Poly-easter

Polyester dresses everywhere, bursting at the seams, straining over rolls of flesh, buttons bursting.

Bold Bright Brassy patterns flattering slatterns.

The Dryness Of Things

The desert planet is filled with bureaucrats. They reside in stacks of little square houses in the desert with their forms. The forms must be completed. You won't get away with it. With what? I can't think what. There is no imagination here.

Even when it turns cold and rainy it is still a desert. I am like a sponge that has dried up in the desert sun. Bureaucrats do not approve of sponging. Or imagination.

They sweat tiny pixels as they attempt to squash me into the shape of a cube, but they can't because I have dried into the shape of a surprised starfish.

I'm going to call the wet madness in.




.

Replicate & Repeat

The days go in and out again, it gets colder. I am cocooned in my office world with it's artificial light and endless cups of tea, printer cartridge for a pillow. More often than not my mind and I adventure through the world of google maps. But when my body goes my mind will be off elsewhere! After you have read this I will give you my Olympic cash receipt with extra carbon. Outside, I can hear the knock knock of builders building more prisms. Where is my origami unicorn to ride away on ?

Pol Pot & the High Horse

Last night I set out on a solo space mission through the rain speckled night. Along the way I met the orange milk man, who was abroad with the Cat lady of Mer Sea. She really is the loveliest of Cat ladies. She was surrounded by a flotilla of Sea Cats who stared at me with their googly-eyes. It seems every sea cat I see out now is all googly.

Also eventually in attendance was that old chestnut Eleven Sons. Actually he is still quite a young chestnut, he will always be young compared to me. Eleven Sons is currently addicted to travelling through alternate realities, which I must admit I am quite partial to myself. This meant his mind was not quite all there in his body, though it was enough that we could sniff to each other behind our hands at the things we saw in the night time. The things were many we noticed, as our high horse whinnied with delight.

We were there to see a musical act. The Cambodian Space Project they are called and were splendid.
1960's Cambodian rock n rollers had a uniquely amazing sound. After Cambodia was nonsensically bombed by the USA Cambodian musicians were systematically targeted and killed by the order of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. One third of the population of Cambodia was wiped out.

This is why Eleven Sons and I prefer the alternate reality.

Ulysses

Man goes to funeral, buys soap. By James Joyce.

Love

That Annabeale is a strange person.

Yes. She is quirky.

I can see where that Seenn got his mannerisms..

Mmmm, but maybe she got them off of him you never know.

Yre, you never know.

We've taken mannerisms from eachother..

Wha? mmmm ? Maybe you've taken mannerisms from ME..

You haven't taken any mannerisms from me then?

"Ha! Maybe.. If I wanned to be a living doll cube face.."

.

Bird gel

There is a cat who lives here called Bird gel.
I think it is a wishful thinking sort of name like as though he is a big bird slaying type of cat . No. He is much more likely to see the birds and say "Hey mate, got any jellymeat?"
Tonight he saw me when I got home and was so excited because he had no food and his mistress wasn't home to feed him that he hi-fived me. He is full of contradictions. I like him.

the cyborg shuffle

It hasn't been long that I have owned for myself a personal body-bourne music device for the bored generation.
I like it. One of the great pleasures of my day has become the time when I get to perambulate down hill and dale on my lonesome, listening to whichever musical concoction befits my mood of the moment.

I have noticed an odd thing though. When under the influence of my musicular device I find it very difficult to keep a straight face. I see all the Thomasinas, Dicks and Henriettas with their white wires hanging from their various ear-holes, and they are stony faced, serious, inscrutable. I get my head plugged in and I can't contain my enthusiasm, I start to laugh or cry, my body parts flail about, a good drumbeat incites a riot in my joints, I can't stop it. I dance off down the avenues with a joy in my heart that I cannot contain. Sometimes I yell out words like a delirious tourette's suffragette. How are they so collected?

Ice get around

The ice planet should be invigorating but the days go in and out, in out, in out, in out here just the same as everywhere else.

I have to take a break from lying down, so I roll sometimes down the highway, but end up just winding myself up again, tightly and on an ice planet once you're rolling it's difficult to stop. I see the silver clouds flash past once a second, they are beautiful but remote. How can I become part of that wafty etherealness, being seen and admired by everyone, but caring not? I care not.
This is what one should want, but currently I am twelve eigths. I have twelve eggs between my twenty-four thighs, but every day a new sun thrusts in and spreads yolk all over my quivering moon.

