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| Turned my swag on. |
The light tortured my eyes in unacceptable ways. That fateful morning, I reflected on the meaning of life as I struggled with the smell of my own breath and armpits.
What had I done to deserve such severe livelihood? Had I been subjecting people to such painful experiences and sorrow that they were being led into madness and suicide? Was I a Mick Hucknall for the Youtube generation?
Maybe I should have had dinner instead of wine, beer and toilet water.
Maybe I should have avoided eating a whole Golden Syrup cake that had given me a irritable bowel syndrome and could have led me to spray paint the streets in poo?
Maybe.
I had been flustered in my existence by the breath of some drunk Polish guy and a vision of hell: an amateur porn video from 1997 that looked more like a horror directed by Eli Roth.
My being was sanguine, hell, I lived a joyous life. I sang and danced on the fields like Julie Andrews and I burped and farted and I once gave a hobo an expired credit card. Why would the universe want to mess with me?
Worst of all, I struggled to find the most beautiful woman in the universe, who I encountered leaving the bathroom of a pub whose name I can't remember on purpose. She had probably gone for a poo and a selfie, but she looked so naive and ethereal I wondered for a moment if I hadn't roofied myself.
I knew her name and attempted to stalk her on social media, to no avail. How can I find her? What am I? Who is this fat ginger bird in my bed? Some questions, I came to believe, are meant to remain unanswered.
