Life? Don't talk to me about Life!
She’s wearing fake glasses and pretending to be Winston Churchill on this particular Friday. Her dog must be sick again. Bloody mutt! Here it comes.
‘Heathcliff?’ God, I hate my academic parents! Defining moment in literature my arse. Why couldn’t they give me a real name? Still, it’s not the worst I know. There were twins at my school named Smith and Wesson. Apparently, it was a shotgun wedding.
‘Heathcliff? I’ve got something to tell you.’ The dog is dead. The dog is dead. The dog is dead. ‘You know Umberto the Jack Russel? My dog? He’s really sick and the Vet thinks that he’s gonna die this time.’ Enter: Horrified Look, Feigned Sadness, Arm Around Shoulder, Squeeze Tight, Peck On The Forehead Like A Dunking Duck With Too Much Collagen.
The song, Hitchin’ a Ride, has become the foremost thing in my mind,
which is odd because I really don’t have any fascination with Green Day.
Of course, that’s what I tell you, until I ope my lap to saints seducing
guitars and cheap harmonies. They’re only a step away from the Backstreet
Boys, but I know the problems with that, so I’m safe.
All the while, sickly-salty tears ooze down her bloated cheeks.
She appreciates the heartfelt sentiment, and I’m secretly hoping the fireworks in my head aren’t making my eyes glimmer too brightly.
With a look of grave concern, I tell her that I have to go to the toilet. It’s fair—I do actually need to go. What she doesn’t know is that: a) I’m going to be dancing and singing at the urinal and b) the reason her dog is sick in the first place is because I have recently taken to crushing Mersyndol in with its dinner.
I get up and move to the back of the café, where the toilets used to be. Of course, they aren’t there now, are they? The builders have moved them somewhere else. I can find the women’s but the men’s have disappeared.
I ask a waitress and she tells me, ‘There are no men’s toilets. This is a feminist café.’
I put on my best girlie voice and say, ‘Of course! I knew that.’ Now I have to go in the women’s and sit down.
It’s a relief to be able to piss in peace, without Umberto the Jack Russel scrabbling at the door. I don’t know why it always wanted to get in. It had some strange thing about closed doors.
I used to argue with her over whether dogs or cats were better. I think cats. They’re sensible. They know when to leave you the hell alone. They don’t shit in your sock drawer. It was useless though. I was as likely to convince her that cats are better as I am to convince a potato to do high-intensity exercise.
I shake off my flaccid penis and stand up. It’s short. I don’t like having a short penis. I waddle over to the mirror on the wall and stretch it out, imagining what it would be like to be hung like a horse. It’s not as if I get any complaints. I just don’t get many girls coming back for seconds. I wish it wasn’t such a complicated operation to get it enlarged.
A good-looking girl walks into the bathroom, sees me—penis and all—and smiles. I’m not sure but I think the look was one of approval. Did she think I was a transsexual? I slide into the cubicle next to her and listen to the sound. Her piss comes out at quite a high velocity and the echo is profound. She’s standing up. She smiled because she / he / whatever has a penis too.
I escape from the toilet and return to the table. My girlfriend is still crying over Umberto the Jack Russel. I stand up and leave. She was boring anyway.
I walk outside and roll myself a joint. It’s cheap shit but I don’t care. I need it because I’ve just broken up with my girlfriend. I take in long drags and feel my muscles spontaneously slip down. This usually means I’m going to pass out but this time I know I won’t.
I pass out.
I wake up in a strange house. Leaning over me is the good-looking transsexual from the toilets. I think this is his / her / whatever house. S/he asks me how I am. I say I think I’m naked.
S/he is very pretty in this light. S/he has that angelic glow about him / her / whatever. I don’t care if s/he is a transsexual, I would like to have sex with him/her. S/he isn’t wearing any clothes, so I resolve that I’m probably not either.
I look at his/her groin and s/he doesn’t seem to have a penis there. I ask him/her if s/he ever had one and s/he looks at me funnily and says no. I’m not sure if I believe him/her because I’m certain s/he had a penis this afternoon. S/he probably wouldn’t have gone into the feminist café if s/he had one. But then that didn’t stop me so why should it stop anyone else?
S/he rubs his/her titties on my chest and asks me if I’ve found Jesus. I think I heard about this. It’s some New Tactic that The Church is employing to Increase Membership. All Roman Catholic Women between fifteen and thirty have to Pick Up Pagans, have Sex with Them and tell Them about The New Church. I liked The Sound of This Church until I found out that Coveting Your Neighbour’s Arse is still A Sin. I enjoy Coveting Her Arse.
I have sex with him/her, take a brochure and leave.
I want to go back home. My ex-girlfriend is still there. If she asks where I was, I think I’ll say I was servicing God.