I did all up asleeping for the Friday you’ve been having because I’m an allergic to your nonsense. Now it’s dark I can creep about in the unlit places and you can’t see me cos you go night blind with the fall of the sun. Or because I poked you in the eye with a coke spoon.
The return of my nocturnal behaviours is no surprise: I don’t like the world when it has other people awake in my bit of it. Most other people anyway. I like two or three people I suppose. Are they bringing me cake? Then I like them quite a bit, at least until the cake has been eaten. Everyone else is a giant wang, even if they’ve got cake. Although I don’t tell them until I’ve got the cake in my grubby little hands.
“Thanks for the cake, you giant wang!”
It’s a term of endearment. No, not endearment, the other one: abuse.
It’s of little consequence to me what you think of my hands but on inspection I find they are neither that little nor at all grubby. They are splendid, guitar-based hands which rightly shun honest work in favour of twitching about and making noises. Or jabbing at papers and screens to form words into sentences.
I like my hands. They also do a darn good gosh jolly wowser job of making cake go from being not in my mouth to in my mouth at a moments notice.