English Anguish – Arising Pen
[How] I made it through the week of slurry.
[ How] I waded slop, [how] fibres clung to armpits, till I took one great mouthful and flopped. I became the man in sand, the quicksand, drowning quicksand, very dramatic until Bruno tossed me his broom handle:
‘You saved me, Bruno,’ I cried, wiped grains from eyes, my hand gripped tight in the wires of the broom itself.
But it was no broom, and Bruno required pay-back for this selfless erection held over pond. [something like that]
[I] Celebrate survival at least, made it to Friday 6pm, a holiday, 36 hours of rest clips online, and not like an American holiday[,] at work. Americans never take holidays. I can drink whisky for one hour alone, probably. Any longer, we or I might hurl each other out of the window, trust me, I have dangled [for her]. Ew
So, also time to re-build my blog -having deleted 99% of my blog in the week I applied for a job -during anguish week. I shall build a new biography, not self-obsess quite as much about the homoerotic, or senselessness of title ‘Dry Sailor Boy’ in the market for new management roles, words to that effect, consider re-title as wet sailor boy. No longer shall I hate readers, or hate writers, aspire anew to a pen role, piggy. I will write tomorrow, hooray.