Day 127

Dear Diary,

I tell you, I feel like that old T-shirt slogan wot went, “In Outer Space No One Can Hear You fart.” I’m only saying this on account of the silence wot I’m surrounded by is so complete that even the slightest smacking of my lips cracks like lightning and the tiniest tummy rumble is like thunder rolling around inside my head. Honest to goodness, I feel like a mouse wot’s got sucked into a vacuum cleaner and is packed in by a whole twelve-hundert Persian cats full o’hair. And the worst part is, or at least my favourite worst part at this moment in time is, that I can’t for the life of me see wot time it is. I’d always took it for granted that the clock on my dashboard was at the very least one of them Rolexes wot would run forever, and if that’s the case then all I’ve gotta say is I’ve either been fobbed off with one o’them fake rip-offs or else The Widow Fartie Da Whistle neglected to wind it all the way up while she was still here and alive and had the chance. If it’s all down to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle fuckin’ up and being negligent with the clock, I do hope this is not a sign that she didn’t really attend to any of her duties all that good. I’d hate to think I’ll be stranded on this here beach – or wherever it is – and be nothin’ but a rusting hulk on an island of ghosts and without a workin’ clock or a workin’ anything else to call my own. In a novel or movie that’d be a appealing situation to watch as a participant and it’d add a bit of wot they calls dramatic frisson to the viewing experience. However, I can’t say I’m over the moon about it happenin’ in real life. At least not to me. Never mind, I guess I’ll just have to wait ‘n’ see. One thing is certain however, and that is it ain’t gonna help me adjust to my new lifestyle if’n all I does is worry about wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle did do while she was on the job as my caregiver, and wot she only said she did but never got around to doin’. Either bless or fuck her cotton picking heart, depending upon the truth of the matter. Anyways, as I was sayin’, it’d sure take a load off my mind if’n I knowed wot the fuck time it was. I realise in a cosmic sense it don’t matter a lick o’shit wot hour and minute and second a watch says it is. As them wot’s got big ol’ brains full of sense never get tired of sayin’, “time is relative.” Personally, wot I think they’re trying to tell us is there’s no such thing as time in the universal sense, and the whole fuckin’ business is all man made and was invented just so’s bosses could stop the wages off of their employees if’n they took it in their heads to operate in the universal rather’n in the manmade sense. On the other hand, when they says “time is relative,” they could be talking about how many minutes you can sit ‘n’ listen to rich Great Aunt Ethelgrelda (wot might or might not be leavin’ you a million billion bucks) criticisin’ the cut o’your jib without you wantin’ to slit your throat. Personally I sorta lean towards this second scenario, on account of I used to feel like doing away with myself after a minute ‘n’ a half alone with Floozie Da Smelly or half a second listenin’ to Miss Cabbage (bless ‘em both wherever they is, only thank God it ain’t here), and they’re not even relatives of mine. ‘Course, if’n I’d’a been a human being, according to this six degrees of separation shit so many folks’ve got rich off of, both Miss Cabbage and Floozie Da Smelley’d probably be not only related but kissing cousins. Or perhaps, seeing as how folks got about on the island before it was washed away in the flood, fucking cousins to boot. Fortunately and Thank God For Small Mercies, I’m a bus and not only a bus but a vintage classic Daimler CVD6 with a custom-built 33-seat Burlington coach, and buses ain’t related to no one. Not by six degrees. Not by six hundert degrees. Not by six thousand million billion zillion degrees. In fact, I’m proud to say we’s got not a single atom of human being DNA in our whole entire bodies. Praise the Lord and Pass the Eggnog. But where was I?

Oh yes, I was talking about how I was sitting here in the middle of the darkness and silence and how the watch on my dashboard’s stopped working and I don’t know wot time it is so’s I can plan breakfast for the usual hour and not a minute later. The only thing else I’ve gotta say at the moment is at least it’s not raining. And also I’ve still got my pencil and you, Dear Diary, so’s I can record my thought for posterity, wherever or whoever that is. Anyways, since I can’t think of anything else I want to share with you at the moment, I’m gonna grab me some shuteye. I sure as fuck wish I could turn on my radio and listen to some tunes, but as I’ve said before a million times, my battery’s deader’n a black hole and probably clogged up with anti-matter as well. Or if not anti-matter, then a lot of fucking sand and muck from the sea. As I never get tired of saying, so endeth this particular time of sharing and I’ll be in touch sometime or other depending upon the mood I’m in.