Underwater Love Pt. 1

This must be underwater love, the way I feel.

I've watched every Salad Fingers documentary and now whenever I think about dark green leafy vegetables I feel nauseous. Kev says it's started to affect my pigmentation. Kev's full of whack. Don't listen to him.

Last night, at the crack of dusk, Kev and I erected a totem pole, crafted by Kev's deft hand from Polish walnut wood, as a tribute to all who lost their lives in the Battle of Loob, 800 years ago. Statistically speaking, more people haven't heard of it than have. We scented it with musk.

For weeks now I've been building a pyre – alone – for a very special purpose. I source the wood from my grandma's old copse. The bluebells are deliciously delicate. Their floppy little bells hang this way and that, turgid with dreamy expectation. I try not to tread on them but collateral damage is inevitable. Besides, they're only a bunch of dangly stupid fucks anyway.

Salad Fingers wowed me today. Unsurprisingly, my legs have no skin left on them. No one told me during my single-digit years about the dangers of chafing. At school chafing was like electric. It was wilder than Digimon or skanking. Reminiscence colours all reflection.

À 8 heures this morning I bit the k-cuffing bullet and burnt all my tight underwear. Suzie has been waxing lyrical about the physiological advantages of Loosey Gooseys for getting on for two weeks now. I'd quite had enough, so I did the aforementioned, and great Caesar's ghost I'm not looking back. Not now, not in a million years.

At my late grandfather's behest, I polished off the stroganoff. What a sentence, but he only served seven years.

“Let's talk about sexuality”, Kev urged me yesterday evening, as we nursed each other's banana-date milkshakes. We had just stood up after tumbling down the gorsey field, and were both prickled like nobody's business. I replied gruffly; not because I didn't want to talk about it at all, just because I didn't feel like talking about it right then and there, with prickles dotting my back like so many dots of luscious black vanilla in a home-made ice cream brew, but in a negative way. He took my reticence the wrong way, and heaved a giant sigh, as if to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I don't respond well to amateur dramatics. As if to prove that point, I picked up the first igneous rock I could lay my eyes on and hurled it at him with all that shot-put coaching I'd vicariously undergone by watching videos on the internet in the wee watershed hours, after my midnight masturbations. Private evenings are the best. The boulder struck him bluntly on the side of the head, and knocked him squarely for six. Not the last time he'll be sorry for saying some shit like that to me, I'll bet. What's sexuality, anyway, besides believing that something should usually go one way, and finding that four or five times out of some, it does?