I’ve had a fair few hot meals and I’ve had a fair few collisions with brick walls.
All there was left to do following both of these activities (because I do spend my time doing these sorts of things) was to be complimented on how I went about them.
And I am complimented about them.
I am complimented a lot.
I fucking adore compliments.
I’ve been told I’m a natural at receiving them.
False modesty should dwindle down in the English South Downs and die like a dog in the sun-like warmth emanating from the confident folk of Brighton town; self-assured in their assertions and plentiful in immoderate compliments to their kin.
As I spoke of earlier, I’ve ravaged some hot meals and brick walls in my meandering stroll across the surface of where we are and here are some of the crackers which really got my chin up and penis likewise.
“But you look like a muscular piano!”
I mention this as a primary for the list as it speaks eternal fact.
I do look like only a master craftsman could create me whilst also appearing as though I’m as natural as a waterfall in the nude.
I am aware that I look just swell with a dinner-gowned femme-most-fatale lying across my broad LID as though all she wants to do is clamber inside but it was my idea first and so I’m going in.
Finally, it is true…sweet woman.
There is a shade to my hair which suggests that I can produce the most transcendent odes to love and joy the species can conjure, but for some reason, some handsome reason, I’m going to have to do it with my shirt torn across the chest to a degree that women from all eras of time, from Cavewoman to Victorian, peasant to hipster, all wilt at the sight of me and focus on the way I heave a concerto out into the public domain.
Sure, I heave concertos and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not certain as to where I’m heaving it from, nor am I aware as to why heaving it is necessary at all…but I know for sure it gets me compliments.
I look like a muscular piano and I’m damn proud of that.
“Sam. Your hair looks like George Orwell!”
Thank you again for bringing it up as you did.
My main issue with this compliment is that people might assume it’s just an attempt by those admirers of mine to fling some political concrete into the waviness of my shy but not-without-confidence hair.
And there’s no need for that.
My hair is a revelation to our current dystopian society in that it rings true all the way from the scalp to the not-too-distant future; don’t eat each other.
I have a feeling that this needs to be made clear and of course I am inspired by my hair to do so.
People know this about me as much as they know this about themselves; they are inspired by my barnet and the prose it seems to produce…somehow.
Perched atop my head there is a hair-do of substantial flourish; there is no chance that this hair is going to die by any manner other than by waterfall (however naturally nude) or God.
Tweed suits my hair, as does strong tobacco and English furniture. Indeed – all suits my hair, aside from waterfalls and God as they will be the undoing of it and make it a prerequisite for things going south sourly.
I just wish they wouldn’t get involved, but they are insistent.
That’s not the Jehovah God by the way, I’m talking of course about Poseidon – undoubtedly the wettest God ever devised.
This is why he gets together with a waterfall to undo my hair’s natural Orwellian nature; because when one wet thing meets another they generally equate to an unwelcome dryness unbecoming of a young contrarian such as I. Not that I’d agree with such a statement.
The encounters I’ve had with waterfalls and wet Gods have driven my locks to scribble, most devoutly, visions of a mean future without hope of my hair staying un-frizzed by the lashings of moisture unwelcome.
Why must they have so much to do with hidden chests and booty? Why must the fairest of maidens, all welcomingly wet to the ideal moistness of female, be so nearby to them?
I find this all most uncomplimentary, but at least people say my hair looks like George Orwell.
“For someone who’s not a father – I sure want a masculine fuck from you.”
I fuck like my cum is the cure.
And apparently the locals of my locale are hyper aware of this, resulting in a hell of a long night and a multiple increase of things done down by the fire.
I like the fire – it dries my hair out. Plus my sleek pubic region.
My pubic hair is the only hair which doesn’t look like George Orwell – it gives no heed of a brave warm stare into the cold and brutal future.
Indeed, I believe it was Orwell who spoke: “Now you look here, future. If you try to ban my orgasm…I’m going to enjoy it.”
And he was right. So correct my hair could have said it.
Not my pubic hair however – as I’ve said.
Should my pubic hair speak; it’d likely just compliment me and tell me a tale about “Oh the things I’ve seen,” in which crabs are a mortal enemy.
Maybe it’s the way I wear my jumper and get out of chairs with a slight grunt these days that makes the rest of the species wish to go about procreating with the father-figure I am.
Perhaps it’s the manner in which I exude a natural air of “THIS IS MY FUCKING TREE WITH MY FUCKING PEACHES IN IT! SO TAKE YOUR WATERFALL AND TRIDENT AND GET A LIFE, NERD!” which makes the girls (Oh the girls) land on me, as well as, regrettably, the heftier half of the species.
I find myself climbed by the females of local.
They play with my hair and learn harsh lessons from it, whilst also gliding their hands over my muscular-piano-like frame and whispering sweet everythings in my ear.
I’ve perpetually preferred sweet everythings to their counterparts as I like to feel a little more constructive in my flirtations…not that I flirt anymore.
Flirting is for the brave…and I am not brave.
I am merely victorious. That’s all.
I enter bars with my shoes nowhere to be seen and nothing but a lance over my shoulder and a flute in my breast pocket.
Women love a breast pocket in use. And a lance heavily shouldered.
I then take a knee and roar at the sky something seemingly transient yet unyielding and eternally virtuous like: “AAAARRRRGGGHHH” or perhaps even: “EVERYONE – YOU’RE ALL LOOKING SWELL THIS EVENING” before collapsing with such romanticism that a man could never lift me owing to my weighty legs (“It’s as though his bones are made of gold!”) whilst a woman would most certainly rouse me by a sheer touching of my cheek.
I only really wake up these days if a maiden caresses my cheek – all other forms of rising are without any fair form of competition. Nothing compares with a nice bit of cheek caressing first thing, before my coffee and target practise in the owlery (they don’t expect a thing).
My coffee is ground by knuckle by the way. I beat the shit out of what I eat. I also only eat the male of the species; even the coffee bean, as a matter of sheer masculinity.
And the women love that.
All I know is that owing to a combination of my Orwellian hair and muscular piano-like build; I get complimented.
And I love compliments.
That’s why I’ve just paid myself plenty.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you. What a compliment.