AMKent books

Please allow a preface to explain that such a character is the product of pure fiction. The principle of plenitude states that anything that can exist, will exist. In the case of Tiberius, let us hope the principle is wrong.

As a young lad, I would sneakily pull women’s clothing catalogues from the bin and allow myself to explore the seven wonders of the lingerie section. Life would not even allow me the fortune of imagining buxom ladies clad in silk and garter, no… NO! For my mother had always been through and circled several items. MY MIND SEARED, the gumption, the misguided gumption. This was my first taste of life’s broth of sexual frustration and Freudian sillybeggars. I am veering off track, allow me to tell you, my dear readers, of my day. Like any day, I began it by watching the local busker ruin everyone’s ear canals. Some misguided rendition of Kurt Cobain, or Nirvana, or whatever the hell that grunge excrement is. The cringe on the faces of the public, delicious, a child was crying, I can only hope it was Hurt Copains doing. What brings me the most joy is that people think, due to this musical turd’s speech impediment, that he is ‘special’. So, like all moral busybodies, they refuse to ask him to stop assaulting the senses of the common folk.

After he packed up and no doubt went to blow balloons or whatever it is that those with swollen tongues do, I too left. I had an Amazon parcel arriving, and I was most excited. A fresh pair of jeans, stone wash, naturally, thick with a stretching waist that fits high rather than low. Lord have mercy, I cannot tell you the irritancy of this new trend of LOWRISE jeans. I am not Britney Spears in the early 2000s, I do NOT want my jeans teasing the base of my skin flute like I am some kind of sultry jiggalo. Ever since I can remember I have been afflicted with large hips, One of the boys would say I have the condition known as ‘Klinefelter’s Syndrome’. My hips are large, hourglass-like, and in school those scoundrels would refer to me as ‘Calvin Klinefelter’. The main bully, Clive, would ask me how many children I could carry on my hips, and they’d all laugh. Well, Clive, that tumour in your brain is laughing now, and no amount of pity likes on Facebook is going to circumvent the harsh reality of that!

The jeans arrive, they fit nicely, and I feel electric. I go for a lonesome coffee to see if the eyes of females are drawn to my lower extremities. I sit next to an attractive lady, she has a fine blouse on, pink like a flamingo. I tell her I like her blouse, and she mumbles back a small ‘thanks’. I sense a winner, winner winner, chicken, dinner. I ask her where she bought it, ‘thrifting’, I have no idea what that means. ‘Me too‘, my first fatal flaw, such a comment implied I too own a blouse, and that I too, wear blouses. She smiles, it is nothing more than the polite display of ivory postmodernity has fashioned us into giving. I need to claw this back, a show of bravado, of macho testosterone. I look at her and lower my eyebrows to a scowl, I have created a more ‘hunter eyes aesthetic‘, next I push my head forward to accentuate the definition around my jawline. Now for the finishing blow, ‘I often carry the bags home for my mother because I am known for my strength’.

‘You…..live with your…… mother?’, she asks. Shit, I am 47 and truth be told my mother is dead, dear readers. However, the truth came out at a most inconvenient time, ‘No, haha! My mother is dead!”. She moved and sat on the other side of the coffee shop. No doubt she thought this was some kind of psycho-esque confession, that I dressed as my dead mother and referred to us as one of the same. Well, by now you see how my day is ruined, and why I felt the need to bring my mother up at the start of this tragic tale of woe. Do with this confession as you please. My next entry shall be the events of my philosophy society debate.