Fat Alcatraz.

I'm watching Excess Baggage. I never watch television. But they advertised it as a feel good show and I was feeling depressed.

It's marketed as a weight loss show but it's more like watching convicts who have eaten their ball and chain run about trying to lose it so they can jump the fence. Everyone feels bad. The Celebrities and the Ordinary Australians all feel like shit. Self loathing is the great equaliser. They've been stuffing themselves with Junk food, soft drinks and microwaved cheese. They all admit to being lazy, fat and loathsome pigs. But between a coach, a shrink and a dietitian they're all going to be whipped and humiliated into shape.

So I wouldn't say it was feel good unless you're into mainstream sado-masochism. 'See Fatty Run. Watch Fatty being screamed at. Watch Fatty weep, Fatty eat, Fatty crawl about in the dirt.' There's dignity somewhere under all those pounds of flesh. But it might take a meat hammer to get to it.

The Camera Person must have had a brief to make everyone look hideous. There is not a pimple, line or cellulite crater that the camera doesn't manage to highlight. The stylist is a prison warden who shops at Kmart. The Celebrities and Unimportant people morph into the same pasty blob.

The experts are full of cliches about how to lose the ball and chain. It's a one size fits all solution. Neat and cheap. A bottom line for big booty. Everyone is told to take responsibility as though we don't all live in a nanny state where we are regulated into submission on a daily basis. We are powerless as children and this show proves it. Junk food fills our emptiness and quells our RAGE and frustration. The dreams we can't live we will eat.

Enter K-Fed. The The man famous for impregnating Britney and sending her nuts enough to show us her puss. He used to be a dancer and now he's a blimp. His punishment is served boiling hot, in the Kimberleys of Australia. where you'll be forced to confess all the pizzas that he gorged on Britney's money and get down and dirty with a pack of Aussie bogans.

That'll teach him!

I can't say his presence adds to the convict mix in fact it's a little ridiculous. He doesn't have to lose his ball and chain because he comes from the country where he has a right to pursue happiness. He is what bliss looks like served back in bulk. Not of these measly Australian portions on America. Their plates could feed an Aussie family for a week. Their cocktails come in jugs and cost six dollars, (ours come in thimbles and cost sixteen.) It takes serious money to get fat in Australia. And serious Chutzpah to know how to swing it....

Bring on Ajay Rochester whose taken fat from the gutter to the red carpet and back to the gutter again. But nobody really cares what size she is because she's most famous for Welfare Fraud. Which personally is I think is a little bit fabulous. I mean nobody else can do it. The peasants will tell you!You earn one dollar extra and alarm bells start to ring and the machine goes ballistic a pile of nasty envelopes shoot through your mail box. Usually it's only the One percent who get to rip off the government? All the girl was doing was trying to Occupy her bank balance. I mean Godfather Bilson has liquidated as often as Ajay's gone on liquid diets. And nobody calls him a criminal. But Ajay it seems will be tarred with that brush for the rest of her life . Which is partly why she's perfect for this program.

Which should be sold as Alcatraz for fat people.

It's terrible to see Christine Anu in the mix. For me it says a lot about how we treat Showgirls over forty. One minute you're a national singing Icon and the next you're scrabbling around the dust earning your dollar! If Showgirls were Polar Bears, Peta would have kicked in by now. But alas there is no rescue. She is paired with a weeping gay bogan and now she must play Fag Mama. Because Mummy is the only role allowed to middle aged women in Australia. Either that or Aunty and nobody listens to Aunty...

Every body's inner child is going nuts!

The rest of the celebrities aren't even worth talking about except maybe for Darren. The gnarly pit bull paparazzi with the fake abs who is partnered with a blonde tank who can't stop crying. He yells, she weeps, she weeps, he yells. Then he gets told off for bullying. Which leaves him looking confused? And to be perfectly frank I don't blame him. The show is a head fuck.

Bring on Doctor Happy. A nerdy vibeless version of Charles Manson who sits the fatties on an uncomfortable rock to talk about Happiness and then forces them to face their fears by swimming in a billabong full of crocodiles.

And by now they have been infantilised enough to believe him.

Part of me wants someone to get eaten just to wake this mob up!

Or at least wake me up.

It's like the narcissistic cycle in reverse. Discard De-value Idealise.