My current assignment is or should be all about relaxing, something which I have a doctorate in, but I've seldom seen any such stressed out pull their hair out teeth fall out individuals as those in charge of the cushions. Admittedly ice cushions may be more of an exciter than a soporific.

I send giant bananas falling through space in search of a warm planet.

Newears

For new years we went down a worm hole.

Phil Collins.

The dress, skin of sharks. At the party: splash !

Jago Knasty, tiger skin, wolf neck covering. Fierce looking pair we two.

Jiggo peer pressured me at some stage of the proceedings to ingest a pellet.Hallucinagens from some far away planet that I haven't been to before. It just made me on edge, The wormhole, nightmare-ish.

During the course of the evening I talked to an unintelligable dwarf, whose face was much wider than it was long. He was so drunk that his words just sounded like "Slosh, slosh, SLOSH! Slosh." and his ears stuck out from the sides of his head like handles. He attempted to sit down right on top of me at one stage, and when that didn't work and I leapt up to a standing position, he tried to look up my skirt, which being a dwarf I suppose may be somewhat his specialty.

I also talked to a giant with the hiccups, all he wanted to do was a silly dance, but I wanted to cure him of his hiccups, an action which I mistakenly presumed would make him less annoying to talk to. I did get him to stand still long enough at one stage to hold his breath and push it down to his toes, I was doing it aswell to encourage him, but after about three seconds he let all his breath out in a whoosh and remarked "This is vaguely sexual, isn't it." I said no but he thought I said yes.

Lastly I talked to a sad young clown, who claimed not to know anyone at the party. He was very morose and said that all the males there had been trying to engage him in bouts of fistycuffs all evening, and what had he done to deserve this sort of treatment? I knew from my spies and my own observation that it was actually the other way around and it was the sad clown who had self-appointed himself as self appointed policeman of the party, and it was he that was trying to physically and verbally fight with all the males. So I suggested to him, "Why don't you just go and have a dance, and forgeddaboudit?" Unfortunately he mistook this as sympathy and took hold of the sides of my head. His intention was to gain purchase on my lips using his own, an intention which I objected to quite vehemently, and I bent myself over backwards so as to get out of range. This occurence seemed to confirm the sad clown's suspicions that the whole world was against him. He expelled a little "oh!" and immediately ran off to stand in his policeman's corner again. Later I saw him telling all the other girls the same sorry tale that he had told me.



Side note.
*I used to hate INXS, slimy, snake like, sexed up Michael Hutchence, like whats his name from the Doors, the kind of man that is 'spiritual' and 'deep', but is really a depressed guy in too-tight leather pants.
Anyway, I found a new respect for them the other day when I actually listened to one of their songs:
'Just slide over here, and give me a moment, your moves are so raw, I've got to let you know, I've got to let you know. You're one of my kind' and there's humour there - intentionally or unintentionally - because most of the start of the song he's saying, 'hey baby, you're so sexy, I'm awesome too, let's get it on because you're good enough to get it on with me' and then at some point he goes kind of plaintively: 'I'm lonely'. And then it gets more and more often until he's not smooth sexy confident big man anymore, he's just screaming out really desperately 'I'm LONELY! I can't take it!' and I think that's pretty funny. Also the guitar's quite good.

"Agent 4338971047656543210.0097 reporting for duty"

I am a drone now. I am one of the masses. A worker bee. beep.

We wait in the freezing cold huddled together but miles apart in the frosty mornings, shivering in our separate pairs of boots in barely suppressed terror, the ubiquitous wires hanging from our brains out of our ears and into our skin pouches. A small robot man tells us what we hear.
I am plugged in to the main stream. The calming ocean sounds [piped into] my head prevent me from experiencing full blown panic attack as I climb, we all climb into one metal box on wheels and settle against one another, packed in like gooses. Ass to cheek but miles apart.
We stare vacantly and rock back & forth gently like the tide.

End.

It Burns.

