Never forget how good I am to you. For although not a single soul has written to request further wet- and/or hard-making stories of my shameless, controlled-substance-derived debauchery, I naturally take it for granted that you were simply too shy, or still too busy wanking to the last lot to shoot off – if you’ll pardon the expression – an email.
But I know you all too well, mes adultes terribles! So without further ado I make with the vicarious thrills: Forefingers on lips! Shhhhh! Secret!
First of all, I would like to squelch, and here you may imagine if you will the sound made by a baby cockroach yielding up its tender carapace to the pressure of my thumb, the rumors that I am a bossy person. Bossy! As if!
This shows you how fucking judgmental people are. Yeah, like YOU, Hildebrand! So listen up, and I suggest you might want to take notes on this in Google Keep, seeing as you’re so Of. The. Moment!
I am not Bossy. I am Goal-Oriented. Like, MY goals for YOU. OK? You getting this down?
Secondly, at issue is the celebrated bucket of fresh cow offal. This has been greatly misunderstood. The bucket of fresh cow offal is not, I repeat NOT a reaction to five years of veganhood – five years which are now irrevocably lost to me; five long years of hearing people who’ve never even met a Jew screaming “Hitler was a vegan!”; five miserable years of explaining why you are wearing jute shoes and cloth belts and using paper towels in lieu of the mink bath sheets you so richly deserve ; five fucking years of Friday nights spent washing the starch and bran from crude balls of whole-wheat dough in order to create seitan, an aptly-named vegan junk food that chews and tastes like – MEAT! Holy cock-sucking mother of Christ, just eat some MEAT, DUDE !!
See? Your first goal.
But enough about you. The bucket of fresh cow offal is a palliative. There is nothing, I tell you, nothing quite so soothing as sticking your head into a nice, sloshy bucket of fresh – FRESH, mind you – cow offal as a response to despair.
You may be wondering.
Yes, mes petits, for despite the untold evenings of your worthless lives spent running warm baths, lining up fresh razor blades and counting out the Oxycontins as you contemplate my charmed existence, I confess that bouts of despair are likewise not totally unknown to me. The most irritating cause, naturally, is when people willfully refuse to achieve my goals for them, which we’ve already covered.
These people are not coachable and of course it’s just them them them morning, noon and night, so tant pis. But a self-starter such as myself knows that to feed the teeming Petri dish of despair is so simple it is not even necessary to venture outside, bathe or get dressed, or even physically encounter someone.
If you’re a beginner, try:
Receiving a text from someone at 3 AM, then waiting until you get the “Five question marks of death”. This looks like:
[them:] “Sup dude?”
[you] <not responding within their 30-second timeframe, usually because you’re asleep>
You see? That sinking feeling, as though god-the-invisible-dentist has draped the phantom lead apron on your chest, is – yes – despair, Level 1. Gold star, sweetie!
For advanced despair, try:
Explaining “evolution” to a Christian. I give you Exhibits A and B:
There is very little left in my bucket of fresh cow offal these days, so very frequently have I dipped this sorry, aging head into it. Just a few rubbery bits of grey intestine and, coating the interior of the bucket ,a thin ox-blood-colored crust of, well, oxblood. So accustomed have my friends become to my despair-palliated upper regions, they now simply greet me, in tones of arch good humor, with:
“Hey, nice ox-blood-colored head, CASSIE!”
At which point my eyes bulge and I make an ashtray jump off the corner of their desk with my newly-awakened telekinetic powers.
Well. It passes the time.