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Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Suffering spastic

I still have no phone. I still have no fop haired protector. I am still a zombie, a golem for my Grandmother. I don't know why it is so hard, these things that everyone seems to find so easy. I went into a mobile phone shop and after standing in what seemed to me like a hideous vision of dystopic future, and began to softly cry. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Young men from India sat behind desks talking to young women from Essex. There was no counter, there were pictures of phones but no phones. None of these modern humans came to my assistence when I started to weep. When they saw my tear stained face they averted their eyes in embarassed disgust. They did not want to even witness my ugly inadequacy, my stupid suffering. I pulled myself together and hovered around the desk of one of the Indians. He was talking incessently and at length with a screechy voiced complaining girl. I was not uyp to this level of aggression. He seemed to be selling her insurance, and offering her a contract, and asking for a credit check from a bank. I began to cry again and ran from the shop in terror, I ran all the way to my Racer and cycled all the way back to my Grandmother, who has descended into hell recently on the most daring of all of her spiritual journeys. She has become possessed by some kind of devil, but is hoping to overcome the devil with a battle of the souls. Once she has consumed this devil, she will gain its strength. She then intends to go on snow balling her spiritual power until she is mighty enough to win the greatest battle of all and destroy the prince of Darkness, Satan. Then she will have freed mankind from suffering for ever. But she needs more heroin to achieve this and demands that I sell my belove racer. She is huddled up and skeletal in a brown fake fur coat on the bare floorboards of an abandoned house. She believes she will save the world, and wants me to sell the one thing that has brought me relief. I cry again, the same helpless frustrated tears. My blood is boiling. I storm out and slam the door behind hind me and cycle cycle cycle, unsure where I am going, car head lamps a psychedelic blear. I am in Soho, angry hositile faces looming out at me. I need vodka.


  • At 9:58 AM, Blogger hen said…

    Remember the tears of the heart water the flower bed of art.

  • At 12:03 PM, Blogger Sadia said…

    So does piss.

  • At 1:56 PM, Blogger hen said…

    and don't forget poo. Tears, poo and piss the eternal golden triangle of creativity.


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