February 19th: The Whimsy

It could be argued that I'm watching an excessive amount of Gilmore Girls and my banter game is at its peak, but how do people cope without The Whimsy?

It has also come to my attention that the notion and definition of The Whimsy is known only to myself and, after much one-on-one alone time, now my cat. Maybe it's because this interpretation is a creation of my very own...maybe.

The Whimsy is the fantasy that keeps you awake at night. It's not the ability to not take things seriously, so much as the inability to refrain from the funny hat. The Whimsy is what you feel when you're ten years old the night before a school excursion.  The Whimsy is Christmas Eve, it's eating cake before steak, it's wanting to try tomato sauce on pancakes because it sounds too good - not that bad, actually. 

I don't know how people live without Whimsy in their lives. You meet people daily who are lovely, and fun, but they have no Whimsy to dance to. And so I have to hold mine in, tight like a...well like a certain part of a religious figure my Catholic grandmother would abhor me describing. But tonight it burst forth, it erupted like an alien from a belly button, puss from a pimple. It was devious, it reveled in my lack of control as it shimmied my hips and slid my boots through the empty car park. The shame. Right in front of the cameras I jived and I gyrated and, in at least three separate numbers, I dipped the broom. THE SHAME. And everyone was watching! It's like the valve is broken from holding the usually torrential flow of Whimsy in the pipes and just releasing it at a high whistle until the pressure stabilizes. And then I'm at work again and ho! The valve tightens. 

Fuck the valve. 

February 19th: Nigh is death

I just ate three Maccas burgers in les than ten minutes and I'm dying. 

This will be my final post.