chirurgia plastica

I just got up. Outside is too bloody sunny: pufters everywhere lounging around and my thyme is still floppy. I’m going to enjoy the flowers not yet open, bought yesterday for the dinner party: an orgy of ready meals from Waitrose, the Queen’s official caterer. Reading Time Out I released. I deserve a shag. Gimme me a dark sauna. And a cigar afterwards.

Hard on, oh yeah, in my dreams. Looking at myself doesn’t work thinking of the stupid bitch from last night makes worst gimme some kamagra now.