what a strange holiday

One’s experiences tend to appear in subtle or obvious ways in one’s writing. To some extent this is inevitable. I have had quite a weird life, so I guess this may explain some of what goes on when I place my fingers on the keyboard. I’m not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing for my writing. I’d like to think good.

Perhaps we’ve all had normal lives, but they appear weird only to us. Draw your own conclusions after reading one of my books. Would a normal person write that masterpiece?

So now let me tell you about my strange holiday. The problem is that I am very conscious of protecting people’s identities. For this reason, names will be changed and many details omitted.

I spent this Christmas and New Year with one of my oldest, dearest friends, my girlfriend and a deranged slut. My boardshorts were stolen by a midnight intruder and I was attacked by an angry old man.

Having my boardshorts stolen wasn’t so bad. I saw the intruder (in fact I awoke to see him climbing in through my bedroom window) and I scared him away with a mighty war-cry. (did I mention writers are hardcore?) The boardshorts were old and, if I have to rationalize it, reminded me of a difficult time in my life (although I did buy them to wear on a yacht in the South of France). The boardshorts weren’t such a big deal, really, and I felt like I had defended myself well, so we can put that event aside.

Being attacked by the angry old man wasn’t so bad either. I was once attacked by an insane homeless woman and that was far worse. She hit me. This time, I wasn’t in direct physical contact with the old man — he merely threw a stone at the car I was driving and only grazed the passenger door. The best part was that it wasn’t my car. In fact it was Archibald’s car, which he had recently modified for entertainment purposes. It was quite entertaining, though perhaps the old man hadn’t found the sound of the engine quite as pleasantly stimulating as we did. What a stick in the mud.

Far more grueling than either of these events was the encounter with the deranged whore. Now be careful about who you tell about this.

To keep things safe, I’m going to change my friend’s name to Archibald. The deranged whore will be referred to as Slutty van der Whore or something similar.

People will do a lot of things in the name of insecurity. I’m sure we can all relate to having encountered somebody whose behaviour was a little bit inappropriate. That girl who eats a banana with too much enthusiasm, that guy who greets female co-workers with an open palm to the bumcheek. Sometimes it’s entertaining.. Usually it’s most fun when you’re a hormone-crazed teenager. As a civilized adult, it can sometimes be quite uncomfortable.

This case was excruciating. The girl was demented. I have never experienced anything like this. You could not glance in her direction without a boob being flung into the open or some bedroom eyes being fixed unblinkingly upon you. No wholesome pursuit was safe. Try to read a book, she’d lean over your shoulder and stuff a boob in your face.

I think I finally understand a bit of what it can be like for ladies who get harrassed at work. What a vile nuisance! What a filthy insult!

First my girlfriend and I held battle council. I openly admitted that I had no idea what to do. Any kind of attempt at communication was turned into something dirty, sticky and whore-of-Babylonian. I was flashed or overtly signalled perhaps fifteen times per day. This is how it went:

“look at my tan line” (flash)

“Brrr, it’s cold” (squeeze boobs towards face)

“Hahaha, how funny!” (bedroom eyes)

We quickly agreed that the situation was unplayable because the girl was clearly demented and the only sensible approach was for me to avoid and ignore her wherever possible.

It was hell. She even poked my nipple on new year’s eve, but that is towards the end of the story.

At first I thought it might work if I persuaded Archibald to get frisky with her. Maybe it would calm her down, satisfy the demented need for attention. I politely suggested that he do a civic duty and give her some male attention. Archibald goes to the gym a lot and has had some plastic surgery, so I thought it might work.

Oh lord, it worked far to well. Archibald and Slutty van der Whore start getting frisky, but she still can’t stop flashing everybody. She keeps dropping her sarong to flash her asscheeks, she keeps “adjusting” her bikini. She’s like some kind of sick cartoon, worse even than these.

It gets worse by the minute. They’re getting all lovey-dovey. Next thing, Archibald and her are making guacamole. No metaphor, the real deal. To this day they are still involved. I feel like the world doesn’t make any sense.

Maybe it’s not the world — just human beings.

The holiday gave me a glimpse of a very scary world that I try to avoid. It made me rethink gender roles. I have had so many deep thoughts about this, I think I might drown.

I’m not sure if I should publish this post — I think I’ll save it as a draft for a bit and decide whether to publish it at a later stage.

Guess what? I decided to publish it. And great news, Archibald finally got rid of Slutty van Skankwurst.

I kneel down and thank god every day, because I think I would rather die than be the best man at my dear friend’s wedding, only to have to again defend myself against inapproprate advances from his bride.

I would like to mention that I am working on a couple of projects at the moment, one of which has been largely inspired by Archibald. More about that in the near future.



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