If you don't get eaten by crocodiles or have a heart attack then you'll get to roll in the mud like a pig, be shamed by scales and lectured by bores. If you get through this and lose the bail and chain around your hips, you'll finally be released back into society again. Bring on the stylist. Open the curtains. A Star is Born in the final reveal.

Well that's the way the script is sposed to go.

But like all narcissistic love stories it never turns out quite the way that you imagined it.

Last week the viewers turned off in droves and now Channel Nine is threatening to lose its Excess Baggage before the baggage has been lost. You can't fast forward weight loss, well not without bag of cocaine and a big bottle of weight loss pills. So the humiliation that these fat convicts have endured has no final redemption. They are forever a 'Before', never an 'After'.

The carpet pulled on the 'Make Over'.

They will be cast back to their lives of secret midnight snacks and microwaved cheese and remain forever fat in television memory. Life is cruel.

To call this show 'feel good' is Orwellian.

I'm still depressed.

The Cat The Chair and The Guido.

THUD

I thought he was Adonis. But that was before he turned me into a Chair. now I see him more as a Mama's boy with a flat screen tv that he never turns off. Since I've lived in his house I've turned wooden, lost my stink and and my heartbeat. I'm not even human. I'm a Chair! And now I am a chair I can see he's no Adonis! The truth is he's more of a Guido. Smooth and sorta stupid. All his girl friends sound like Effie from Wogs outta Work. One of them laughed at my name, not knowing the walls are made of paper and I could hear her. I can hear everything.

SWEETHEART.

He stands outside my bedroom door and calls to the cat every morning.

SWEETHEART.

He yells like he's living in a double brick mansion. As if anyone has to yell to be heard in this box? We can hear each other fart and sigh with a hallway and bathroom between us

SWEET HEART.

He calls me Sweetheart too so it wakes me! Then the sound of breakfast television filters into my ears. What's the point of surround sound if you don't use it? What's the point of a flat screen tv if it's not on night and day?

I measure his moods through the remote control. So does the cat. When he turns up the tv she jumps from his lap and starts pacing. I grit my teeth, close the paper doors and creep off back to my cat perch. The cat perch is comfy. I feel like I'm safe here. I was restless for a week trying to find a corner to settle into. In lieu of a room to call your own there's nothing like a perch. The cat wants it back but bad luck. She's not getting it. This perch is all I've got. It does me nicely. My needs are simple. A desk, a chair. A power point. I lived without those needs for almost a week until I found this spot. And now the cat hates me.

THUD.

But not as much as she hates him. At least she doesn't piss on my bed. Good on her! I would piss on his bed too if all I got for dinner was dry food and water. Just because she's damaged doesn't mean that she doesn't have fine tastes. Sweetheart and I have a lot in common. He rescued her from a shelter. And he spared me from having to live in one while I find accommodation. I'm on the run from Perth. She's on the run from Adelaide..

THUMP.

No doubt he loved her too in the beginning. I'm sure there was wet food and treats to begin with. The first night I moved in he cooked me mashed potato with sausages. Mashed potato is my ultimate comfort food. We drank wine and flirted. I was high on his cooking, his smell, his good looks and all the Adonis attention. I had left a beer soaked mine in Perth to come to to civilised Adelaide. What a city! What a dream land. What a hunk of a man. He made me dizzy.

And then when I put down my fork he said 'You know when Leo told me that you were a Reporter for Simon Townsend's WonderWorld and all the things you do I thought I'd be sexually attracted to you. But I realised when I met you tonight that I don't find you attractive at all'. And he started clearing the plates. That was it. Conversation over.

What a weirdo?

And from that moment on and every day I've since spent here, I slowly turned from a hot blooded woman into a chair. Yes a chair. An odd type of objectification. At least when you're sexually objectified you're still human. But a chair is just a piece of wood. It has no sex. It has no feelings. You don't ask a chair if you are going to move it. You just move it. You don't have to turn the tv down for a chair because a chair has no ears. You can ignore a chair. You can shift it to one side without apologising. You don't ask a chair how they're feeling? A chair is there for your arse to have somewhere to sit. Nothing more. Nothing less. If I sat down on his couch and a re-run of 'friends' came on the tele he would sit on my head until he heard my muffled screams and then he'd say...

'Oh sorry Sweetheart. Didn't see you!'

