When I'm not crawling through the sewers on my hands and knees to find the torniquet I fashioned from a redundant section of my digestive tract but dropped onto the floor because the tendons in my arms and fingers don't work properly for all the hypodermic punctures that have been patched back together with a seam of morphine, I can be found strolling in Oxford's many fields and parks, perusing the bins for needles.
Still, it's all part of my arm's rich tapestry.
It wasn't always like this. I used to be someone, you know. An inventor. edible cement... self-cleaning flannels... the electric twig...
I was a man of ideas. I came up with the very idea of having ideas, but I didn't get the patent in fast enough, and someone beat me to the idea.
Not that you'd care; you don't love me anyway.
I spent some time as a writer, too. Author of 'The Handbook Writer's Handbook,' 'The Manual Manual' and 'The Oxford Companion To Loneliness'. Some of my greatest work was published in the sand on a beach in Phuket, so any questions about my novel, I refer you thence.
Since then my life has spiralled downwards and inwardly, toward the enevitable implosion that you see before you; this fuck-muppet, pictured left.
Nevermind, all endings are sad; one can only hope for a happy middle.
So, in conclusion, if you're here about bank loans, you can suck my choad because I'm legally bankrupt and of no fixed abode. If you're here about that incident in the park the other night, she said she was eighteen. i'm sure of it. Although, it's funny, isn't it- all the numbers sound the same, slurped round the side of a well-chewed ball gag. Apart from six. that sounds like sex.
Ah, sex. The physical act of contempt.
Anyway, when will this text box reach it's limit? Must I keep writing? Yes, I must.