We arrived in the strange new land, 10 million leagues away as the seabird flies (as you know it flies very sillyley, silleeeeyleey often wheeling about in one place for a good few hours, going back the way it came for a few million leagues, sitting down on the ocean for a while for a meal of anchovies).
But we got here.
It was amazing to see how the trees were somewhat the same, the grass, hmm, exactly the same, cars and footpaths, people with eyes, shops, Ronald McDonald sitting nonchalantly, polystyrenely on park benches, come here lucky little kiddies.
Almost immediately we were locals, sitting on trams and trains with vacant expressions, glancing through the gossip rags at the 'love wanted' ads:
"To the girl in the orange stripey hat with the massive melons on the Chewberry line, your bazoongas are enormous, I'm in love, from the spotty git who was staring at them, 5-6pm, Saturday"
"To the exotic, golden haired, dark skinned girl on the Cockburn Street train, your eyes are pools of chocolate, is it the same with your lower eye? Charles, Lilydick."
People from our country are the nasty bastards here. Sarcastic, snide, closed off. The kind of people who make fun of heartfelt love pleas from people on trains.
But now the military are making robots that fly around in flies bodies and mate with eachother to make more flybots, and they will kill all the dissenters so its gonna all be okay.
Make love on trains. The flies wont watch you. Its a new future of joy.

Booobzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I went to the strangest planet last week, for the most out of it assignment I have yet been assigned. The brief was as follows:

-Stay in this place for all your awake time, only leave for sleep of the dead. Dont see anyone you know or love.

-Be surrounded by creatures of extreme angularity and tallness, so that their hipbones bump in to your sternum at every turn.

-Clothe and Benakedise these creatures on demand, have their breasts rest on your head, and the shorter creatures' nipples poke you in the eyeballs.

-See breasts all day, wish you were a lesbian for some job satisfaction. As it is just spend the time comparing your own breasts to theirs.

-Eat only small cooked land birds and nothing else at all. Maybe a leaf now and then.

-Be not paid save for the massive props and somewhat monotonous bags of 'goodies'.

-Begin to place unwarranted value on 'goodies', as opposed to the things in life that really matter (?)

-Hoard 'goodies' furtively. Brag to others.

-Be in an environment of extreme fashion, wearing only a sack printed with the word 'idiot'.

Eclipse

Tonight there is a lunar eclipse.
Right now the moon is settling down into darkness, like a little round milk buddha sitting in a black saucer.

Fashion Kills Me Pt. 2 (She sells seashells)

So I went to work for the Seashore Queen.
I dont think she liked me particularly, due to the fact that whenever I addressed her she would roll her eyes and sidle sideways out the door. Also she was preoccupied with the limpit she was cultivating. Mostly I was left alone with the Copper Princess.
People were surprised to find out that I had been admitted into the Sandcastle so easily.
"ooooooh," said the little girls, "how did you manage that? Isn't it scarey? You are very brave, Face."
"Whats the big deal?" I said, "They are just people. Will you be scared of me if I become The Current Queen of Fashion?"
They recoiled.
"yes" they whispered.

Well, my advice to them was to collect a gay or faux-gay son figure for their entourage. Yes, it seems difficult, but I can trust Eleven Sons to know the Queens of Fashion. (Not to mention the Scenesters and the Art Stars.) Eleven Sons HAS lost some cred I suppose due to the fact that he now has real sex with real girls. My son, my son, oh what happened to you, now you are just the same as all the others.

So anyway, It got to Friday at the castle de Seashore, which of course is the fashionable day for bitchy drinks. I wasn't invited, but knew one of the guests and was therefore allowed to hang about. The girl I knew was a model, and therefore highly beautiful and highly insecure. She spent the evening insecurascising at me. I spent the evening drinking.
About half way through, the gays arrived. In the door they rushed in a wave of immaculate hair and jaunty scarves. I happened to be standing by the drinks table as they tumbled in. One of them looked me up and down, noticing I was not wearing the correct clothes.
"Oh, hi." he said
"Hello." said I
There was an expectant pause and I realised he thought I was there to pour him a drink. I spread my hands.
"Help yourself." I said
"Oh, ookaay" he poured himself a drink.
"So..." he said "Are you going to the fashion party?"
"Which fashion party would that be?" I said. He looked down his nose at me.
"You know, THE fashion party" he said "At Billy P's " Billy P was the 'It' man of the moment, I vaguely knew.
"Oh, no, I didn't even know about it." I said. This was obviously the very wrong thing to say.
"Hmph!" he snorted, took one last corner of the eye scathing look at me, and turned on his heel.
I began to understand that I was hopelessly ill-equipped for the world of fashion.

