living with coote.

We burnt a cake and decided never to speak of it again. We flew a shit kite and decided that it’s all we’d talk about for months. We considered what would be the best way to manipulate our mental states to produce the best body shape outcome. Once we ordered fresh fish that came with lemon juice and salt crystals. I should point out that the majority of this is fictitious. Following government legislation, this blog operates under flexi-truth, an initiative introduced to help working families deceive one another. Down at the docks we prank the sailors with me in my dress, pudenda surly and small. I would let her teach me dance if I didn’t fear nuclear holocaust and the subsequent destruction of Shakespeare’s language. (Television has come to dominate a life that once stretched ecstatically towards the good things in life.) Her attitude towards libraries merely overlaps, rather than corresponds. The first few days were, I now discover, awkward. 'Thank you' to my bland enemy for revealing a truth about conversation and her. The pancake was politely eaten with knife and fork. Study time, nap time, bath time (solo, of course). Daily recommended jazz intake exceeded every hour. Too much foot tapping makes you go blind - you think it's a coincidence? BRACING REVEILLES raise us.

The one upside of priesthood – sadistic, power-hungry old fools who teach iron-age lies to children don’t get to pass on their genes. Fear reform, my Brights. That said, I'm probably becoming a Christian. My cognitive faculty for perceiving God is smothered in sin like a steak in cheese sauce, trying to breathe. I know nothing of my own delicious meatiness. My meaty flavours are smothered in all this goddamn cheese.

I just want to meet a nice ex-Farc militiawoman and settle down to a life of domesticity and PTSD and daily news of, yes, another family member being murdered to punish her desertion and deter others from acting similarly. This is not so much to ask, I think.