Deadly silence in the Underground Lair this a.m.
The pitter patter of tiny Doc Martens is conspicuous by it’s absence.
One is alone contemplating One’s ‘delusional’ requirement for something other than a noncommittal shaggette to enrich One’s short time left on earth.
‘Twould appear that the RR had been ‘obliquely’ discussing One’s deepest wants and desires with another of the Granny Fanny Stable which One is cordially invited to join.
As if it’s not enough to be burdened with the prospect of shrivelling up like a prune, growing a beard and generally drying up until One becomes dust, One is expected to remove One’s tack in a stable of similarly faded old harridans.
Delusional or not, and One supposes One is, it is perhaps time to accept the inevitable and abandon all hope.
One is clearly, unemployable, unlovable, and generally unrequired in the grand scheme of things.
It may never come to pass that One’s winceyette nightie is used to keep One’s neck warm again.
And the WN isn’t even here to complain to!
Goodbye cruel world, One is going to recline on the chaise lounge with the back of One’s hand clasped to One’s fevered brow and pray for death to come swiftly.