Just getting up from the Ditch of Despond and climbing back onto the Carousel of Crazy: An overview

Hello, many of you have written to ask if I’m OK.

Actually, that’s a blatant lie, not a single one of you has written, sent a message in an old Shiraz bottle, hired a bird from “Carrier Pigeons Plus” or done any of those “too busy to express how little I care but spending a portion of my vast disposable income on something that gives ME a laugh will substitute, sort of, and anyway, like it or lump it” things that would lead me to believe that my followers are actually, you know.

Following me.

You may be wondering: I’m living solo at home again.  Yeah, you can hold off sending in an application.  For my bedroom, during the past three and a half years, eight months, two weeks and five days, has served much the same function as John Hurt’s belly in Alien, or, should you insist on CanCon, one of Genevieve Bujold’s uteri in Dead Ringers:-

A safe haven for those who, having mastered the appearance of what currently passes for normal until the agreement is signed, are looking for a space in which to achieve their true form, then, having gorged to repletion on whatever leathery tubes and lobes are to hand, explode into existence as yet another iteration of bucking, wiggling nameless horror.

And have YOU cleaned exploded abdomen off your bedroom walls lately?  Five cans of Comet later my hands are like two red udders, and just TRY telling your building management that it’s from spending too much time skiing in Gstaad.   Like, seriously??!!

So, in the interests of keeping my blog alive, I hereby demonstrate my well-honed off-fobbing skills with an animated GIF, those Lascaux cave paintings of the early Web which have now resurfaced as the crack cocaine of social media—and animated GIFs of cats are the true, pure Colombian shit.

Just don’t cut yourself on the nasty, sharp, broken edges of your monitor in your haste to sample the goods.  There’s a petal.  Cause open sores on the lips don’t jibe with that Craigslist ad of yours that goes

“Chew!  My!  Nipples!!?? Barely legal teen wants horizons expanded!! Orange toupées, billionaires and sponge-y, fleeting hard-ons front of line!!  OMFG??!! Looking??!! for NOW???!!! PayPal???!!!”

Cats, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the second-most pathetically laughable beings on the planet, combining as they do unshakeable belief in their entitlement to your slavery, a chilly dignity that is 99% condescension, and an unbridled, nobody’s-watching, let-your-fur-down, meaningless and self-serving acrobatic idiocy.

Second-most.

So, then.  Wanna know how I’m doing, solo once more?  Since you asked?

« À bientôt, ma Virginia collective, à bientôt … »