The Cat Puked on The Carpet (Will You Marry Me?)

Set the clock back, we're not growing old.

Sucking in deep breaths and avoiding the world for a while. What a nice weekend it has been. Indeed, indeed, indeed. Put me on repeat and listen to my words ring truer and truer with every new listen. Mute my worrisome mind, bind my hands and tape my mouth. Don't let a word out, don't let a thought in. Let's fucking ride. Let's take everything we've ever wanted and keep it just for ourselves. I'm sick of sharing the spoils of life with the rest of the world. I want it all, and I want it exclusively for me and for you. I want the sunset and the sunrise. I want the clouds and I want the wind and I want the stars. I want the sea and the salt of the earth. I want the rain, the fog and the dirt. I want someone to gift the whole planet to me. I want to stand on the top of a rise and look over a kingdom that sprawls far further than my weary eyes can see. I want to have the strength of heart and mind to let everything fall into place. I want all the feelings, good and bad, to flood me at the same time. I want the love, the hate, the joy, the fear. I want the tears of the many to outweigh the smiles of the few. I want it all. Every dirty, rotten piece.

Tonight is the perfect time for wishlists. It just feels right. Still coming down from the high of a night on the Green Fairy. My memory has been cleaned and polished. Nothing from last night is left inside my head. What fun. What simple, drunken fun. And a nice Saturday morning spent with extended whanau. Christmas is coming, and we're all bound together to make it that little bit easier on the family Matriarch. We love you, Grandmama. If you forget us one day soon, please know that we'll never let anything bad happen to you.

And I'm in limbo. I want to write fanciful stories about beautiful places filled to the brim with ugly people. I want to tell you all about the soul-grinding cacophony of hundreds of humans trying to have fun inside one wine-soaked bar. I want to be happy for the rest of my life, and die a natural death with my family surrounding me. I want to be drenched in their tears, to purify my wrinkled skin. I want to breathe in their lives, to taste the distilled proof of their love. I want to feel their strong, young arms around my neck when they hug me for the final time. I want my last words to be about love, and all that it encompasses. I want to tell them that I'm ready to leave, and unwind myself from this mortal coil in a hail of tears and remembrance. I never, ever want to forget. I want my memory to stretch on forever, like a yellow brick road across the poppy fields of my existence. I want you to be my Dorothy, and I'll be your Tin Man. No heart, but lots of soul. I'll never leave Kansas until it's time for me to go for good.

And I want to be something more than these words. I want to be a tangible cog in the wheel of this ruined world. I want to be a vital component in the wiring of someone's life. I want to be everything that I'm not. I want to be so perfect, so special, so beautiful. And I want to throw it all away to be the real me. I want my flaws to sit easily with me. I want to be comfortable inside this aging skin. I want to talk like a man who is at ease with himself. I want to rise each morning to your breath on the nape of my neck, and curl myself back into bed each night with a smile of satisfaction on my face. And I want to cry so hard that a tear never forms in the pit of my eye ever again. I want to be desert-dry. I want to be made of stone and filled with beauty. I want my soul to be the vessel through which you find your calling. I want to walk the paths of life with your hand in mine, whoever you are. Let's see this thing through till the end. There's no getting out of it alive, but we'll die trying.

And I want you to understand that these are my thoughts spilling out of my head onto this page, and that makes all these empty wishes ok. I want a cure for this mental-haemophilia that I am inflicted with. I want to stem the flow of thoughts that pour out of me. I need a clotting agent, and I think perhaps it looks like you. But I can't say for sure. I don't know anything worth a dime in the real world. My currency is less tangible than the dollar, the pound or the Euro. I deal in artifice. I deal in hopes and dreams and failures. If memory serves, I'm addicted to words. And they're useless. But I hope they mean the world to you. The world will never be enough for me, but a smile on your face forever will pay the rent I owe to fate and put me in credit for sure. Shucks, I'm getting a little out of whack here. I can barely open my eyes. Sleep is upon me like a night in winter, only less pushy. Caress me back to the bed, lie me down and knock me out. See you tomorrow, you endearing little things. I'll be dreaming of you.

How much did you hate the part in 'The NeverEnding Story' when Atreyu's horse Artax drowned in the Swamp of Sadness?

P.S. The answer to the question at the end of the last post is: Meat.