The weepette is going through a phase of intense melancholy brought on by separation from his ginger sausage girlfriend. He basically hates us all, which is fine, since it manifests in sitting sulkily in his favourite chair disdaining everything. If he had a sad, faded panda hoodie he would be wearing it. If he was allowed to eat giant slabs of cooking chocolate and drink cheap supermarket tequila with no label lemonade because he can't be bothered to find any decent mixers, he would be doing so. But he isn't. He can barely stir his sticklike legs to pee on the kitchen floor. The varkensnoets helped slightly.
Before (in melancholy gay porn centerfold style):
(Oscar-watchers will note that he is CHANGING COLOUR. Where did the whole, grey belly thing come from? Can I send him back? Has the statutory exchange period expired, or can I still swap him for a pony? Also, check out those downy peanuts, fellow dogpervs)
Just leave me with my varkensnoet. No, I don't want to talk about it. Just, go, OK? I'm fine. FINE.
In other news, there is no other news. The hippies have not yet killed Lashes, though they have convinced him he must never wear green as it is POISON (they are theatrical hippies). Fingers poured a whole hot chocolate over my crotch this afternoon and I was actually wearing matching underwear for once. There's probably a lesson there, and it's probably something to do with hubris. I have nearly lost about fifty three wing mirrors in my death-defying processions backwards and forwards across Brussels this week. I have not read, or written, a word all week Tomorrow we go to the bat caves.