Wanted to say something about my for once relatively impressive anger drowning out Bob Dylan, and cooking pasta in your mouth, and also Edinburgh last year, walking all day for three days, and harnassing energy to power lightbulbs, also my mean chicken fillet, and the Cat Woman’s dynamism, but made the mistake of checking my mail and then ambling over to my pigeon hole and I could actually spend THE REST OF THE WEEK reading everything for tomorrow’s supervision. If there were some parallel universe in which my supervisor and his hideous orange-brown Simon Cowell trousers with the yellow-brown pinstripes culminating in an unavoidable, unmissable, a screaming-out-for-attention triangle (one could say arrow) at his crotchal area did not exist, that would be very nice. Also if in this parallel universe I had not walked in on him in the bathroom, that would be even nicer.
coffeecoffeecoffeePROPLUS ANYONE?
Anyway so yes. I won’t talk about those things. Ben Johnson and the million and two people who wrote things about his green world and his corpulence are whispering seductive things into my earlobe. Hell yes.
