Do I Dare To Eat A Peach?

You can say, I left my heart in Perth.

Talk you of killing?

The lady doth protest too much, methinks...

Brevity is the soul of wit. And discretion, the better part of valour.

Shut up Jenn! Get on with it!

OK, OK, keep your shirt on.

I am thinking about whether I should take a shower. Mary covered my chest in glitter. It spilled out of the glitter box she got for Gorgeous. So she simply swept it up from the table and liberally adorned me with it. In a restaurant. Gorgeous was sitting too far away to be similarly adorned. And Gorgeous was wearing her blouse all buttoned up to there. I was less conservatively dressed. And I have the glitter to show for it.

I said the quality of glitter is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. Mary said all that glisters is not gold. And I said, sometimes it is. And we giggled at how profound I could be. And Gorgeous smiled at us in a superior fashion.

Silly kids, she did not say.

Can't take them anywhere, she did not add.

I wish that this glitter was actually fairy dust and I could fly away - second star from the right and straight on till morning. Or some such direction. Maybe I could disappear down a rabbit hole. Run to stand still. Sing, oh frabjuos day, calloo callay! Slay the Jabberwock.

I hear that plump is the new thin. And dumb is the new smart. And prevarication is the new truth.

I wonder if the world has gone mad and what I can do to fit in. Or out. I want to fit out. How do I fit out?

I regret I didn't say goodbye to Boomer when I had the chance.

I am all textures of nothingness. I am the void into which it all disappears. I see copies before me, copies of copies of copies.

I feel no colour.

I feel no song.

I feel nothing.

I dance when I'm pleasantly buzzed. Wine now. JD before. It all adds up to music.

I sing pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile smile smile...slightly discordant, but life is a soundtrack by the Teenage Fan Club. N'am sayin'?

I cry when my existential despair surfaces. And the protective layers are stripped off. And the pointlessness comes home to me. And nothing means anything.

I am not always chipper.

I make with my hands things for people I love. Like muffins. Or cookies. Vindaloo. Or tapestries. Christmas angels. Sometimes stories. Silly poems. You know, stuff...

I write nonsense, mostly. And that too, when I am in a good mood. Otherwise, different versions of my suicide note. I want to perfect it by the time I actually decide to shuffle off. This mortal coil and all.

I confuse Oscar Wilde with George Michael. Madonna with Princess Diana. Guildenstern with Rosencrantz.

I need to disappear.

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak!'