It was while I was writing today's pathetic attempt at fiction that something began to bother me. That something was the fact monosyllabic is a five syllable word. What the fuck are they playing at? That makes no sense whatsoever. I'm not unreasonable. I'm prepared to allow monosyllabic to have 2 syllables, but that's as far as I'd go. Streamlining is the key. I read a book so now I'm into it big style. That's why I've shaved off all my body hair and covered myself in engine grease. Who needs eyebrows anyway? Does anyone know what they actually do? It's a waste of hair. In order to streamline I have begun to declutter my life. Just finished going through the house and removing everything that doesn't bring me joy. Yeah I read another book.
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I'm going to make myself far more efficient, because when I get something this insane into my head I run with it. I have pretty much emptied the place. Put everything on the back lawn and set fire to it. Of course when she gets back from work she'll throw a bit of a fit. First about my hairless appearance. Then she'll go apeshit when she finds I've burned all her clothes. At which point I'll tell her that seeing her naked brings me great joy. That should calm her down if I know anything about women. It's a compliment about her appearance. I did think about getting her a nice bunch of flowers, but there's fuck all to put them in. Not even a saucepan.
The carpets and the underlay were the worst bit for me. They took some pulling up I can tell you. I've never experienced joy from carpets or underlay. I've never met anyone who has. So out they went. Along with the curtains. The best bit is when the entire place is empty there's a kind of echo. I'm actually enjoying that right now. Sitting on the floor. Naked, hairless and covered in engine grease. The keyboard is very slippery, which has cut on my typing efficiency. But that's got nothing to do with the grease, I assure you. It's all the porn I've downloaded. It brings me joy, that's all anyone needs to know.
I just had a thought there. About the distinct possibility that when my partner comes home she might confiscate my library card. She's threatened to do so before. She's averse to me reading books in general and life enhancing ones in particular. It's the route to success, that's all I know. Eventually, if I go far enough, I'll be able to write my own self help book. Unless I read another book with another crackpot idea and head off down that blind alley. You have to understand that people who write self help books are actually only helping themselves, to your money. If the fucking things worked then judging by the tens of millions of copies these cash cows sell, everybody would be a self made millionaire.
Gotta dash. I can hear her coming up the stairs. I'm going to get the chloroform ready incase she has a bad reaction to what I've done with her vibrator. It may well bring her joy. All produces for me is envy and dozens of flat batteries.