August Strindberg checks in from Norra Begravningsplatsen!!!
Even a dying bird, spastically flapping and fluttering in a dark pool of its own blood, appears to dance with something like joy. So too does my heart twitch deep within the dank cavern of my syphilitic innards. For the Wiz-zards ascend! Of course, their fate will inevitably be that of Icarus, tender flesh singed by the flaming, engorged orb. In the Wiz-zards case, the engorged orb will be the leaking pustule of Andres Nocioni; the tender flesh: Andray Blatche's cream-suited, cream-filled swag. But no matter!
For these are blessed days -- ah, to watch these winged heroes soar, clad in their gold and obsidian pyjamas!
Twenty-six nuts have been harvested to date. How many more can be sequestered in Mike O'Koren's billowing cheeks before the cup runneth over?
How long will the she-succubus permit such joy? My overcoat somehow seems slightly less soiled -- I know it is merely a ruse of her hysteric wiles, luring me to inhuman depths of future degradation -- but nevertheless!
A glorious delusion it is, and I am already late for the Monday night crafting party at Roger Mason Jr's apartment in Rosslyn. Felt and googly-eyes tonight! I shall make a bookmark for my deceased mother. Rog is crafting a yacht-wear outfit for his John Riggins dolly. Brendan wants new socks.
I cannot wait -- I literally cannot! Ah, I have not felt such giddiness since I was drugged by Ripe Sheila, the Slovenian whore.
Harvest on, sweet O'Koren! Fifty nuts shall be ours!
Labels: August Strindberg