And pokes his nose squarely up it’s arse. Trouble turns out and gives him a slap. I am such a bad dog.

So tonight has a thoroughly unpleasant evening. I imagine that we were actually in a sci-fi series and that my character’s development over time has been a slow melt into goo. Afflicted by a hideous alien disease which renders one unto cheese. I am watched sadly by the other members of the crew who urge me to seek out a physician. But I am so very afraid of needles. And the physician is a lunatic, homicidal scotsman. “He is a Scotsman of the mind!” they rant, but I do not believe it. I see only a demon with exceptionally pointy teeth. And why should I retain my humanity? For what? What am I doing with? What purpose do I serve? Someone else can toil with the warp drives, and fix the transmographonic degregulgausserisers. Becoming cheese is an interesting and artistic process. I am Anakin Skywalker the performance artist, dabbling with the dark side as a means of reflecting societies taboo upon itself to make itself aware of it’s inadequacies. But then I discover that cheese is by it’s very nature quite sticky, and so I become stuck to the floor and cannot move anywhere. This presents numerous problems. I am struck often by the desire to be in numerous locations over time, and so must pull upon the collective sleeves and skirts of peers for a quick scrape and flick in a general direction. And because I see the same images and faces for such long periods of time, I stop looking deeply into them at the visions they return to me, but instead only start to see what is projected within from expectation, like when you read too fast over a sentence poorly written because you’re just looking for the gist. But I cannot just get the “gist” of warp drive mechanics. I cannot fudge quantum mechanics. To reply “I don’t remember… I think you stick that thingy in the red bit” is generally frowned upon. And I realise this. And I realise how pungent I am (because I haven’t been where I should have been, which is the fridge) and spent too much time insisting that I am watch, and survey, and slowly am melted by the heat and friction of the whirling activity around me. “Guys” I spluttered, drowning in my own quicksand. “Guys, I’m…” and that’s it. My last words as I drown in my own flaccid cheese-skin.

I don’t especially want to have anything to do with cheese, ever.