5 months back I bought a ticket on the Demons Love Boat and made my way to my top-deck cabin. Nice curtains, views of nothing but future and glorious tales of the exotic ports our sails were set for.
The food looked good, fellow passengers handsome and well-groomed, if a little plasticky and the band sounded good while tuning up. The captain, first mate and crew the epitome of mutual love and respect. The maps looked very exciting, hope was being sold by the bucket-load. Surely this must be trip of a lifetime...
OK some signs were there, in hindsight. Just out of the Heads there was a strange kind of rumbling coming from below deck. And yeah, the Captain never invited the Purser to sit at his table, and the Entertainment Officer seemed to be dancing to Radar Love while the band was playing Ebony Eyes, but he's just a tad eccentric right? And yes, a while back we passed a sign on a buoy that said 'Bermuda Triangle'.
Seriously, I just don't know where to look. It wasn't meant to be like this. Nobody really enjoys being kicked in face and having 186 teeth extracted, but this denouement is even worse. This fucked-up interpersonal dog-fucking, bitch-hitting. This delusional ego-propulsion, termiting, festering pus-boiled, cancer-ridden, diarrhea-encrusted, life-sucking ship-sinking shit is not what I signed up for. Decades and decades and decades ago.
But here I am. In a leaky lifeboat with a few salty biscuits, a bunch of gloomy fellow travelers and a sextant that no-one knows how to use.
Waiting for sun-up.
Back to the band...
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