Was it me who said that? It sounds like something I’d say, but what do I know? I come out with a lot of great shit I forget to write down. Twat.

I know weird-ass from a straight plain, bollock-rollocking—and without consulting my weather app—it’s the ‘norm’ now isn’t it … we’re all fucking weathermen underneath … as opposed to underground … they were a bunch of humourless twats, weren’t they? Ever read their copy? I read it all, Jeee-sus—I did have a bit of a crush on Bernardine Dohrn though. Hell, I’d probably’ve [REDACTED] C.I.A. Headquarters if she’d asked me … what does that say about me?

More, than, them, I think.

Anywise, it’s neither fair nor unfair to say … well what is there to actually say? It’s thirty degrees out of no-where after that bullshit the other week that gave me a chill—thank God for linen trousers … OK so they’re a 30:70 linen, cotton blend—It was either five pairs of these, or a one pair like-for-like replacement of the ones which became a public service warning—they were a tad thin there at the end—single thread. Trans-parent—not a good look—they were a fucking disgrace, who am I kidding? But comfy—and we all need comfort pants as much as we need someone in our life who actually gives a shit, if you’re a one who doesn’t. Especially about what other people have to say.

Except that isn’t even the standard, is it? It’s what people might say: the whingers, and the whiners, and the moaners—they can all just fuck right off, seriously.—get a fucking life—so you can see my [REDACTED], who gives a shit? —look someplace else … fucking pervs.

Man, they really need to sort out my medication, this is … at this rate I’m gonna be cunting at some poor dolt or dear out of one side of my mouth and apologising for being one out the other. My God.

I‘m not distracted, I’m not … but if this fucking keyboard doesn’t stop playing around, the lot of it is taking flying lessons—no … just breathe … Tranquillo.

You can fuck off too.

It’s the weather. Which—thankfully—I keep to myself, I don’t like talking about it—I don’t function well in the heat—I am normothermic, not this bollocks—thirty degrees before mid-day?

I was up till silly O’clock finishing that book for the fourth time—creepy, creepy book—The End of Everything—Megan Abbott, the Don, is a fucking genius. I’ve never felt so unhinged engaging with a novel as I have, while being inside the mind and emotions of the recollections of a thirteen-year-old girl with an infatuation with her best friend’s father. It’s a sublime piece of textcraft. Just exquisite—and creepy as fuck … I mean, I have no experiential framework to help me navigate the narrative … even after four reads, I’m as off-kilter and weirded out as I was the first time. Christ. It’s what really good literature should do—unbalance you, throw you into an unfamiliar familiar environment … then squeeze—and it’s all the better when the language is so beautiful. Just art.

But I didn’t sleep enough—a couple of minutes shy of three hours—it’s too hot—so I thought I’d start something new at random, thinking I’d enforce a snooze, rather than bake whilst aware.

But that wasn’t the best option in the circumstances because Helen Oyeyemi’s Parasol Against the Axe, is an absolute banger—not like book two of the Expanse saga is—but in the: it’s delicious, wry, relentless, a very clever piece of work—and a lot of fun—what’s not to like about books about books [about books]—everything’s so Godamned meta anyway, so when it’s done right …

I guess you just don’t get to snooze.

*image is an expressionism portraits Photo: Alexandra Mantzari