***
That's how I was going to start this entry. I didn't notice the typo at first. If I was gold, I probably would be miserable, as I'd be unable to move easily or feel the warmth of human touch. Like Midas. Or C3PO.
On the other hand, I could cut off a finger and buy a house.
Let's try this again.
***
I'm cold and miserable.
I was going to write about going to see Josie Long at the Cellar last night (she was, as ever, excellent), and going to McDonalds to get change for the bus. Ate a Big Mac. It was nice.
But I don't really have the spirit to pull it off. Instead, I'll write an epic fantasy novel.
The Thorns of the Alchemist's Wolf
Chapter 1
Kilnarfrigan shielded his eyes from the glare of twin suns. His golden hair shone as brightly as a third (sun).
Moving quickly, he loaded his steed, Pistleflip, with provisions. Kilnarfrigan checked the gleaming blade of his sword one last time before ensheathing it betwixt leather and buttock.
Kilnarfrigan's people had seen much bloodshed these past eighteen-hundred years. And there was yet more to come.
Kilnarfrigan mounted his horse and released a thundering cry of war (ie. "WARRR!!!"). His sinews strained, and his frankly ridiculous pectorals rippled beneath the hessian vest that had once been his father's. The latter was now lain to rest in a ceremonial crypt, with roughly three other people. His father, not the vest.
The sun rode low over the horizon; like a drunk on a motorbike trying to pick gum off his shoes.
The evil hooded hairy haggard hopeless hordes of Hell were gathering, licking their encrusted lips, contorted in orgiastic cannibalistic ritual, drinking pints of black ooze: the blood of Jeremy Kyle.
***
I got bored. I'm sure you can empathise.
I'll probably be back later to talk about the BNP or witches.
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