the whale's lips are sealed
The prodigal son returns. I refuse to say "daughter" regardless of missing bits of dangling genitalia. One must draw the line at literary license somewhere, after all.
come hither - back off
Despite various rumours of my combusted spine, compacted ankle, nervous breakdown, physical breakdown, beached and rotting sperm whale diaphragm, impending national publication, impending jail time, and recent death, I'm sad to report that only the sperm whale holds any truth.
And he's not talking.
I have been repetitively informed over the past 6 months that it's simply not normal for one to remain so very quiet and stand-offish.
Others may get ideas.
May start to question.
May voice concern.
I fail to see the problem. I ensured that I acknowledged the presence of others, and that I acknowledged my own presence to others. Certainly, said acknowledgement may have involved a dead fish and some duct tape, but I've never been one for greeting cards. What's more, all that noisy, blatting socialisation would have kept me from discovering a tear in the fabric of the known universe, crossing over into another dimension, conversing with flat fairies that had what looked like wings, only made from clock parts, and building a faux termite mound in my basement with Sara Lee cheesecake and shellac.
I don't understand why everyone was so worried.
make idle gossip (0 comments so far)
Last 5 entries:
Hosted by Diaryland