An old friend came to visit. When we were young I spent much time correcting her linguistics.
‘Are you feeling fat-e-guude?’ She enquired not long after arrival.
‘What the fuck’s fat-e-guude?’ I replied.
‘You know, fat-e-guude’ she said again.
‘Oh for fucks sake – you mean fatigued?’
The next day we cycled to the beach.
‘Wow, what a beautiful lake!’ she exclaimed after spotting a vast expanse of water.
Incredulously, I responded ‘Are you insane? That’s the goddamn fucking Atlantic Ocean.’
Later in the week M and I were chatting about his old uni alumni.
‘What’s an alumni?’ My friend enquired as she entered the room.
I glanced at M and then turned to my friend and replied
‘It’s what you call a support group for people with perverse sexual fetishes.’
‘Omg! Really? What type of fetishes?’ She squealed.
‘Mostly sexual.’ I pointed out again.
At this point M couldn’t bear my jesting and told my friend what an alumni really is. Killjoy!
She’s been a great distraction from Bambi’s fuckery and doesn’t complain when I roll out of bed at noon and crawl back in at sundown.
I love this whacky beautiful babe so much but sadly she’s now departed and I’m back on the evil vomituous chemo.
I fucking hate this poison and as each day passes I feel like Captain Blackbeard’s mutinous deckhand being forced to walk the plank.
After a while I find myself washed up on a desert island. That island being my bed. And while I’m castaway I have plenty of time to contemplate.
This afternoon I woke from a 6 hour nap after dreaming about the epitaph I’d like inscribed on my tombstone…
‘She died doing what she loved, swearing like a sailor.’
My fabulous friend posing for the centre-fold!