08:30am - My eyes tussle beneath their locked lids, like squabbling dogs locked in tupperware lunchboxes, as the dream I've been having about giving messy oral sex to Beyonce Knowles since 8:15am culminates in extreme Terror as her taut teabag twat tears at the centre to make way for Sean 'Jay-Z' Carter's Mike-Oldfield-Tubular-Bell-Swinger, dribbling molten platinum over my shuddering, reedy tongue, fashioning it into a piece of Swiss Ham which, when I drape it with palsied fingers over her Borrow-Burger clitoris, escapes its diameter like a marble falling through a basketball hoop. I wake up screaming, clutching at the clammy clutch of my genitalia and, almost immediately, detecting the smell of extra-curricular sweat. An awful smell, hanging in the air like a bad smell.
08:31am- I look over at my alarm clock, raw Terror falling unto my brain with each tumbling tick of its long, red, Jay-Z's-Cock-Like second-hand.
09:11am- Halfway down the street, as I am telling myself that today will be The New Day on which I will stop putting things off to the last minute and will never sweat again, I realise that the bus I need to catch is arriving at the last minute and sweat begins to geyser from my armpits, psychological-vaseline, lubricating me for my ease of passage into the zone of dog-like Terror. I run for the bus, noticing as I do that my shins are bending like the big stick that arechetypal Woman flexes above me in my daymares, ready to slide lithely down the dangling shaft of penitude that crumbles amongst the undergrowth of mein undergarments. In a blinding flash of Terror, I give the bus driver 3.90 when I only owe him 3.80. Stumbling over a mumbling of 'Oh sorry mate, I'll just uh... I'll just uh', I eventually manage to excavate a ten pence piece from the blackbird's pile beneath my face, and as I sit down in my seat I drop it on the floor, it issues its high report remorselessly above the clamour of confident conversation that resides in this bustling bus and I face, regretful and Terrorful, the face of a somewhat scornful old man in a faded green cagoule. ''He knows'' I think. He's been around for at least 60 years. He's probably been around as long as the Channel 4 news. Longer, even. He's seen enough to know that if a young childe drops a 10p piece on a floor instead of on a wallet, that young childe will not lost as long as him. Will not last as long, even, as Justin Lee Collins' tolerability in the eyes of the general public.
And in that moment I feel a sheer Terror which nobody on public transport in England can ever feel, or has ever felt, I shouldn't wonder. It is the Terror that comes from knowing that your condition, your confidence and very identity, is conditional, a confidence trick, pathetically identifiable.
NEXT: The Terror of knowing that you need to do a big shit as soon as you get into the office but if you do then you will use up that toilet break which you need in about an hour to stop yourself trying to fit the material of the computer monitor in front of you into your eyes with your bare fists.
AND MORE! Probably.
08:31am- I look over at my alarm clock, raw Terror falling unto my brain with each tumbling tick of its long, red, Jay-Z's-Cock-Like second-hand.
09:11am- Halfway down the street, as I am telling myself that today will be The New Day on which I will stop putting things off to the last minute and will never sweat again, I realise that the bus I need to catch is arriving at the last minute and sweat begins to geyser from my armpits, psychological-vaseline, lubricating me for my ease of passage into the zone of dog-like Terror. I run for the bus, noticing as I do that my shins are bending like the big stick that arechetypal Woman flexes above me in my daymares, ready to slide lithely down the dangling shaft of penitude that crumbles amongst the undergrowth of mein undergarments. In a blinding flash of Terror, I give the bus driver 3.90 when I only owe him 3.80. Stumbling over a mumbling of 'Oh sorry mate, I'll just uh... I'll just uh', I eventually manage to excavate a ten pence piece from the blackbird's pile beneath my face, and as I sit down in my seat I drop it on the floor, it issues its high report remorselessly above the clamour of confident conversation that resides in this bustling bus and I face, regretful and Terrorful, the face of a somewhat scornful old man in a faded green cagoule. ''He knows'' I think. He's been around for at least 60 years. He's probably been around as long as the Channel 4 news. Longer, even. He's seen enough to know that if a young childe drops a 10p piece on a floor instead of on a wallet, that young childe will not lost as long as him. Will not last as long, even, as Justin Lee Collins' tolerability in the eyes of the general public.
And in that moment I feel a sheer Terror which nobody on public transport in England can ever feel, or has ever felt, I shouldn't wonder. It is the Terror that comes from knowing that your condition, your confidence and very identity, is conditional, a confidence trick, pathetically identifiable.
NEXT: The Terror of knowing that you need to do a big shit as soon as you get into the office but if you do then you will use up that toilet break which you need in about an hour to stop yourself trying to fit the material of the computer monitor in front of you into your eyes with your bare fists.
AND MORE! Probably.
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