It's not a very dignified position to be in. So I hung out in the courtyard like an odd piece of furniture and paired up with the Cat Perch. It's the only spot that Adonis won't wipe down and sanitise my stink. There's no point wiping down chip board. It reflects nothing and leaves splinters in your cloth. So I am safe here. Around Adonis I feel feral and swampy. Like I leave a snail trail. In his house I am always re-tracing my steps with cloth and a bottle of Windex. You'd think I had the arms of Medusa I leave so many finger prints. That's why I like the Cat Perch. You can't scratch it or stain it. Well you can but the cat doesn't care. She just wants me off it because the smooth surfaces are driving her crazy too. There's barely room for one cat in this house. Let alone two. She has no space at all now. But I'm not taking responsibility for all her issues. That cat needs a shrink.

Since Adonis is training to be one so you'd think they'd be the perfect couple. But Adonis doesn't have a zit of empathy. He doesn't have a zit either. Or a wrinkle. He's Adonis. He's beautiful. Just don't scratch the surface or leave any crumbs on the bench in the kitchen. He likes his surfaces. empty, smooth and glassy so he can see himself in them. Cats, on the other hand, subscribe to the Quentin Crisp version of Happiness which 'consists of living in the continuous present all over your body for as long as possible.' Cats understand this instinctively. Cats need to rub up against things that rub them back and to climb and to play hide and seek and feel shrubs rub up against their faces.

But in this box there's nothing to play with. The small courtyard we share is closed in by a clear corrugated awning and hot tin walls. A table sits in the middle. The table is clean and bare and smooth like everything else. When the sun hits the table in the morning you can look down and see the shadow of your face in it. Through the awning the heat burns a hole the back of your head.

The cat has only polished floorboards, hot stone and concrete to rub herself up against. So she rolls around in the litter box and gets gravel and shit in her fur. I try to comb it out with my fingers. She's stopped caring for herself. I can relate to this. Since living with Adonis I've stopped looking in the mirror. I'm a chair. Who cares what I look like? Adonis absorbs everything around him. Including me.

The Cat meowls at the top of the hot tin fence. She wants to climb that fence but it's smooth and shiny and she's been de-clawed. She's double thwarted. Every time she makes a leap for the fence she lands with a THUMP on the concrete. Then she picks herself up and tries it again. Wild vines peep over the top of the fence from the neighbors. It looks cool and luscious. The vines reach like fingers to beckon her. She looks up in despair trying to gage the jump. The white cat next door can manage to do it. But that cat has confidence, strong legs and sharp claws. That cat leaps over the hot tin fence at least three times a day. Her mobility mocks us.

I have nowhere to go yet. And Sweetheart has no claws. Just two soft pads like a cartoon cat. They slide down the shiny surface of the fence. She falls to the ground with a thump. Picks herself up, flings herself at the fence again and again. Thump Thump. THUMP. It's unbearable. I want to fling her over the fence just to have it over with. I can't stand it. But it's not like I have any say. I'm just a chair. It's not like I'm PETA. And Adonis is watching...

'Sweetheart what are you doing? '

Does he really expect her to answer him. It's obvious what she's doing. What's he doing? He doesn't pick her up. He doesn't stop her. He doesn't lift a finger to try to help her or comfort her. Because it's all about him. Her need to escape is bringing up all his 'abandonment' issues. He sits there docile as a soft toy.

'She hates me.'

'Maybe she's just depressed?' I offer.

'Sweetheart?'. his voice goes up like a question mark.

She ignores him and throws herself at the fence again.

'She hates me. She really hates me'

The cat falls to the floor like a sack of potatoes and wipes herself across the concrete getting ready for another suicidal leap.

'Look. She wants to get away from me She hates me'

'No she doesn't. She doesn't hate you!'

THUD.

But what do I know? I'm just a Chair.

Feral cat in a cage j hammer oil on canvas sold 150 x 120cm by Jonny Hammer.

BORING. SO BOOOORING!

I was walking up the main drag of Freemantle trying to sniff out a vibe. He was lounging like a pirate on his plank hurling furious words and booing at strangers who scurried past afraid of him.

SOOOOO BOOOOOOORING.

People run from a mouth with this sort of velocity but to me it was glorious. Part cyclone, part volano with a halo of red dust kicked up each time he opened it. He had a hat with a feather, missing teeth and a majestic profile that he wouldn't let me video. He carried a golf bag with a pirate flag stuck in the top of it. He had a small tin with a bud in it and a pouch of tobacco and a slim gold pipe that looked brand new. He was totally stylin and his mouth was a machine gun.

