Tuesday, January 04, 2005


Our local butcher has Parkinsons.


In town today: everyone looks so fucking old.

Their features are pale and hollow; prematurely aged, as if a vampire has been slowly bleeding them over the last few nights. Their skin is waxy and lined with wrinkles that weren't there a few days ago. In the grey, uncertain limbo-light of deepening winter they look ghastly. These... creatures are barely human; it's all I can do to stop myself jumping on my bike and pedalling furiously for the woods: "Run! The dead are coming! The dead are coming...!"

Two weeks of shit food and relatives have reduced people to mumbling wrecks. (It's like A Portrait of Dorian Gray in reverse: on a CD-r somewhere at home there are digital-photos of them all looking reasonably healthy a couple weeks ago...and in the photographs they will gradually get younger and fitter and healthier while their physical bodies deteriorate and collapse: pustules will bloom like rotten flowers on their faces, hardening into black tumours and open sores will blight their flesh as it rots and festers like Christopher Lee in a cheaply-shot stop-film animation sequence: "Dracula: 2005".)

Look at them, lurching from second-week sale to second-week sale looking for one more thing to buy: it's fucking pitiful. Toxins oozing out of their pores; liver-bile backing-up half-way to their oesophagi. Even Tom Savini (or a month of Raw Uncooked MacDonalds Supersize-Meals) couldn't have created zombies this wretched-looking...

The realisation is sinking in (you can see it in their sunken, yellow eyes): Khristmass is over...all that money I spent and what have I got to show for it...? I'm broke and sick from eating crap and it's still only January and I'm cold...Oh God, please No...

Well, you'll get no sympathy from me. Suckers.

I loooooove Winter.