But.
A few weeks later I met the same bitchy gay at a party, he realised how great I was, and now we are the best of friends.
I will See-saw on the Seashore, it is only a matter of tides.

The light or The Shitty Idea

The other night I had a strange dream in which a man I had never met before was seated in front of me eating. It turned out that one of the components of his meal, whether accidentally or on purpose, was glass. The glass was broken into several shards. Upon encountering this ingredient, he paused. He picked out a shard and studied it for a moment. He then proceeded to eat the shards as if they were peanuts. He had the air of one who believed his actions to be in some way leading him to an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records. I don't know how one would achieve that particular air in life, but this was a dream.
So anyway the man then began to choke and I had to call a dream ambulance.

Upon a sprightly morning some days later, I found myself taking a shit.
'Hmmm,' I thought to myself, 'this shit feels exactly how I would expect a shit to feel if I had recently eaten some glass shards.'
I finished my ejection with some screwing up of face and several large tears.
I then turned around to study the product in the bowl, and lo!
Turn me purple and cover me with hot sauce if I had not just pooed out a lightbulb.
But not just any lightbulb!
This was a lightbulb in the shape of..

The Baby Jesus!. It was the Baby Jesus, for sure, but not in a way I had seen him before. He had a nimbus of light around his tiny head, but that wasn't the oddest thing, or maybe it was.
The oddest thing was that this little glass boy had a set of tiny teeth as sharp as pins, and it was gnashing them.
'No wonder I cried' I thought.
Aloud I said 'Howdy!'
The small boy turned his eyes upon me.
They seemed to burn a hole right to my core.
'How many watts are you, anyway?' I thought, but I didn't say it.
The boy appeared to be trying to speak.
I leaned my ear a bit closer to the bowl, and this is what I heard:

"Don't be afraid." the small one said "For you have a shining purpose before you"
My heart skipped a little and I had to lean against the rim of the toilet for support.
"Yes?" I encouraged
"your destiny is.. it is a noble one."
"Oh yes" I sighed
"Honey," he said, I picked your asshole to come out of because you are gona be my publicist. That is your purpose in life, and it is deep, magestic and noble, as I've said. We are gona be quite a team! Don't worry, cos I'm gona make you rich! You'll see, they'll build castles all over the world with the two of our names on the front doors! People are gona sing your praise!"
I turned my head and looked at his little shining face.
"Hmmm" I shrugged. "I dunno, but it sounds kinda dumb to me. And besides, little darlin, its really all already been done before."
He sighed and glumly rolled over in the water. "yeah, I know." he said in a defeated tone. "But, the thing is, I'm totally running out of ideas."
I smiled sympathetically
"Aren't we all honey, aren't we all." I said.
At which point, I flushed.
And the sound it made was like "glorygloryhallelujah".


On a side note, Joggy said something nice to me the other night. He said I was like a barrel of laughs.
He also said, 'Why would I pay for the milk when I've already bought the whole cow?'

Fashion Kills Me pt. 1

So I dyed my hair Gun Metal Grey with silver highlights, and went to Fashion School.

The other girls there were stupid. I was the oldest by 900 years.

Why do you want to do this course? Asked the teacher.

"Omg, I just want 2 do this course cos I











fashion!"
enthused one girl.

"Omg, me 2!" cried another.
"I f4sh1on 4 3v4!" tweeted some of the others.
It got to me.
"Um, I want to do this course because I'm bored. I'm old. I havn't done anything with my life. yup. thanks." I thought for a second. "oh yeah," I said, "and I hate fashion. I just really like clothes."
There was a general silence as everyone stared at me uncomprehendingly, Bambi light glowing from their innocent eyes. I could tell I was alone.
The only person left to speak was the little 'punk' girl next to me. Her stockings and t-shirt were artfully torn into shreds, and she wasn't wearing any shoes.
She stared hard at the desk.
"Um, yeah, my mum made me do it." she muttered. I loved her instantly.

