It is a dreary process. Everything that was a life-affirming positive has to be reversed, like pulling the nails out of a coffin in which the humid corpse of marriage is slowly deliquescing. The eager anticipation walking up the aisle becomes a grim trudge through the threefold process of filling out arcane forms that seemed designed only to rub it in that you should really have the funds to pay a solicitor. It doesn’t help that you’ve managed to achieve a civilised separation, that you’ve even remained friends, that your children are happy and at ease with both of you, in conjunction, and apart. No, the Petitioner and the Respondent, like two jousting knights, are forced into a simulacrum of battle, when all that should be exchanged is a smile and a sigh.
SCENE: A dark room, intermittent whining. Single bulb illuminates chiaroscuro.
I: I’ve been bitten again.
D: Where this time?
I: Left eyelid.
I: And my left buttcheek.
D: Serves you right for wearing those hot pants.
I: I only wore them to please you. You always say how you like a curvy cheeky buttock peeping.
D: Did I? I may have been drunk. Does it itch yet?
I: No. I think I’ll take my pants off in the forlorn hope I get bitten precisely on the clitoris, because that would be, like, so hot, man.
D: The insertion of the proboscis into your tender nubbin, like an inverted fuck-possession?
I: The very thought makes my quim twitch uncontrollably.
D: So, shall we go and see the latest Beckett production?
I: No. I need a poo.
Nothing of any art-value feels important anymore. I have read all the novels and stories, and anything new is just a rehash of something old. Every image I see deafens me with the echo of others I have seen before. Every outrage on the planet is just deja vu. Perhaps all this means it is time to die. What else to do apart from become a Diogenes, irritating everyone, just because one can? I want to live in a world where the concept of hope (that evilest of evils, according to the Greeks) is alive again. But there is no hope. This world is dizzy with the acceleration of the vortex as it flows down the plughole of its own arse.