IT'S SO BORING this town! IT'S SOOOOOOOOO BORING'

You'd just think he was just an angry drunk if you weren't listening. You'd think he was Sick. Demented. Deranged. But if you listened properly it would make you weep with its eloquence. I hate small talk. He went straight to the heart of the wound. No mucking around.

All he wants to do is go Walkabout but the streets of Perth are a prison. The cops follow him everywhere, moniter his every movement. Pounce if they have a bad mood swing. Go through his golf bag, grab his pipe, confiscate his tin. Put him in the paddy wagon. If they're slow on their Arrest Quota for the week, they might just arrest him for breathing.

DOGS. PIGS. BASTARDS!

He tells me how the female coppers speak to him. Reminds me of that iconic photo of the US female soldier dragging that man around on a leash. I tell him he should write a book. I"ll help him. He's a natural story teller. He could be a You Tube supastar! Maybe you'll win a Deadly? But he's not the slightest bit interested. Nothing can entice him. No bait, no hook, no promise. The black fellas too have betrayed him.

MANIPULATORS!!! LIARS. THIEVES.

He tells me he's got no story. No story that he hasn't told a million times before. He tells me to get his story from the cops. They've taken notes. They've got a file on him as fat as a bible. They've been writing it all down for years. They know everything he does including how many times a day he wipes his bum'. And then he turns back to the street. And screams

ARSEWIPES !

I want to applaud. I want to yell out 'Encore Encore!' His rage is magnificant truth and anyone with half a heart can see it. I scan the streets for half a heart. I count two fat thighs, a bum in shorts too tight, a bald white head. El Sicko's right it's boring.

'BUT IT'S NOT JUST ME. YOU'RE ALL TAGGED NOW'.

Yes. He's right. We're all tagged now Maybe we always were I just never noticed? But there are very few parts of Australia I've gone walkabout where I haven't felt under surveillance. I don't feel protected. Just watched. It is as though my vulnerability somehow makes me dangerous. They keep telling me to settle and then pointing to a hole in the ground. It's not very inviting. But it's all I deserve for not playing the game as they know it. My Walkabout all over the world has turned me into an outcast. This happened long ago but now my condition is chronic. And there's no point settling until I find a hole roomy enough to grow something in. That hole that we call home. That home where the heart is... 'Two fat thighs. A bum in shorts too tight, a pig in a bow tie, a bald white head...'

I sit with El Sicko and we watch the passers by. I know what they're thinking. They think it. He speaks it. El Sicko for PM. If he was in charge we could bring all these citizen ghosts back to life and banish the spooks driving paddy wagons. El Sicko looks around in disgust and yells..

'Asslickers and Shit Kickers end up as Arse wipe'.

and then he looks at me and I yell

'Carbon Tax!'

It's like a relay. I'm having fun. And then he packs a pipe and hands it to me Right there! Under street lights on the main drag of Freemantle in the week leading up to CHOGM. It was Outrageous. The man was a mind reader. And If he wasn't Aboriginal I would have run for my life! But somehow I knew they couldn't touch him. They can arrest and strip search, detain him, take notes and thwart his mobility. But they'll never own his howling soul. He has a protection that none of us have. It comes with the spirit of the land. And on some level they know it. I know it. We know it. Our chains rattle and slide around our feet as we watch the spooks surround a drunk on the other side of the road.

SHEEP BORES IDIOTS!

Then a three year old boy and his mother appear out of nowhere. The boy looks up at El Sicko tranfixed and in love. His mother tries to move him on but the child won't be shifted and can't stop smiling at the magic man with the feather in his hat. The kid is mesmorised. El Sicko smiles back. All his rage has evaporated. Now the scene screams Walt Disney. All we need is a happy ending and some fairy dust...

Hello little fella. What's your name?

El Sicko's voice is warm and gentle. He plucks the Pirate flag from the top of his golf bag and hands it to the awe struck child. Making the moment complete. The ghosts have gone silent now. They've been vanquished by a peace pipe and a pirate flag. We're all in love. The little boy, the mother, El Sicko and me. I go across the bottle shop to buy El Sicko Scotch and coke in a can. Black label. When I say Goodbye El Sicko gives me two small stones for protection.

God bless you Sister.

Stoned and blessed. In Perth that's no small feat.

