From the Department of Things I’m Tired Of (and of Ending Sentences with Prepositions, and also of Pedantry. Hey. Sod off.)

I’m so tired of

  • the Tories
  • when I wake up with an idea for a book, so I write it down, and the next morning I look at it and it says “they think they’re all dentists, but they.” But they what, midnight brain? BUT THEY WHAT?
  • that one song I’ve been trying to identify for years—da-dum da dumty, dumty, dumty, dumty dum-dummmm. Da-dum da dumty dumty dum dum waaaaaaah…. What is that?
  • people who prize their own ease and contentment over the lives of their neighbours, who can only find humanity in their bathroom mirrors, who—ah, see point number one.
  • those new plates the deli’s been using, which don’t fit in my fridge. I have to put everything in Tupperware. Such a drudge.
  • pills whose protective coatings dissolve at the first hint of moisture, so you taste the medicine.
  • people who leave their autoresponders on all the time, then one day they switch them off, and you delete a real e-mail because you think it’s canned shit.

I once wrote a book about two billionaires who fall in love while pretending they’re not billionaires, then merge into one mega-billionaire*. I should pretend I came up with that in my sleep, maybe wrote it in a fugue, but I didn’t. I came up with it in a development meeting and wrote it over the next couple of weeks, because that’s my job.

Sometimes, I’m writing these things—billiionaire romances, I mean—and they’re not coy about it, y’know? They don’t do up their heroes like hardworking Joes, clawed their way to success over fields of barbed wire. They’re feckless aristocrats, work two hours a day, then it’s all fun and games till the condom goes pop. There’s fast cars and shopping sprees, weekends in the Hamptons, diamonds and pearls and Brioni suits—a middle-class caricature of wealth. What you think is expensive when you don’t have real cash.

It’d be fun if just once, the heroine started with the billionaire, only then it got gothic, with her trapped in his mansion. She’d drift from wing to wing till she found his Room of Blood, pet Congressmen and blackmail books, vast haunted warehouses swimming in gore. Dogs wearing nappies, ’cause I don’t know. That’s funny. Small, starving nations all picked to their bones. And Bluebeard would catch her and throw her to the wolves. He’d cast her out penniless, blacken her name, and she’d meet…oh, some hot guy, and they’d Robin Hood his ass….

I mean, I’m not daft. I get the appeal of a Cinderella story. It’s just, the whole time I’m writing, I’m seeing Jeff Bezos. Jeff Bezos naked. Jeff Bezos shaved. Fucking Jeff Bezos. Sucking his cock. Fondling his love handles as his balls slap my chin.

Gerald Proctor @AmazonFCGerald * Dec 13
They’re so silky, his pubes. I’m a water spider today, darting from nipple to nipple, his left ear, his right nut. His soft pink perineum. I can’t feel my tongue, but my heart is on fire.

Too far? I think that was too far. I shouldn’t have said that. I could still, y’know, not say it. I could backspace right over it, and poof. No more scandal. Not that it’ll be one. People say worse every day. I read a thing once, Trump doing Thatcher in the bum. I thought it’d be funny, but I got bored halfway through. Too much tab A in slot B.

Anyway, my throat hurts today. I forgot to get cough sweets. I’ve been drinking aloe juice instead, and I’ve had a whole bottle. I’m totally puffed up.

I should probably pee soon.

Life is a chore.

Here’s a bird not taking responsibility for its actions.

* Get married. They get married.

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