I need drugs. And sex. And sexy drugs. And drug-fuelled sex. The kind of sex that makes the neighbour’s car alarms go off in a cacophony of plastic and metallic fear. The kind of drugs that make you grow little hooves on your thumbs for a week, and you have to explain to the checkout girl in the store why she needs to help you taking cash out of your wallet – because you got so fucked up last night, you grew thumb-hooves. I want the kind of sex that makes me ashamed to look in the mirror, so that until the memory fades, I have to style my hair using the reflective qualities of various cutlery. I want the kind of drugs that make me want to knit hoodies for cats. The kind of cats that want to wear hoodies, and the kind of hoodies that suit cats. I want drugs that make my ears progressive while my nose espouses free-market dogma. I want the sex you normally only dream about on the train back home after burying some underwear at the side of a road in the hope it’ll grow into a bra-tree and distract motorists long enough for them to question their entire reason for living. I want a nipple in my right eye. A vagina warming my knee. I want the drugs they sent into deep space because they were too good, even for the aliens who brought them in the first place. I want the kind of sex that hurts my credit rating because I had to buy so many towels on short notice on my credit card to clean up afterwards. I want the sex that makes my partner and I discuss changing our names to various characters from John Updike novels. I want the drugs they give to people who see goblins after taking too many drugs, just to see if the goblins actually disappear. I want sex so good it becomes conceptual art and has to be exhibited in Berlin next summer.
That aside – I’d settle for a good cup of tea, and holding hands with someone nice.
