IN WHICH I TRY TO LET SOMEONE TOUCH MY ETIOLATED BODY
Last week I was down in London having "everything" waxed and my roots replastered and my face filled in with the placentas of unwanted babies. I always go to the same place - Minges of Sloane Square - because they know that I do not like to be touched.
When they are waxing my lower downstairs front section they use those things immigrant workers pick up rubbish with in the park. When they are filling my stress lines they use a syringe longer than Nirps's unwashed willy. Just being touched makes me feel nauseous and, given that I haven't eaten since 1993 and that was unintentional, I'm sure you'll empathise.
How, I hear you cry, how do I manage intimacy with my Rock God? Well - he told me not to tell you this but my word count is in peril - he hasn't actually had a hard on since before the Falklands War. He likes to cuddle and I lay glassy eyed until he snores and then I slither away, and wipe myself all over with organic lemon baby wipes. Made with real organic lemon babies.