Envelopes.

Envelopes.

My life is envelopes. Are you an envelope? I can't see through my folded paper eyes any more. But I can smell them now. I can taste them.

I'm on to you.
Envelope.

Today I packed and sealed one thousand, four hundred and fifty eight envelopes. In a row. I tried to eat my lunch, and between each granary roll lay an envelope covered in a thin layer of mayonnaise. It was rough, and it dried my mouth to eat them, but I did, choked down each cheerily designed slice of tender paper. Opening my fizzy drink, the fsssssst of the surging bubbles took me by surprise and droplets of water spat from the lid and fluttered and floated down toward the ground, landing as little rectangles of paper. Bending down to inspect them closer, I saw.

Envelopes.

After work, I handed my temporary worker's envelope to the kind woman behind the reception counter. She fluttered at me, her wide and gaping mouth spewing forth an invoice for £3.63. I exited the building and walked across the car park, stifling hot in my too-small shirt. I unbutton it- agh, paper cut. Getting into the car, the music that issued from my speakers was a, a rustling, and brown windowed squares flew from the air vents.

I drive, harrowed, my mind filled with a papery voice, offering a 31 day payment plan. Final notice, it said. The sun, a huge white rectangle looming on the horizon, was setting onto the brown fields. I pulled up to my envelope, and opened the flap.

I fell inside. I sit here now, on the TOTAL TO PAY line, gazing up at NEVER-END PENCILS x 15 £51.99, and I type, my fingers rutted and bleeding from each razor-sharp key press.

Tonight I will wrap myself up, and fold over the covers, my face pressed against the thin clear window. Did someone lick the adhesive glue? I see the flap close, slowly, slowly. I panic, mind filled with strange noises and the skchcreeeee of jamming franking machines.

My fear peaks; I am unable to move.

I am an invoice for eight thousand CARD- PINK units priced at £4.37 each.

The envelope closes.

Rizla's and Supermarket Brand Lager

I've come to understand that my life is actually quite boring.

I know, I know, you must have spat your brandy all over the monitor at this ridiculous statement, but it's true. Since moving back to Bath and not being at work all day has meant that I have been spending a lot of time just sat about, and no amount of cycling through some very pleasant countryside each day will stop me resembling a steak that's been boiled for four hours and is now just a grey, sweating lump of gristle.

"Wonderful" I figured to myself at first, smiling coyly; this will give me plenty more time to write and generally be a better human being, get all my paperwork in order and after several weeks, will emerge with eighteen best-selling novels, each one a scathing indictment of the various nuances of the Latvian eel trade. As I step into the street, my chiselled abs and 'glutes' (?) will glisten in the spring sun and a helicopter will arrive, and who should step from it? Mr. President! Why yes, it would be wonderful, but I can't become president now, there are too many lives to save. I would jump onto my chrome-plated Honda Goldwing, whack a bit of Journey on and speed away. I will then proceed to do not one, but two back flips.

Instead, a small trench has formed in the carpet, with coincides precisely the track to the fridge I take to cram something else down my face. I will open up some Documents, and look at them. Maybe for about twenty minutes or so. I will then open Firefox. I will then admonish myself for doing so, and close it again. Repeat until 5pm.

Unemployment, I have decided, is not for me. There is only so many times I can look at the front page of DeviantArt and be mildly disgusted with what I find there (Having just done so, I have seen three pictures, each one the rendition of a cartoon pony getting railed by something else. Hmm.).

This, now, has got me thinking about the art world. If I were in a position of responsibility, certain pictures you see on that website will cause me to frown, and find this persons address. Maybe check the shed, maybe the basement.

For torsos.

Time for some world class art and scathing political commentary go:

Note to any prospective news publications: I have a million of these, just email me. I've got it covered.