As it turned out, her mum didn't really make her do it, she just didn't know what she wanted to do, so did something, anything. A punk taking fashion. She was beautiful, a diamond in torn polyester, with huge serious greeny hazel eyes fringed by heavy black paint. Her name was June.
June had a boyfriend who was the same age as me, called Ridge, who lived in a different city. She would tell me stories about him while we tried to thread the triple overunderlockers. Apparently there was a girl living in his city who was obsessed with Ridge. She would write lusty romance novels with Ridge and herself as the main characters, and a June-like character would be killed off horribly every time. This girl was also blonde, tanned, toothy and boring. her name was Charlene. Charlene sent June catty text messages to which June always replied with diplomacy. Sometimes the messages became threatening. June was slightly rattled.
I told her not to worry.

A few weeks went by, and the messages from Charlene became slowly more frequent and more threatening. June became visibly distressed, and haggard from lack of sleep. Then came terrible news from Ridge. That weekend, he said, Charlene had drugged him and date-raped him. June flew into a flurry of rage and despair.
Some of the other fashion students asked what was wrong. June told them the basics.
"Omg, June, I c4n't 63l31ve your cr4zy l1f3!" they said
"Jus7 try not 2 th1nk 46out 1t, ok? try 2 st4y p0s1t1v3! "

"How are you doing that?" I asked them after a pause.
"Doing wh4t? " they said
"I don't know," I sighed, "You're just talking really wierdly. Maybe I'm just old and behind the times."
They tittered at me. "Y4h, pr011y!" they said.

June was distraught.
"Theres nothing we can do!" she cried. "Ridge inadvertently destroyed all the evidence! Theres no use moving cities either because she'll follow us wherever we go! Oh, woe!" She rocked back and forth shedding hot tears.
"Theres only one thing we can do." I said
"What, oh what?" sobbed June
"Let's kill her." I said
So we did.

Net working?

The owner of my curio shop is a smallish golden-brown man, he is like a sultana without any wrinkles. His wife is a gymnast who is ten months pregnant. She wears heels as high as he is. She wears leotards as high up her hips as flies fly.

A wee while ago the gymnast wife told me that she was going to take Joggy and I on an exciting adventure where we would see sights that would shake our eyes right out of our heads. She told us to be prepared for riches beyond our wildest dreams to fall into our laps. She claimed that we were about to become part of SOMETHING. And to achieve amazing lives we would be required to spend only a minimum of effort.
Beware when somebody tells you that.

We met her at the allotted time outside our floating fortess. She was driving a huge bus, painted to look like a slug playing chess. Jaggo was drunk and drugged, having spent the afternoon with a collection of scurrulous miscreant straight-to-video personalities he knows. We clambered in.

The gymnast drove the slug through a wormhole and almost immediately we arrived at our destination. It was an outpost of hell. A large pink marshmellow of a building, masquerading as exotic with the aid of some tall neon plastic palm trees. 'HOTEL, CASINO and CONFERENCE ROOMS' said the sign.
















We sidled up to the main entrance.
There, wearing a frilly pink shirt but terrifyingly ugly nonetheless, was a large black serpent. This creature was EATING people.
I noticed another woman with guests, whom she was pushing forcefully towards the waiting mouth of the serpent. They got close enough and WHAM! the serpent swallowed them whole. What it did then made everything a bit clearer.
As it ate people, the serpent was POOING OUT MONEY. Bundles of cash would come tumbling out it's asshole.

Juggo and I looked at eachother. Then he looked at the gymnast. Out came a giant mash of drunken expletives.
"WHADDAYA THINK YER PLAYIN AT, YA FECKIN GOAT WHORE MOTHER OF FUCKN SHIT??" he yelled into her face.
"Jiggo! Language please!" She exclaimed. "Just try it, honestly, your lives will be so much better, you don't really die of course, well in a way you do, but you become re-born a better and brighter person." She said. "And RICH! beyond your wildest dreams! Or, you will be once you've fed a few of your friends to Mr Money Guts over there! Ha ha ha!" She laughed heartily, baby belly vibrating.
"And then, you can buy a super-slug bus just like mine! And then ten more cars! Twenty! This is a Golden Opportunity I'm offering you! You will become the fattest cats of the YOOOONIVAARSE!" She whinnied and did a back flip.
On her way over Jigd kicked her in her yooni arse. Then he took my hand and we ran for the hills.

Some bills of money fluttered past us as we ran. Fake as my Aunties titties it was. Fake as Donald Trumps hairpiece.

