotten my ****** sprechen...
i would be doubly bitter...
i would be the only person in the family
with an English, sort of, accent... while my parents would
be the immigrants: but i'm the immigrant too!
i wasn't born here! from what i've seen:
i'm ******* happy i wasn't!
i see it as a welcome break... i retained my native tongue...
it allowed me to have a relationship with my grandfather
my memory will forever cherish:
i'm currently planning a journey back to Poland
to consecrate the holiness of his death by me standing
sombre above his grave for All Saints' Day:
it won't be a spectacular as that event in Mexico:
but enough candles is: enough candles...
but i can sort of understand where Jihadi John
and the Syrian Beatles came from...
despising their parents as much as their host culture...
i would to... if my parents thought:
two tongues = claustrophobia... what?!
i'd hate my parents more than my host culture...
you can't fake it... some things you can't fake...
apparently you need to be fluent in Arabic
to read the Koran proper...
it's not enough to have some tattoo in Arabic
itched onto your skin to make you: not put in
the effort...
but now? it's so easy... ooh! walking on egg-shells!
will they send these banana-boat people back
like they sent me back?
weak! WEAK!
***** ***-starry-eyed-onlookers!
if you could do that with me: why can't you do the same
with them?!
don't bother answering...
i needed the stick more than the carrot...
you're just weaklings to me: mollusks...
your former shade of what was English is...
something i **** on...
i'm always ******* on what's currently, supposedly,
"English": i just hate this capitulation and
groveling at the altar of identity politics...
sorry mate: me? now? i'm just passing through...
ah... those three dates:
1. i won't mention the battle of Liegnitz...
but i'll mention the battle of GRUNWALD
(15 July 1410)... no wonder i might generate alliances
in the Islamic world: the Crusades didn't just take place
in the Levant... they also happened up north...
2. 12 September 1683 - the battle for Vienna,
when the Polacks averted the tide of the Ottomans
against Europe
3. Miracle on the Vistula (August 12–25, 1920) -
the first defeat of the Soviet army...
i.e. when the Russian Soviets were unable to join
up with revolutionist Communist Germany...
because some Polacks were like: n'ah ah...
when in Russian i was schooled... who won the war?
i replied politely, drinking beer and eating dry fish...
the Russians did...
i'm still gagging to ask a question of this little dearest
punk to the liking of my heart...
and who were the only two people in the world
to have ever managed to sack Moscow?
don't know? the Polacks and Lithuanians
between 1610 and 1612 and the Mongols...
well... seriously? is history even equivalent to modern
people being preoccupied with journalism and
tabloid and fame culture of "celebrity"?
i'd rather dig into history...
my god: i come from this stock!
no wonder "my" people didn't leave too many traces
of the written word... and unlike the English they didn't
have the leisurely time to conjure up football or cricket
or rugby... they were warring all the time...
so much for the idleness of islanders...
now? they're crippled by their idolatry of idleness and
former delusion of power and strength!
i have this theory... girls with those large ring earrings?
what do they translate as? easy flings...
plus... i've recently noticed that the men who women
choose to be mates and fathers have one necessary
aspect to them: they need to have at least one arm
in a tattoo-sleeve...
oh yeah... they need at least one arm in a tattoo-sleeve...
one tattoo won't save you: you need a *******
theme of tattoos all over your entire arm
to become attractive to women:
no wonder i'm joyously bitter...
like **** i'm getting my skin inked...
i have other tattoos... my brain is one giant
******* tattoo of the past!
i have seen these: POKRAKI (not disabled, morphed)
children, second generation immigrant children,
i would implore their parents to retain their mother tongue:
they didn't... these children are the ones that not only
despise the culture their parents assimilated into:
but also despise their parents...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
i found an alternative to history and mythology...
although i still place them above journalism...
there's another history that does not delve into
the speedy Gonzales history "catch-up" methodology
of Darwinism... it's called etymology and it's a history
of words: of word origins...
unlike Darwinism, which is a history of forms:
even ancient people could have told you that monkey
was: **** SIMILIS... something similar to man...
but they didn't take the arguments too seriously
even then... if they did: then all the banners of nations
would be filled with ******* macaques or gorillas...
instead? eagles, crows... lions... bears...
something to look up to...
not look down on: we're currently looking down...
we're looking at our origins and thinking aloud:
wow! we've figured it out!
