Tuesday, December 14, 2010


It’s a pilgrimage intended to make HIV exciting, but bring a refined gavel (engraved foliage is recommended), because the orgy won’t take place in a gift shop like last time – we’ll be making many stopovers at porcelain shops instead, where things simply break differently. A retro clock with a Marmite face dents like tin, and there’s nothing funny about that – it’s just not appropriate for our purposes.

Well, the lice-ridden couch surfer was gratuitously hostile. He was out of his element on the shuttle carrier because there weren’t any couches, and once he saw Harriet’s toy smurf he developed an obsession and went smurf scouting in each and every compartment of the shuttle sporting a red, desperate face and grated, eczematic knees, driving people from their sleep.

Perhaps this time I won’t be talking never-ending about getting outsmarted by the senile vacationer. I won’t be making bold claims about how drunkenness empowers jelly (and/or swimming vision, vision swimming drunk at dusk, or under an infrared light in brain warmth) – how avoiding the eye in the castle of jelly on the tray is key to outsmarting hangover shits and headaches. These are lame distractions from the fact that I had failed in the battle of wits with that crazy old man.

‘If you love stem cells,’ the couch surfer cried out with a genuine cry in his voice, ‘you will all chip in and convert this vulgar blob that used to be Martin into a smurf!’ He was just being greedy; we all knew he was at his rope’s end. He hadn’t found a single smurf in the shuttle, and now he wanted us to yield what stems cells we could pick out of our hair and convert someone’s friend (‘Martin’ - who’d deliquesced at the sight of a naked Avatar who’d swung by on a rope) into a smurf! He made it very plain – as only desperate people could – that he had no interest in reanimating the original person. ‘Martin,’ whoever the fuck that was.

Lust as much inhabited (and destroyed) the scaffolds of run-of-the-mill cells as heat inhabited the tabloid tiger: rolling over in the middle of the night, with a groan, we’d very intricately break. Like the box of fleeting sensations none of us traveled without. Not even the loathsome couch surfer. We wore grimy contact lenses. Everything in the pictures we took ended up looking like secondhand water features. Watery, but with a vague semblance of structure. Including the tiger: its heat looked like a series of overused icicles. Just like in the tabloids.

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