ROBOROVSKI NEWS: BASHFUL IS SERIOUSLY starting to "peeve" me. To my crime of inserting an ever-so-slightly rustly (and expensive, might I add) millet spray she shot from their tube-nest exploding like a fire cracker and sending hamsters splurring in all directions like furry fireballs. The swine. They did go mental over the millet, once they realized it was not a blobberous alien's craggy reptilian fingers or whatever the hell they thought it was first time round - Roborovskis have massively overactive imaginations.
Which reminds me: I was crossing the road earlier when Celine Dion yelled at me: "Will he think I'm weak if I tremble when I speak?!"
To which Barbra Streisand replied: "Love will be the gift you give yourself!!"
I thought I was having another psychotic episode.
Fortunately not - it was merely an off-duty blonde secretary's sound system blasting from her brand-new-looking ultramarine Vauxhall Tigra.
Which makes me wonder: what on earth possessed a car company to name themselves after a run-down, seedy sector of South London that is famed for nothing more exciting than its Victorian railway arches and high levels of street robbery? Vauxhall is hardly the most salubrious setting one could evoke for the selling of automobiles... it's a bit like naming your new cars after Haarlem or the Bronx... Ukk.
Do I sound chirpy as a budgie pecking a millet spray tonight? Because I don't really feel it. By the way the hand-painted budgie on the Trill box looks hilarious - the obvious product of an artist who's never actually owned such a bird. The posture and expression are all wrong. A bit like those hilarious early paintings of Orientals and Africans the sixteenth century white colonizers took home to show honest church-going folk what genuine heathens looked like... This particular budgie has a murderous look in its eye, as if it's minded to brutally slay the humble canary with that eagle's beak the artist so thoughtfully endowed him with...
Yes I am highly (?) depressed. Deeply depressed. Because I am forcing myself into giving up drugs plus writing my memoirs all in one. I keep telling myself I'm the Whitney Houston of memoirists in order to spur myself on but it's not working.
I can hardly call it an autobiography because as my Dad pointed out I've not done anything with my life: "That's the whole point," I said. "It's a memoir of drug-induced dereliction." I'm not sure he does really get the point, which can only really be told by the completed book. Which is why I have to write it... Also I want a gargantuan advance so I can get my eight-foot bogwood aquarium brimming with diddly dwarf frogs and tetras (did you notice it gets bigger every time I mention it?!) ... This to furnish my art nouveau flat in Chelsea that I shall move into directly from B&B...
If I say I've quitted heroin for good I'll only fall slapstick straight on my face like every other time so I'd better not and say "Hoorah! I just bought an ounce!" (Except I didn't.)
Righty-ho: better go and pen those memoirs, Whitney...
By the way my left leg in particular is covered in red lumps from my injecting highly acid brown heroin into tiny thread veins... nasty business... There appear to be none left now... it can take nearly an hour to get a "hit"... And you wonder why I said I've ordered myself to stop.
Right I really have gotta go. I'm hungry and craving baked beans and halal (turkey) Frankfurters.
By the way how's this for a title: My Drug Hell by Whitney-Mariah Roborovski... already I'm hunting out my old Judy Garland fright wig again for the Stephen Meisel author photo.
(And if you believe that you really will believe anything!!)
Righty-ho folks. Till 2morro...
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