No time for introductions. If you don't know me, by now, (Hucknall) PISS OFF
I sit here, dearest, only reader, waiting for the door to slam, for the engine to fire, for the Uber to take my love away.
I have but one story to tell tonight, and maybe forever. Should you indulge me? As Sir Huxley, my dog, moans in the garden, SHITTING, I sit despondent astride the washing machine as the gentle pulsations tend my battered backside.
I ordered him to my door. BORIS. He was of Poland, but I gave him a name, a stage name, for he was a big Russian bear who tampered not with the American election. I expected a Russian, and I received a Russian. He came to the door and I rode astride him to the local boating lake. Melvin stepped beyond his boundary, but he had yet to audition for anything beyond 'Twat in cafe' from The Bill which had, obviously, been off our screens since before Corrie.
I rode Boris around the lake whilst reciting The Bard. He bucked and tossed beneath me, taken with the words so rich. He had limited capacity for thought, but I assume the same of anyone who learns not Latin.
Reader stop. I cannot continue. I will offer honesty before the Brexit voting vest from next door finally makes it through my door. I am playing adulation to our Lord Jesus Christ as loudly as I can which blends with the aches of Lord Huxley's dog shitting. I am lost. LOST.