The Room is Delicious, And a Little Bit Gey

I am sitting on my bed in my New Room surrounded by Things. Underneath the Things, the room is delicious and beautiful and even a little bit Gey. I have been having doubts about Cushions, but the Cushions are a secret delight. I did this: I went to the shop - Argos, no less, such class, which is within a five minute walk of my New House - and I bought: 1) An Orthopaedic Pillow and 2) Two Feather Pillows. With the profits from my money-job, I also bought a rug of the sheepskin variety (from Spitalfields, not Argos, ew) and - best thing ever - a sheepskin Cushion which has curly hairs like mine. The other day, when American Sam was still here, we sat on my bed in the early hours of the morning, our feet hurting from dancing and the sky flashing purple, and we buried our hands in its pile. I love that Cushion like a pet. It doesn't shit, it doesn't mow, it doesn't do anything except lie around waiting for me to lean against it or stroke it and sometimes hug it up to my nose and smell its peculiar animal smell. It's not alive now, but once it was: once some of that fur ran around a field and snagged up against barbed wire and pooed and drank and baaaed. It was feral, and I tamed it. Do you have any idea how facking sweet that is?

And. And! There are some little Kraftwerky red-black cushions too that I got in Berlin. Cushions everywhere. That is what I mean by Gey. But hey. The bed, after all, has now but two purposes: sleeping, and lounging. I have had sex precisely twice in this bed - maybe three times, I forget, it was a rushy kind of weekend - and the whiteness of the ironed sheets is a testament to the new lounging / sleeping functions. No obscure stains for me, guvnor: my body is a temple (admittedly, one that is devoted to unsavoury gods) and my room is similarly pristine (underneath the Things). The Cushions are a testament to the new order of Solitude and Working*: two matters that are perhaps intertwined, for who bothers about Working when they are receiving the Hot Meat Injection?

*I refer at this point to Working from Home, rather than Working in an Office, which everybody knows is both stultifying and a giant piece of piss, seeing as how you are shipped to a random and horrible place in which the only thing you can do is to Work until such time as you are shipped back home again. He or she who has never attempted to Work from Home has not known true terror, true challenge. Have you ever tried to Work on, say, some interview with some felon / rapper, when the temptations of Animal Crossing or Medal of Honour lie intoxicatingly close to your fingertips? Have you ever tried to Work on, say, a piece about sadomasochistic ayuascha rituals, when there's floors to be hoovered, dishes to wash, one's clitoris to have a little play with? Really. Forget those Japanese bizarro-torture shows when the little men eat worms and maggots, or swim in pools of cold mashed potato - the true challenge show would fix a camera on the Working From Home Freelancer. WILL she spend all day tutting at an internet message board? WILL she hoover the ENTIRE STAIRS of her three-story house? WILL she play Animal Crossing for FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT? OR will her path be true: her hair unwashed, her dressing-gown on, her fingers aflame on the keyboard? Place your bets NOW!!!!!

Anyway. Lack of Injection means Work and Devotion, which is a new thing for me, troubled by Injection as I have been at all other times in my post-puberty life. What you see here is a Channelling. We shall see how long it lasts. Until then, I shall Lounge on my Cushions, laptop in hand, and scribe The First Great Anti-Electroclash Novel. You heard it here first, homos! Brigitta Fonteyn: a hero for our times. She's a serial killer who slices up chicks in bands like Electrocute and Whatever It Takes. No, wait, she's a feral lesbian who murders homosexual club promoters by sitting her unshaven pudenda on their faces till they suffocate. No, wait - she's a receptionist who delivers pizza flyers at night and thereby stumbles upon a twisted plot to render the entire population of London senseless disco dollies drowning in a vile tide of shallow effluvia by peddling an evil brand of pills that delivers a seamless high and convinces each and every one of them from Sheffield fashion designers to Brixton cinema ushers that they were sitting in a cab with Larry Tee when he came up with the term and that they therefore are the most important person on earth at which point they turn into zombies with a taste for each others eyeballs sucked out at the moment of orgasm. Yes! Yes! That's it! You think I'm joking? Watch and learn, suckahz.

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