12 May 2012
I wrote the title Then I figured I'd decide what to write about.
But she feels sick.
So I should write about that.
We drank a bottle each at the pub. The pub we've ruined ourselves at for over three years. The same pub. The same offers, deals, discounts. The same order. The same smell.
I can't blame her.
Her undulating orifices plunge desperately into a vortex of empty efforts.
The make-up runs down, down into her gob. Post-pub chicken bits dangle in her hair.
But damn to the fucking balls do I love her - snoozing in the loo, snoring the flushes.
Meanwhile, I watch as Ian Beale fluffs up yet another marriage.
She Feels Sick • Opuss № I