"What a lucky escape!" I said to Jaggy as we ran. "You know, I didn't see anyone come out of that monster once they went in. I think she was just trying to eliminate us. But why?"

"I dunno, honey," he said "But I'd stay away from that woman from now on."

Looks like I wont have to try, because quite soon after that, I lost my job.

(Like tis, but blacker)

Racing Realism

I meant to buy batteries so I could start my own band but the melange of babies with dolls and demands passed my day away til all opportunities closed.

Oddjobs and cods

My shop, it floats geometrically in a spacial arcade, the windows glinting with clitoris lights. I sell clothes, but not just any clothes. Come to me and I will provide you with a lucky dip of puke stains, piss smells and old sweat-dust. Each piece has been specially prepared by a seperate personage who will be unknown to the buyer. The colours swirl and sparkle in patterns new yet somehow familiar.

I have not had this job long. A lifetime. A few minutes. It is strange to be anchored in space, for one who is used to being constantly on the move. I am forced to allow people to come to me, rather than running always away from them. I am the fish.

Do It

As I see it, there are two types of people in this world: The Do-ers and the Think-ers. Do-ers do things. Thinkers think things.
Then there are the subtypes. The doing thinkers and the thinking doers.

Jaggendery and I are thinkers with the occaisional doing. Thinking doers.

We have flatmates now. Who always do things. They also think quite a bit. Doing thinkers they are.

But these are the lazy days. What good uis doing? No good. we have the upper hand. mayday.

At the end of the worl, there are two quw\estions: do you wish to do things feverishly staying alive despite all odds, write a story of survival that no-one will survive to read, or wiold you wish to sit under the sha de of a mexicsan succulenty tree, observing the choas asnd thinking: "We've done it."

Mooning

I have an idefineable bad feeling. It feels like a feeling of doom. Mixed in with a dash of boredom and a trollop of general life malaise.

Things are quite peaceful. Too peaceful. Juggy and I are passive, probably due to the almost-full moon. At dark moon we always have a good old knees-up elbows flapping ass-squelching fight. But full moons make us flouride, like pacified, like full-of-pie-d.

Really, whats the point of doing anything, even suicide?




















I actually didn't know that there was such a thing as a Moon pie.

Time for a new Tail

Summer, as we all know, is tim e for a new tail.

Unfortunately, , some new rings

that Jagd Knusto you ask him and so is, and did

Should start really, . To me, her, and anyone who would listen.

Again my digital interface is malfunctioning. Seems to always do so when I actually have something to say.

Can't remember what is is now.

Melonchildey c tune: "I d ed daddy"

Oh, sad.

Never try to make no H

The story of Melonchildey

Once upon a time, now, then and probably in the future:

1. I, Face, was a no-good layabout. I have had quite a few talents, and also special powers of metamorphosis, but not the inclination to use them. There seemed no point really.

Oh, I suppose quite a few Evil Super-Villains have threateed the Universe, Mediocrity, Pollution, God, The Devil, The President of America, all spring to mind, but I just never really cared enough. Also my talents and special powers didn't really lean in the direction of The Combat of Evil Super-Villains anyway.

2. My lover, Jaggy Knusto, was also a no-good layabout with special talents and powers which were laying dormant. He cut a monumentally tragic figure, handsome yet self - destructive. Think of James Dean.

Our apathy fueled itself, we fed off eachother. We were the un-excited.

Mostly we spent our time drinking.



















So, this was all fine and good. We had built a life for ourselves of melancholic inactivity. Regularly we would fall into seperate gloomy holes of deep inky depression.
Sometimes when I got drunk I would become violent and accusatory. I would break it off with Jaggedy on a regular basis at these times, for being a drunk, a layobout, an asshole, and a serial flirter with women. In short, all the things I was myself. Upon waking up sober I would shed tears at the idea of being without him, and the cycle would begin again.

3. Enter a woman. I will call her The Laughing Fluff.
At some time in Joggo's shady past he and The Laughing Fluff had had relations of a sexual nature. Shortly thereafter she had taken off into outer-space, Never To Return Again.
Well, one fine day, she did return, bringing with her a child. This child she claimed was the direct result of her sexual relations with my Lordy Lord. I shall name the child: Melonchildey.

So, she introduces this child to us.

