Every morning before the sun comes up I stuff my silver peacock pipe with sticky, stinking skunk and crawl backwards through a cat-flap into the head of a killer. From time to time I slip out and come here to spew. This is the Vomitorium at my Roman feast.
Time was when my candle-wish, my first-star-like-a-milk-tooth-plea was to read all the diaries in the world. And what a good Sack Posset I must have been, because my wish came true. We have lost our will to secrecy, our capacity for the clandestine, we are all turned inside out and everything is exposed, and I want to play too.
I suppose it is a bit like standing naked at an upstairs window. Most people will walk on by, but some people might see, if they are the rare kind that looks up instead of down. Keeping an internet diary is akin to flashing. Discuss.
Today it is sunny and the light on my computer screen reflects my face. As I type I am confronted by myself. I am a perversion of pretty, beauty defiled. Full lips cracked and sore, nascent and blatant wrinkles, a couple of cuts on my cheeks and my poor, tired eyes, the dark circles beneath them receding into the flesh. My hair has matted into impromptu dreadlocks. The hair on my legs and under my arms is as long and thick as on a man, and between my legs it grows straight and smooth, like an animal’s pelt. I do not mind. My body is just the bag I use to carry around my malice and my glee.