Time, like a fat kid who spots the ice cream wallah, is running. More specifically, it is running out.
I have given myself another three months before jumping into the deep end. Blind fold over the eyes and clinging onto my ‘nads like I aint ever gonna get to scratch them no more.
Enough of this comfortable life.
Of late I have been wondering whether the surface is all that matters nowadays. Or whether everything has become so rotten below. Rotten and mushy and filled with little maggots who vomit onto their food before gobbling it down.
Warm, warm vomit.
Cauldrons and cauldrons of boiling, steaming puke.
I hope you are eating now.