She Feels Sick I wrote the title Then I figured I'd decide what to write about. But she feels sick. So I should write about that. We drank a bottle each at the pub. The pub we've ruined ourselves at for over three years. The same pub. The same offers, deals, discounts. The same order. The same smell. I can't blame her. Her undulating orifices plunge desperately into a vortex of empty efforts. The make-up runs down, down into her gob. Post-pub chicken bits dangle in her hair. But damn to the fucking balls do I love her - snoozing in the loo, snoring the flushes. Meanwhile, I watch as Ian Beale fluffs up yet another marriage.
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