…but it’s dirty!

Be still my quivering loins. Or Lions.

…I should have known that some strange hairy gremlin would be pulling bits of the wing off while growling at me through the monitor.

…with an ice pack cooling the swollen wreckage that passed, a mere seven hours ago, for my lower spine.

…sometimes I see patches of colour and hear voices ordering me to hunt out the designers and stick live lobsters up their bums.

…maybe I should cram a leech up one nostril and let it grow fat on my head’s capacity for generating gloop?