Oh... gross

My apartment is now one big freakin' tarp.

No matter how much I try to shorten his chains, he still manages to spew medieval bodily fluids into every nook of my humble little (though once kinda single-guy stylish if I did some pre-date cleaning. As Garth would say, a "fully-functional Babe lair". IF there were Babes to be layered) Montréal-Plateau abode.

...he even gets the bank shots off the walls into the closets and cupboards. I swear. So I went to the Home Depot and emptied out its stock of heavy-duty plastic painter's dropcloths. And every last battery-powered mop thingy with "ultra-absorbent" pads. 'Cha. Right. Gargoyle snot burns right through them. I've been reduced to sewing the velcro backs of the things onto Zamboni collection fringes purchased on eBay from self-satisfied Saskatchewan hockey rink custodians.

Such are the joys of having adopted a gargoyle.

I'm just a simple, normal everyday kinda mid-thirties Management Consultant, battling with my abs to shine through the flab that just gets harder and harder to get rid of, hoping for that one weird redheaded girl who will zap into my life and end the endless onanist narcissism. Yup, I'm a catch.

...especially with this coitussing little Oedipus' reincarnation-like creature puking, pissing, farting, BMing, mucussing and otherwise stinking up my life. At least he makes REALLY nice ropes.

Desperate and lonely, I've started this blog. My therapist told me it would help. The impotence-inducing pills aren't, so... might as well give it a shot.