Well, never had a well. Never had a need for lotion. Never had a need for a coat made of female skin. To make me look like a woman nevertheless.
It was at that point that she signed offline. Bugger. Consumptive deliverance of a goodly attitude I thought. But I was wrong. So I began to write the screenplay to my first film instead. That took all of five minutes. I looked at what I had. Five pages. Fuck. So I got up and stared deliberately at the green concrete boundaries of my room. It was a Wednesday. Possibly. I decided that this would be an excellent juncture to renew my efforts at my guitar playing. As a right-handed 30-year old obese man I picked up the black, left-handed obese guitar and It sunk my belly back to where it had been seven years earlier. Or so I thought.
My hands nestled upon the strings and I began to find the delicate outlines of the four chords I knew. At no point did I play any of them correctly.
There was a nearby disturbance outside the window. Music critics. I knew they by their burning torches and farmyard implements and red kerchiefs knotted about their barley-scarred skin and the torn charcoal black waistcoats overlaying the yellow-stained faded blue-striped shirts. They brought their own mud with them. Diaphanous women pirouetted before them laying it like bounteous gifts from agricultural horns of plenty. Or in this case old bags of Mac Alpines cement. They were already at the front door.
My housemate enquired on the Face-boke as to whether perchance I had been playing my guitar as we were all now to be murdered in our beds. I chose to defer my answer until the point when I would be speared against my own bed by a rusted pitchfork.
I went on another dating site to drown out the background howl of shattering glass and sounds of dying animals to declare that I, myself, was sexually attracted to rolling pins and had been for some years. She said she would report me to the police. I said I would be sweet as a lamb to her, with mint sauce dripping down me balls. Ah such is life. How was your day?