ARSE

Today I got my eletric guitar back. You know, Tomi, the guitar that you read about a few posts back. She looked like shit. Apparently, a few months in a guitar bag is not good for your guitar. I should have paid more attention to her.
So as I was scrubbing her tonight I thought about how much music is a part of me. I'd say about a quarter of my soul is music, the rest being made up, in equal parts, of writing, reading and friends/family. But my god did the music part of my soul look a mess. Fortunately, I have cleaned up Tomi very nicely: A good thorogh scrub with paper towels and Pledge and she is looking quite shiny and clean. Unfortunately, there is no Pledge for my soul. My sould is going to stay grimy, mouldy, dented and unclean. You have a different view? Good for you. Obviously you have been in direct contact with that big ole Pledge can in the sky, and about once a week you probably give your sould a good once over. Well, if this is the case, could you tell him to just pop round my way? And bring a scourer. Because my soul is disentergrating, and I could really do with the delux treatment.
But no matter how often I ask all I get is silence.
I am not going to bore you with my exploits of the last few days. Just be content in the knowledge that I feel like arse. No doubt sooner or later I shall get over that. The arse just seems to come and go. Like a bear weaing a chicken suit, with human eyes the vibrate back and forth showing the diseased and discoloured whites that nevertheless still see through you and hack you into peices as they twitch pass with each ossolation.

A bear in a chicken suit you say? No, I am being one hundred percent serious. It was the scariest thing I have seen in a very long time. I woke up in a sweat.