Tenderhooks and postmodernism

It's rather amusing (in a detached and evil way) on how much I can read into several lines of an email. Of course, the cruel and maniacal (and dominant) side of my ego is convinced that anything I receive that mentions a 'chat' with somebody in particular is merely the warm up to a large and nasty gladitorial combat where I am tied to a stake while lions, tigers and bears (oh my) fight to eat, devour and destroy my vital organs in the slowest and most painful manner possible. I'm not looking forward to that. A quick and painful death would be preferable, and that would have probably come in the email if it was a) meant to be a death, or b) meant to be a painful death. The fact that the said email didn't being with the lines 'fuck off you scary home boy' is very good, and the fact that the term 'chat' was used in lieu of the phrase 'we need to have a talk' is very good.

The amount of non-seedy self abuse I put myself through is remarkably severe. In a previous life in the olden days I was probably one of those who was convinced that a) the sky was going to fall on my head, b) that the day of judgment was upon us, c) that the minister's daughter was really hot but that because I was thinking unpure thoughts I should be stoned and then hung drawn and quartered. d) I probably read too much into the stone tablets we passed each other on the way to the colosseum to watch the annoying little god folk get devoured by the same lions, tigers and bears (oh my) that were metaphorically destroying my real and imagined vital organs in a cacophony of pain and real and imagined self-flagellation.

It's far more enjoyable to write this type of blog however, far more me. So while I might be putting myself through that big meateater of life, at least my literary self appears to be having a good time of it. We shall call him Heathcliff, and he revels in railing against the elements.

Bastard.