Oh Dear

When I arrived in Maylands. The Miner was suicidal. I wish he had've told me that before I left Sydney. I had no idea I was coming to a sick and suicidal miner who hated Perth and never left the house. That's not the picture he presented. I should have known better. But the bait was too tempting. He would be gone three weeks out of four. I would use that time to write with no stress and no pressure. I would live there for three months and finish my book.

But instead of leaving for the mines he set up a mine in the lounge room. Where he drinks beer from breakfast to bedtime with regular toilet breaks. Between the flushing and the hacking and the sipping he sits very still but we're not talking 'still life'. He looks more like Picasso pickled in formaldehyde. The curtains are closed because it's Perth and we don't want to see the neighbors. They might ask us for a cup of Sugar or something? They might say hello! Quell Horreur CALL THE POLICE!!! He has already alienated the closest neighbor when he stomped over to tell him to TURN DOWN HIS FUCKING MUSIC!! So now that guy is an enemy. Which is a bummer for me because apparently he's also a pot dealer! If they were still friends I would skip across the driveway for a little smoke, instead all I can do is sit at the window and inhale longingly!

Bloody Hell. I was supposed to be writing the Great Australian Road Movie and He was supposed to be down in the mines slaving away for his future. But he hated the mines. The Silicon irritated this throat and his eyes. He felt 157. The mines were a blood sucking killer. They took his photo every ten minutes, drink and drug tests every morning. He didn't care about the future. He wished he was still earning seventeen dollars an hour in FNQ. At least he had friends there! At least he had tropical weather. In Perth he wanted to die and he couldn't stop drinking. Can you die from beer?

Oh dear.

So I went into Florence Nightingale mode. Put lavender out. Burned Oils. Made a few homely touches. Gave him pep talks like a life coach. Fed him. It was bloody exhausting if the truth be known and the higher I bounced the shittier he got. It was a totally thankless task. He loved his pain and he hated me interfering with it. And really I just wanted him to get down in that bloody mine again. I did not come to live with a moody suicidal alcoholic who anticipated my every move through fuzzy vision. I just wanted to fit him out in a gas mask and shove him out the door.

I would have felt less resentful if the Miner had've listened to my stories. But he was not one scrap interested in either my show or my books. He was only interested in telling me his sorry tales over and over and Over. But only after making me promise that I'd never repeat them. He said his life depended on it. Which didn't seem to be much of a threat when you considered he was already tossing up suicide. And I suspect it's all bollocks so what difference will it make?

So here's the story. Apparently the Miner is descended from Croatian Royalty. His Grand dad was a Duke murdered after the second world war, family name shot to pieces. legacy stuffed in the rubbish. You know that old narrative ? Well I don't actually ? I'm not terribly brushed up on Croatian Aristocracy but I doubt that much history could be lost in just two generations. They say Australia is the land of forgetting but this is ridiculous! Was he trying to impress me?

What would impress me. What would really show his royal lineage would be if he funded my next show. Let the Great Grand Son of the Duke be my Medici! From what I can gather his idea of patronage is a slab of Carlton Draught and a box of KFC. When he lifts his hand to his face he's not gearing up for a royal wave. He's just taking a sip of his beer before lighting a ciggie. I am suspicious. You'd think fallen Aristocracy would have a decent library but there's not a book in the house, not even a newspaper. He tells me that he knows how to waltz and ballroom dance but I've only ever seen him stagger in and out of the fridge and the bathroom so I can barely imagine him doing the fox trot. If he tried to curtsy he'd fall down and bruise his shiny head. I only respect Aristocracy if they come bearing champagne and fat cheques! And they don't seem to come bearing anything in Perth. Empty desolate city on the edge of the universe.

Knock Knock.

Whose there?

Nobody.

Nobody who?

Nobody Cares. We don't give a fuck if you're here or you're not. What do you want for nothin?

Nothing?

Welcome to Perth.

Oh dear....

So last week I was in Perth and This week I am in Adelaide.

It started like this....

'Oh my Gawd. The miner pretended to leave for the mine. Put his shoes and his bag in his bedroom. I just opened the door and he's still in there. He's been laying silent as a snake listening to my phone calls. I'm scared now. I gotta get outta here!'

It was my facebook friends who rallied around me. I put out my SOS and they all came to the party with names, songs, advise and telephone numbers. 147 comments later I was sorted. I get by with a little help from my friends. But it was my real life friends who got me out of Perth and into Adelaide. Lovely Lina loaned me a plane fare and Lafferty gave me cab fare to get me to the airport and back and Lenny lined me up accommodation with Adonis.

