It’s no secret that I have a healthy and abiding enthusiasm towards pleasure, specifically the affection a person knows towards themselves. I wouldn’t categorize myself as prolific, at least during the week, in my indulgences towards my dear friend but at the same time he also isn’t exactly famished.
Now before I finish my story, I’d like to talk about the enormity of my friend. You see the fates had been quite kind in blessing me with a friend that becomes large when provoked in an agreeable manor, and my friend has a thick bulbous head when the spirits take me, angry and purple in his intensity. Blessed as the gods have made me, I am cursed to a life where my friend is denied the constant fulfillment that he deserves. He has taken sips from the cup of pleasure, but not the deep draughts that others would be accustomed to.
This is where I found myself a few short weeks ago, vainly attempting to prod my friend from his slumber. He lay coiled at my waist dreaming of things beyond his simple understanding and my efforts seemed to be futile, no song, no art, nothing would stroke the slumbering fires. I twisted and pulled until at last in his apparent death throws his spat out a thick stream of spittle. I was pleased until the next day, when I noticed that my friend’s healthy colour had been replaced by a sad ashy complection, and his once faithful gaze was beady and exhausted. I wish words were enough to console him, but he would have nothing more to do with me. Well that’s not entirely true, but he was quite cross with me when our paths did have to cross, four times a day.
That is just gross.
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