The night before the morning after, and the morning after the night before...
The night before...
The time was 12:30, the place was my bedroom. I lay alone on my uncomfortable bed, waiting for the dull release of sleep and dreams. Images of John Barrowman and David Tennant in S+M gear swam in my head as the trees outside swayed like so many drunks covered in frosty cobwebs. From nowhere rain rushed to the ground, and I looked out the window to see the once clear nightscape was covered in colourless cloud that began somewhere beyond the horizen and continued far from when my view ended.
And that is how I lay for what seemed like an eternity as I listened to the boisterous noises of my teenage brothers and mother preparing themselves for bed too. The hours passed, and as they did a bizzare realisation came to me. Not bizzare in the sense that it was all that unusual, but bizzare in the sense that I had never before realized it and I couldn't believe that I hadn't.
The fact is I realised that all men are complete tossers.
This may be because I have PMS that could make the Empress of Racnoss look friendly, or that I simply reached some other level of female conciousness where we all reside from time to time. Either way I realised my goal in life should be to hook a rich one, have his babies, then screw him over and move to some exotic country with my hot lesbian lover, Sarah Ooi.
Yes, the position of hot (asian) lesbian lover is now filled. Please would all hot (asian) lesbians and bisexual women move toward the exit in an orderly fashion. The next position to be filled will be rich and cute husband, please would all rich and cute men post their details immidiately.
-x-
The morning after...
I awoke, after several weird dreams about theatres, secret passages and having to escape because I was caught doing one of my exs on a chaise lounge in an attic (which no one was happy about), then a strange soliloquy when I found three hazel nuts in a Quality Street sweet. Oh, and yes, the one where Doctor Who opened a florists. I really don't know what goes on in my mind sometimes. But anway, I awoke and dimounted the duvet (absolutely no idea how I ended up mounting it in the first place, I assume it had something to do with the florist) to bounce downstairs into the loving arms of my mother.
Mother: "That man's dead."
Claire: "Oh..." (wonders who the hell has died now, and what to wear to the funeral...)
Mother: "We've lost a lot of celebrities this year, look at the paper."
Claire: "Hang on, which man is dead?"
Mother: "Saddam Hussain!"
Somewhere inbetween going to sleep and waking up Saddam Hussain became a celebrity, and the world had mourned the passing of so many others who we bore no relation or friendship to. The entire world stopped was I contemplated if people were really so vacuous and hollow that the worship of others was th eonly thing they were left with. If really in the past thousand years we had not progressed, but regressed to some primitive state. Part of me wants to say that the unintelligent, the peasantry, have always needed something to worship, to give their lives meaning and course, hence religion was created.
Other parts of me want to save them from their lives of degeneracy.
But most of me, the most vital part, wants to set up a cult and make them worship me as I should be worshipped: As something far beyond what they could ever be.
xx
Fefe