So What's The Girl To Do? Who Sits On The Couch And She's Feeling Blue

Sometimes I'll cough so hard so's to bring up a big bit of brown gack from the back of my throat threatening to make me boke my ring up just by the sight of it alone.

Earlier I found a bit of foul chicken in the back of the fridge and give it a good sniff, something which's one of my hobbies, sniffing rotten things (I also like to stare at rotten things too: like dead pigeons that've been run over by a truck and burst their innards out all over the road -- like odd shaped and/or coloured dog shite).

It was a very foul smelling chicken breast that'd gone green and sprouted little white polyps. The smell shot through my olfactory canals and I peeled off in circles round and round my rustic kitchen as dry bokes jackknifed my body while my arms flailed wildly in autonomous grasping desperation, trying to find any ledge to hang off. I grabbed the back of my one kitchen chair (smashed the other one to bits after Kimba left me) and led it on a merry waltz around the table looking to find a place to put it down that didn't have slimy, slidey shite underneath.

When I was still I hung from the back of the chair my arms outstretched and coughing violently. After the coughing fit I opened my eyes and stared intently at the black and white checkerboard lino. Then, all around, from the outside creeping in to the centre, my vision had been invaded by silver worms of white light that seemed to have slid through the cracks in the ether and appeared on my kitchen floor.

I squinted in great confusion at this. Blinked hard twice like a heavy lidded be-witched Disney character till they disappeared.

I decided to go round to my mother's as she had cupboardfuls or Pure Orange. As I was under the impression I were having a bad trip, I reckoned the vitamin C would bring me down. Mother also had some milk-o-magnesia which I'd have for my bad stomach. She likes to spoon it to me when I am feeling poorly, even now, at this age, but I let her, cos otherwise she will not give it to me and I will have to go and buy some at a chemist.

I arrive at mother's, but she is not in. I wait a bit while I drink lots of orange with crushed up ice in it and feel better, less prone to hallucinating. I wait a little bit longer then go and check under her bed for her Bible. Her Bible is not there, meaning only one thing: she will not be back for a while as she is down town at Corn Market preaching for these bunch of big deal holy rollers, but ulterior-ly cos she's her eye on their leader, Nirab.

I accompanied her once to stand with her and this weird posse of God Botherers handing out depressing leaflets about the End Of The World and the Anti-Christ. By us at another sadness-stall (as I came to call them) was this other lot who were Pro-Lifers. They had big blow up shots of late term aborted fetuses pasted onto boards and lined up along the edge of their table. An old doll came over and put her foot through one. I laughed and went off to buy a Big Mac and on the way back one of them came up to me holding out one of their aborted fetus boards and I yell: - I'm fuckin eatin' a Big Mac. What you doin? C'mon! Play the game! - And she went, - Pepsi get their flavour from aborted fetus cells! - To which I yelled back, - McDonalds! - putting on like a full-spastic and waving my Big Mac wrapper at her, when she went, - ASSOCIATION!

I smeared the half ate Big Mac on the Pro-Lifer's fetus board and boked on her back when she turned to call for reinforcements. The crazy bitches chased me halfway up Ann Street till I started shouting, - Suicide Bombers! Suicide Bombers! - and they backed off.

So I sat reminising about this and getting blue, bluer still when I thought I saw the ghost of Boke the Cat.

Then I put this one in ma's cassette player cos it suited the mood: