Well, it must be bad if I am blogging from a bloody telephone and in public at that...
It is a beautiful day out, if not in.
I endure the embrace of the green mermaid because I am a faithless slut and the walk to a proper cup of coffee is just too much to bear at present.
I am vaguely aware of a dim internal suggestion that I should not be around people currently... I note the curiously narrow mental distance between suggestion and dire certainty for not the first time.
Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
Yes, it is most certainly a buckstars, the maudlin acoustic pop assures me of my sins and reminds me that the 'dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. I knew that. Thanks.
Apparently significant swathes (three times fast, go ahead) of Houston, Texas were underwater recently and in Toronto, Canada there was a fool checking the rolls of the dead for the name of his favourite mistake... hoping to find it? Glad to not? No one is that honest, not when it comes to past lovers and betrayals that healed wrong... needed to be broken again and reset.
Fuck.
There are distractions aplenty here but none pretty enough and no coffee dark enough to take hold... yes, 5 months without a drop to drink and that is what passes for distraction - me and the soccer mums.
Fuck.
I see it more clearly now as its form begins to coalesce, comes to loom large and dark on the horizon... a manic upswing of hypomanic fun is on the way! (An old Liverpool futbol chant comes to mind unbidden, 'we're not racist, we only hate Mancs')
In this corporate coffee chain (which at least has the grace to be adjacent to a corporate bookstore), sits a beautiful asian (or perhaps ethnically Russian, I care not) woman and I know in a heartbeat that I am either going to climb up her leg or howl at the fucking moon...
Trouble is, there's no moon for hours yet.
"Sorry, Officer, what do you mean you've never heard of Charles Bukowski?"
Interactions with the heroic high school graduates of the Toronto Police Service: A Memoir
Fuck.
