It is against God and nature to date twelve women in twelve days. Nature doesn't abhor a vacuum (it likes to keep its drinks hot or cold as much as the next metaphysical conceit), it actually abhors a man with the audacity to go out a dozen days in a row with a dozen women. And it proves this hatred by sending plague and pestilence to wreak its vengeance upon him.
All right, maybe not plague and pestilence, but a bit of a cold, a sore throat and some extreme weariness. I suppose my years of doing festivals may have helped me cope a little with the rigours of the drinking, and as much as my job involves talking I can even manage all these conversations up to an extent, but if my health starts to deteriorate any further I will be having date 40 in a hospital, quite possibly with me in a coma.
I had to go back to bed this afternoon in the hope that this would aid my recuperation (very like a festival day, where you will do your show, stay out all night and then sleep all day until it's time to do your show), but this just made me feel more lousy. The other problem is that I have a show to write and seven more tasks to fulfil. Whilst the dates have been without exception the most excellent kind of fun, I can see that this might be at the expense of all else, including my possible long term health. I am not quite proving that humans are meant to be monogomous, but more than ably demonstrating that when you get to about half a dozen girlfriends you are probably pushing things to their limits. Even God needed a day off, after all.
I realised this evening that I time is running out for CNPS and I can't afford to sleep the number-plate watching day-light hours away. I need to get three to four plates a day now, which will require some serious application. I only managed one today, though I did leap ahead about 12 the day before yesterday.
I can only take this one day at a time, sweet Jesus, but I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew.
But at least I will die with a smile on my face, and hopefully fulfil my well documented wish of having a funeral with a congregation full of weeping women (who then lez up). If I can get through to June 14th, there should be an extra 50 girls filling the pews.
I wake up with number plates flashing before my eyes, like I have been playing some kind of - admittedly dull - number-plate based computer game.
I am in the maze of insanity and am holding on to a single woolen thread that will lead me back to the world of the normals. But the thread is fraying against the maze's walls and if it breaks there will be no way home.
My weight remains at 13st10. My Guinness Book of Records knowledge is restricted to the first two pages. I have no news from Germaine Greer.
I am looking forward to September already.