like **** we have... dressed up in science and pseudo-science
and statistics: it's not that we've become
predictable: we've just become predictably boring...
self-evidential...
we have this scientific safety-net because there's this
"NORM"... this "MEAN & MEDIAN"...
the story of averages... the narrative of:
well if X is so... then i can be x in X's shadow...
before the shift started at Wembley where i would be
working level 5 for the Hawking's tribute concert:
lucky me... usually if a band does a tour there
are loads of dates... people from all over Europe travelled
to London to see this gig...
i couldn't stop smiling and giggling
when Brian Johnson came on and sand Back in Black...
i'm not too big on Paul McCartney...
so Helter Skelter would have been grand if
Charles Manson was there too...
oh sure, sure... i'm a massive fan of both (insert snigger)...
but before the shift i was asked: do you have vertigo?
me? didn't i tell you guys that i used to be a roofer
once? Wembley is peanuts' worth of height for me...
i've worked taller buildings before...
and? it's not vertigo... i have something else...
it's much worse... the feeling came back to me...
from time to time i get it when i get bored...
i have to grip something, a railing... why?
why?! ah h ha... when i'm at a certain height...
and something like a yawning gap of space
appears before me... akin to the Wembley stadium...
and i'm on high... i just have this impossible urge
to subdue of... simply running off the ledge
and jumping head first to my death...
i can't stop it... i have to play chess with my legs:
stand stiff: stand rooted you *******!
no! no! at that concert i had to check myself about
five or six times: i really wanted to jump...
i thought: wouldn't it be glorious to just free-fall
to a certain song? if they're staging a tribute concert...
after all: i am aiming for fame post-mortem...
wouldn't that be something...
hmm... my neighbour is currently on holiday....
she asked me: can you feed my cat?
yes, i can...
can you feed my water tutle?
sure... i blazed a light against the aquarium...
oh... pretty little thing... what are you eating?
dried shrimp leftovers?
no problem... swim up... catch them... as they float
on the event horizon of the water... soak up enough
water and sink to your level of "expertease"...
she then asked me: can you feed my frog,
live locusts?!
sure thing...
i shone the light into the aquarium...
jumped back! trying to brush off imaginary dust from
my body... scratching, itching...
THAT'S NOT A ******* FROG!
THAT'S A ******* TOAD!
she described it a a frog... i don't mind frogs...
i don't mind spider either...
but something that's enlarged...
i jump back...
i start pretending to be a cat...
i need to wash myself... have no soap... i have no water:
i still need to wash myself...
she said: feed my frog... it's not a frog!
it's a toad! **** you, witch!
i didn't mind the grasshoppers / locust...
i just minded that big slimy bulge of green!
yeah yeah, sure "thing": a misunderstood creature...
what the **** is wrong with a mammalian lineage?!
i thought that i had an irrational aversion toward
spiders... i don't mind spiders no bigger than any of my
fingernails... she said FROG...
what i witnessed in the shadows was a *******
TOAD:
ŻABA contra RHO-POO-HA (ropucha)
i can hold a frog in my hand...
but a toad? i'm fearful of their skin... permeating
a transit fungus onto my skin!
i don't mind feeding the **** thing
live locust insects... i'm just worried about
it's own green slimy ***!
i know i'm not English... i enjoy a: KISSEL...
it's... lukewarm jelly...
known in the eastern parts of Europe...
and as far north as Finland...
KISSEL... it's a warm jelly...
there's less concern for it being set...
it's drinkable jelly...
there's no talk of gelatin...
cornstarch... yes... cornstarch and arrowroot...
liquid jelly...
known from Finland and thoroughly in the Baltic
States... down through the Dnieper River...
of Ukraine...
the best mix-up i've ever tasted?!
banana and lemon...
i can't wait until tomorrow's visit by the BOBAS:
the BAMBINOS' visit by Malvina...
i'm already gearing up to going to sleep early...
it's almost akin to planning a visit to a brothel:
but i'm going to entertain a young child tomorrow:
that's different! i can't wait...
i need to feed this baby some leeches of having
drained some of my testosterone...
perhaps no blood: but something...
i need to make any important call tomorrow
come 8am... i need to be the baby-sitter...
i'll need to visit the Turkish barber...
wait until Thursday and then ******* to the brothel...
then... whatever.
