The Shorts from Lesotho

The breeze smells of cold tonight. (Cold: a mixture of metal and squashed snails and wet leaves, garnished with rubber galoshes.) Either it's about to rain, or we're in for a chilly few days.

Inside the Rat's Nest, things are very noisy. I've got this dreadful rattler of a cough, which is tearing me apart. It's going to rip me in four and scatter me to the winds. I'll end up in England and France, in Iceland, and the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho. I once had a pair of shorts that came from Lesotho. It said so on the label. The waistband didn't half nip. I hope it's my head that ends up in Lesotho, so I can lodge a complaint with their garment factories. That merciless elastic! Those callous buttons! Just you wait, you Lesothan tailors. I (or my mouth, at any rate, on my behalf) am coming for you.

I've been spending a lot of time in bed, thinking thoughts of great importance. For example:

I used to have a shirt that said "Glasgow's Miles Better" on the front, and then it had a smile. It was a bad play on words, see--"Glasgow Smiles Better". I got it at...at some sort of garden party, or botanical fair. No, it's no use. I don't remember where it came from, except that it was in Glasgow.

I ought to rechristen my journal Ratty's Goat. I've secretly thought of it that way for years, anyway. Besides, I think the whole Ghost bit is putting a jinx on me.

I wish my surname was Noseworthy.

Buzzworm means "rattlesnake". NB: call all rattlesnakes buzzworms from this day forth.

I think I used to date a fellow who called all black folks "Mustafas". I didn't know he did that till we were watching Babylon 5 one day, and he went "Oh, look, a Mustafa!"*

That same guy, the one with the Mustafas, he also said winter didn't have its own smell. I don't think I liked that guy very much.

Another thing I don't like is that Gain detergent commercial, the one with the underpants-sniffing. There's this woman, see, and she's out in her backyard sniffing the pants on her clothesline. Except it's not her clothesline, and they're not her pants, and before you know it, the real pantslady comes out and gets mad. "If you don't love the fresh scent of Gain detergent this much," gloats some smug berk offscreen, "we'll give you your money back." Well, unless Gain smells like pussy, nobody loves its fresh scent that much. Yeah, I said it. I mean, Christ, that's some burnin' love, right there, that would prompt you to bury your face in somebody else's knickers.

The battle music from Final Fantasy X has some instrument in it that sounds exactly like a rat in mortal pain. They ought to fix that. It's most disconcerting for us folks with rats in our houses.

Ah, if I don't get better soon, I'll go mad. I'm already halfway there. I can't stand it, all this lying about doing nothing. Every time I hear a laugh from the street, or a shout, I wither with envy. I wanted to go out this morning, just to feel human again, but I couldn't spin the wheels on my wheelchair. Blasted heavy thing! So I sat near the window instead, and watched a mean little bird pecking buds off the trees. Must've been one of those year-round birds, trying to forestall the coming of spring so he could have the city to himself a while longer.

Yesterday, too, I tried to get out, on foot that time. I turned around when my hand shook so badly I couldn't lock the door. It was late, though. Things are always worse late at night. Yesterday morning wasn't so bad. I got a bit of work done, and made soup.

And on that cheery note, I'm all out of words, and steam, and hot cocoa. Back to the couch with me. If you don't love the fresh voice of Ratty's Ghost this much, well, up your arse with a broken glass.

* This might have been a dream. It seems too strange to be true.