"Melonchildey, look, thats your daaaddy!" She laughs fluffily, pointing at Jiggidy.
"Oh, and, thats some chick your daddy knows." She adds, flicking her chin in my direction.

Jiggidy is inwardly rattled but outwardly calm. The Laughing Fluff notices that his eyes are filling with blood. (This seems to happen when he is perturbed.)

"Oh, don't worry," she says to him, "I don't want anything from you."

Three months later, we are picking Melonchidey up fom kindy every second day and watching her, pupils dilated, as she throws tantrums.

"I don't want you." she tells Jaggedy.
"Oh." he says. "Well..." and walks away.
"I want my mummy, I want my mummy, I want my mummy!" she yells. Somehow she has secreted a megaphone inside her small body cavity.
It is unfortunate for us all that we got to know Melonchildey just as she was reaching that first bermuda triangle of life, The Terrible Twos.
We have no experience with the parenting of anyone, let alone a crotchety stranger. She hates us.

So, now our lives have gone from being quite adequately depressing, to really bloody depressing indeed. This is choice to the max.

I can't wait to find out what will happen NEXT.

Please feel free to speculate, and offer advice, as you all see fit.

Bath-Day

Today was what is generally known as my "Birthday", Samhain, All Souls Day, Day of the Dead.

I invited them all and they came, spewing forth, hotly, jetly.

As soon as they were all here I knew, they were bored. The combination of all the most influential, rousting- about, and generally white=hot individuals I know could only end in an anti-magnetic reaction I suppose.

They were like Greek Gods, each of their own discipline, each thinking their own way is the best.

Individually I get on with them all in some way. But together, it was less than fantastic.

Anyway, next birthday I might just take a bath. It would be more fun.

Inter-world

On this side of the world: Spring!
Everything *blushes*

The garden birds Laugh Out Loud
"Lol lol, lol lol lol"

The cat next door starts to rofl
In beams of sunlight

And evening sports scores are:
Oh-one, oh-one. Oh-

i no. Irt taste good, man, like the











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3:40 AM

i no. Irt taste good, man, like the



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3:40 AM

I didn't even think, you know..

When I think things, I think them for myself, but I have a habit of thinking that other people have thought them.
For example I said to my darling Joggy Kahnt today: "Don't you feel that you want to escape to another planet? I would understand if you did. That's hoe I would feel in your positiion."

The reason for this outpouring of pretended empathy was that I was feeling fragile and in need of dsome good symparthetic feeling of my emotion by another.
Joggy Kahnt had just had some bad news, which, considering his lack iof proper emotions and all, affected me much more than it could ever have affected him.

The news was that he, out of the big blue, had a child. The child was his alone, even thoughj we are one entity. That's like your siamese twin attached at the brain who sings country songs, having a sausage dog that you didn't know about.

Anyway, the thing about the child led me to feeling a bit like I was old now, I thoght of the young people I know, and how I am nothing like them. I never go outy noe, siamese twin and I, we srtay home and watch you-tube, where all the retards of humanity go to die, and we feel a little less alone.

Not that we are humans at all, oh no, but we like/distrust this planet, and so in a way have assimilated. I don't know, . I am 25 and have a 20 year old son. He has just had sexual intercourse for the first time. He asks my advice about fingering cunts. I am the blue-blood of royalty. The royal blood of the eponymous blueberry.

I'm going to live forever......ever........ever........ever

The crazy band of freewheeling film students did not give up so easily.

It was a long and bitter chase, but in the end I lost and was... 'discovered'.

And like the wanton whore every woman really is deep, deep down inside, I succumbed. The attention, you see.

The other weekend I was made to eat a man on camera. I and two other females feasted on his sweaty flesh. It was most disgusting, made much worse by the fact that I was hung-over from not being drunk the night before.

Later the same day I was required to play the part of Jupiter, the gassy planet. Perhaps it was my astounding farts that got me the job? I may never know.

It was the toothbrushing scene that really had me confused.

And then, almost as soon as it had started, the flurry of interest in my talents was over.

Ah, fame. She is a fickle mistress after all.

Sandbag

It has been a time. Of movies in the sun.

