Gates of Eden

My mother only calls me funny is a disdainful sort of way.

She sounds clever.

I’m not stupid, and yes I do. Here.

You are. I made Brian Ferry up.

Yeah, I know that, thanks.

I’m about to have one hell of a comedown. Got any weed?

It must be possible.

I meant if I did it, dolt.

Fine.

Greedy.

No. Fuck you.

Just bend your legs a bit. I haven’t sat down in nine hours.

It’s what most people tell me at least.

Your mother doesn’t count.

Your arse, your ears, your fanny. No, no. Not your fanny. That came far too close to a pregnancy quip, and we aren’t joking about that nonsense. 

You’re stupid. Do you want me to plait your hair?

Said? It’s past tense. It means to have spoken.

Regular funny guy, ain’t you?

Move.

Nah, Einstein said it himself.

I know you made that up. That isn’t even a real word.

I was going for fix it, not break it completely.

I told you I didn’t think it’d work.

You have to admit it’s a bit annoying, though.

Will it be more or less annoying not to be able to see at all?

Seductive croon. You’re full of it. I’ve never even heard of him, and I’m in the record shop at least once a week. I think you’re making him up. 

Where do you think I pulled Brian Ferry from, stupid? My arse?

Who is a Brian Ferry?

Brian Ferry. His vocal style has been described as an elegant, seductive croon. He’s the Phil Collins of the 1970s, idiot. Total shit of course, but that’s neither here, nor there.

They should have gone with balloons. Or tights. Perhaps a stiff drink. The poor dear. You can’t very well get rid of it though. Imagine how unwanted it would feel. 

Or a fucking flat. Maybe I’d be more cheery if I wasn’t stuck with them. I’ve called him Bryan Ferry. You know, after Brian Ferry. My dad fucking hates him. He’s cross about it.