So thanks to everyone who wished me well yesterday for getting a year closer to death. I look forward to repaying y’all in similar style in the near future.
Aging sucks, if only because it makes it crystal clear how deluded and wasted my youthful days were.
The teenage TKK figured that in his early thirties he’d be the head of a military junta somewhere in Patagonia, addressed as El Presidente and letting loose an occasional volley of bullets into governmental ceilings when the mood took him.
Instead, I’m sat in a psychiatric administration outpost in NW1. Next to me is a demented old bat with a polar bear fetish. For reasons known only to me and one significant other I have a glove puppet in my bag.
If Latin America is calling, I hope the reception is good when they dial.
But other non-banana republic things concern me about getting older.
For one, do I still qualify as an angry young(ish) man?
Apparently so.
On date No. 5 with K Mk II yesterday I let slip my wish of seeing Camden Town torched (close, but no cigar, a few weeks ago). My alternative fantasy is of Godzilla stomping through the lock, trashing the place and bellyflopping on the World’s End as a closer; yesterday, I went with the firestorm.
Realising that I might have inadvertently revealed a side of myself I’d prefer not to at this dancing bear stage of the dating process, I admitted to a momentary glimpse of my inner misanthrope.
Not that there was any need for this confession.
Apparently, I’ve been like that since the first date.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a Patagonian military dictator of me just yet.