Walking through the desert recently, or, as in the case of my darling Jiggeld Knasty, stalking through the desert, I noticed a gaggle of struggling film students. Accompanying them was a gang of fly-sized digital movie cameras on daddy-long-legs's legs.
I tossed my head nervously and uttered a low-pitched gurgle. Lit up a cigarette. Sneezed trough my gills. Being on camera makes me nervously and nonsensically metamorphose, until I reach the armadillo stage and stop, curled up in a small rocky ball.
Jiggeld sipped coffee from a carafe he was carrying and looked nonchalantly the in the other direction. He is a natural.

They spied us.

"Ooooh!" one cried, "You two are sooo Jim Jarmusch!"
We smiled at him indulgently, as Jiggeld spilled his boiling carafe of coffee accidentally into the film students shoes. He was very tall, and we couldn't quite see his face, but we heard his cry of pain. It was in a French accent. I took a drag on my cigarette and flicked the hot ash into his socks. This time his cry was Puerto-Rican in flavour.

"Where are you from?" I shouted upwards.
"Moscow." he called down.
I placed the burning tip near his shin.
"Uh, I mean, Monaco" he sang.
I ground it in. He jumped up in the air.
"Aaaah! Ow! Austra - ooh! Australia! he cried, dancing on the spot.
"Melbourne, actually." he relented. I lit another cigarette.
"Anyway, so I'm making a film in the style of Jimmy J, and yooo two would be purrfect!"
"Oh?" I peered at him out of my left eye while my right one searched for an escape route.
"What would we have to do?" I asked
"Just act natural darling! Act cool! drrinka the cawfee! Smoka the ceegarettes! Shoot the shit, man! Yoo don haftoo doo aaanytheeng, yoo kno? Jasta doo waaat yoo noormaally doo, yoooo knaooow maaan, daarleeenk?" He began to work himself into a frenzy of accent mixing.
"Aiiiiiie! Jaast waunt to meke aul theees purrfuctlaey naaaturaaul, yoooo knaow? Eeetsa reeeel laife, yoo undastaend? Reeeealeeesm! To de max maun! Yoogeddit?"
"Mmm, ah, yah." I nodded.
By this stage the swarm of digital cameras had surrounded us.
I suddenly saw in the distance but rapidly gaining, a bunch of models from Desert Fashion Inc. week had spotted the cameras and were rolling towards us on motorised sand scooters. They were screaming like hyenas and slashing eachothers tyres with their razorish hipbones.

"Quick! We have to get out of here!" I hissed at Jiggeld. He shrugged non comittally, but I noticed that his eyes had filled with blood.
"Are you okay?" I asked
"I forgot to wear shoes." he said. He winced. "The black sand of the black desert is burning my feet."
At that moment a shower of blood and large bits of body rained down upon us.
"What was that?" I exclaimed, covered in red-brown from head to toe.
"Aaaah," said Jiggeld, slipping his feet into the coolness of whatever was left inside a gigatic ribcage,
"I think it was that giant film student. He must have accented himself into self-combution."
"Oh" I glanced around. What I assume was the film student's camera was dancing around in confusion on it's daddy-long-legs legs, wearing pieces of bloody skin.
"Hmm. we have to go" I said again.
Jiggeld nodded.

So we took off across the dessert, half running, Jiggeld with each of his feet in a piece of the film giant's body. Jiggeld still held his carafe of coffee, which had remained piping hot in the desert sun, and he swigged from it as we ran. The smoke from my cigarette trailed behind us.

Forecast

Yesterday I painted an entire city white so that drunk people can see it in the dark.
Its not much good in the day-time, though, completely disappears.

There is an awful lot of sun in the city for winter. Coupled with the flourescent lights that are everywhere, the effect is blinding.

The weather robot thinks otherwise, of course. Twisting her hands together, she apologises profusely for all the rain and wind.
"Its shit all round folks, shit all round." As the sun blazes through the window.

She thinks the bad weather is her fault.
"Tomorrow what we'll be giving you is a whole lot of snow and shit. There'll be a piss-stained blanket that we will spread over the sky tomorrow evening, but by Saturday we'll peel it back to reveal a whole bloody period of other problems. Sorry folks."
She breaks off a finger and rams it into her eye, sending a shower of metal and sparks over the sports news robot.

He shrieks and then begins to cry like David Beckham, 'boo-hoo-hoo, boo-hoo-hoo', until the fiesty Roomba gives him a good solid kick in the knee.