Fragment #39 - Dishes

Monday 23rd August 2010
In Glasgow

I have seen things. Things that we as puny humans have no right to know of. Entities that should not be. Cruelly twisted abominations, vile mockeries of life as we understand it in our primitive primate brains. Bubbling, churning, black, iridescent, amorphous nightmares, summoned out of the most fevered night terrors of childhood given substance by some unholy means! Lovecraftian horrors from the back-of-beyond come out of their aeon-long imprisonment to show humanity new kinds of fear, come to spread their blasphemous corruption – fed with abhorrent terror – through our very minds and souls, subjugating and enslaving us as chattel for their inscrutable unimaginable amusements and for feeding, with rapturous relish, upon all the sweetmeats that man's entrails have to offer. Okay reader, I admit that it's possible that I may be laying it on a bit thick, but you have to understand, I'm doing the dishes.
I'm disgusted by myself, actually disgusted and ashamed – well not ashamed as such, some of the things here could be considered an achievement to some people as a matter-of-fact – so it's with a mixture of pride and shame that I speak to you. Well, a mixture of shame, self-disgust and pride. But not really pride as such, more an acknowledgement of success, well not quite success, nothing like a gasconade, more like a... a... but I digress.
Doing the dishes can sometimes be an illuminating experience. I find it a good method to find out what I've been up to over the past few months. It's just as with archaeology, there are layers which hold a record of the past, it differs in that they deal with layers of earth, I'm dealing with layers of unspeakable filth. Anyway – I now know that on Thursday night I had some curry and that I killed at least four wasps, I step over to the chalkboard on my wall and add yet more kill-marks, evidence for use in my future trial for war-crimes.
Archaeology aside, I do feel disturbed sometimes by what I happen to discover between plates of fermented mouldy atrocity. Underpants this time, not mine, I gingerly put the plate back, trying not to gibber and sob in pathetic distress and stare with trepidation at the rest of the effort that spans ahead of me, eating into the time I planned to spend sodomising my imagination with dirty, sordid and just wrong internet pornography.
I reel back in stunned shock when I open a polystyrene take-away box, catching myself before I scream like a little girl watching her parents get eaten by a hoard of rabid wombats wearing pink tutus and t-shirts bearing the image of Margaret Thatcher stealing children's milk. My first thought is to grab the disinfectant and hold it out as if to defend against some violent assault from the colony of things that have built a civilisation there. But then my usually pacific mind goes on to query the morality of the issue: Do I have the right to just arbitrarily exterminate them because they look evil? How am I to know if they're an intelligent species, perhaps the appearance of being made exclusively out of evil is some form of communication... I give the bleach bottle a good, long squirt to make sure that the growth is well saturated. The look of being made of evil was an attempt to communicate the fact that they were made of evil – I'm sure of it.

Reader, if you're one of those people currently sitting comfortably in a clean and tidy house who are currently thinking “What a fucking looser” then I have this to say: Fuck you! There is an old Arabian curse that calls upon the fleas of a thousand camels to infest your armpits. I think it should be updated for people like you. I hope the fleas of a thousand camels come and rape your ear... rape your ear to-death. Yes, I know – that's a lot of fleas doing a lot of rape.
I give the mess one last hard look, before making a vow to return one day. The filth may have defeated me today, but one day... one day.