And then last night, for some fucking reason, I venture out of the house, not to go to work or pick up or drop off a child but to actually meet people. Real live people in real live life. And what do I get in return for this baring of my social soul? I get called fucking 'nice'. And 'not a monster'. I am not fucking nice. I am a fucking monster. If I appear 'nice' it's because I'm faking it, faking it hard. Twelve hours later, my cheeks still ache from the rictus grin of my simulated niceness. If I seem to lack monstrosity, that is because I'm holding said monster of bitterness and self-disgust under the table, under the table and away from my vunerable Johnson which it would very much like to get its mouth on, its teeth into.
All the people that I met were really
Except for that very short cunt on the way to the toilet, in the toilet, on the way back from the toilet. I was lying to you, you tiny tosser. I am off the telly. But if you think I'm going to admit that so that you and our mates can take the piss and regale me with your own 'I once accidentally vomited on Dinny' stories then you can go and fuck. Your persistence, cunt, is undignified and unseemly. It demeans us both. So fuck off, or I'll be letting the real Gimme come out to play.