That was very generous of Lenny. Very VERY Generous. To welcome me to Adelaide with a nice warm wholesome handsome God of a man! Mama Mia!! I nearly died when he opened the door.

He didn't even have to open his mouth. He had Love God written all over him. He moved like a ballet dancer crossed with a basketball player. He sorta bobs up an down a bit when he starts to get passionate about a subject. You know those Italian men...trying to keep it all down in a town full of Anglos. All that energy bounces around under his skin like a bag full of puppies. His Mama loves him. How could she not? How could any woman not love him. He teaches Salsa. A man who can teach Salsa has the world as his Oyster. Oyster being the operative word. He doesn't need to speak. He just needs to stand there. He could bark and we'd all applaud. He has gifts that can never be taught But the Anglos have got to him.

Bastards!

Somehow they have convinced him that to be the God he naturally is that he has to become a clinical Psychologist. So he's followed their lead and now taken to their books. I can see testosterone being leeched onto the page as he writes. I want to bleed all over his notes. Blot out all that nonsense he's filling his head with. It's a terrible urge because I've only just arrived and Lenny's already told him I was crazy. Naughty Lenny. I smacked him for that!

But Lenny didn't really mean crazy he meant DANGEROUS. He meant 'Don't tell her anything. She'll write down everything you say and spin it into a story. She'll steal your best lines, shine them up and pop them back into your mouth with another name and in another situation.'

I suppose they are friends so fair warning. And my readers are just dying for a love story. They've read tragedy enough. Bring on Adonis. Who is not one bit interested in me! He made that perfectly clear on the first night. He is grieving a lost lover. 'Oh let me wipe your tears Adonis!!' I don't smell any grief on him and grief is my specialty. He smells like hot widow to me! Plato said that Love is a type of madness but I think he was just talking about Sex.

I've never been so horny in my life and I don't know what it is? Maybe it's the desert heat? Maybe it's Adelaide? Maybe it's Adonis? I'm just the right amount of vibed up and weighed down at the same time. Once or twice I've lost my balance but generally my situation has 100% improved. All I need is Adonis to hammer it home and we'll have a happy ending.

Shhhh....don't tell him I said that.

I'm keeping it quiet. I'm being a very good house guest. I'm trying to be supportive of his Psychology Course. He also has a day job and he keeps a clean house. He is very responsable. I'm not paying rent it's the least I can do! But it's no small order. To watch him bury himself in those books, like a monk, is a torture! All that 'psychology' is dry cleaning him daily. He'll look like a loofah by the time he's finished that course. You could scrub your back with him. Psychology is just exfoliation. It's about as cathartic as a tupperwear party. He is the Therapy. He just doesn't know it! If you bottled his sweat you could sell it as rescue remedy! The medicine is being secreted from under his arm pits. It's divine. 100% organic. Wholesome. handsome. Balls in tact. Mother Nature's finest offering...

Sigh.

He called me 'dude' so I didn't get any ideas and I asked him not to call me that so he called me 'Mate' and I didn't like that either so now he calls me 'sweetheart'. It doesn't mean anything when he calls me 'Sweetheart' but it's all that he's left with now I've verbally cornered him. Poor darling! By the time he's finished that Psychology course he'll be calling me 'Sweetie' and the tone will be patronising. I'm enjoying 'sweetheart' while it still gurgles up from his belly. I love it! (You Tarzan. Me Jane!:) You can hear his heart beating from under his chest. He has a conscience. Psychology will teach him that his guilt is a bad thing.

Mama knows better.

He throws his arm over the side of his chair leans back and smiles and says 'Hi Sweetheart' in a wog aussie accent that ends with a question mark? 'Oh Let me throw panties! Adorable!' And they will get rid of that. They will strip him of his accent and his balls and his stink and leave him with their buttoned up manhood. It's a tragedy! We don't need a man like this to start thinking too much. Psychology!! He might as well have joined the Scientologists. They are going to corrupt him with their head fuckery. It's criminal. I want to rescue him from this sanity insanity. They are going to strip the italian stallion right outta him. He's like a statue that's breathing. I am in the presence of a man on the edge of extinction.

Adelaide I love you!

I weep.

If you

Winter Again Sarah Noxx