Harp cooed munificently as he & diabet re-read their journals which detailed their magnificent and prosperous exploits as young teenagers. They chortled whole-heartedly to such reminisces as the time they spent on an aeroplane heading towards the MOON. My oh my, they were very excited on that day.
It began like this:
Harp: "hurry the fuck up Diabet! i can't keep this G.D. erection all day!"
Diabet: "i find it hard to take any of this seriously... anymore... there's an existential crisis gnocchi at my door... it's nothing personal"
Harp: 'nothing personal?! what the fuck man what gives you the right not to try anymore. I could strangle you you fucking fuck... goddamn."
Diabet: "it's not as simple as that man, the seismic techtonic plates within me are ebbing, too and freeing like a jealous lover with the scent of suspicion"
Harp: "Man, that excuses nothing. I'm confused to but I don't think that gives me immunity to care about anyone else"
Diabet: "Im not exempt man. As I get deeper I get more involved in my own ennui"
Harp: "Bah, i'm out of here"
- and so our hypoglecimic hero leaves his now pathetic friend. Diabet sits doqn thinks about killing himself, thinks about pussy.
Harp thinks these things too, but in a somehow kinder way like he could actually feel of these occurances, not just simplifiy them in either pole of an diachotemised way.
Diabet yells: "FUCK YOU HARP"
as the last pitter-patter of organised steps leave his appartment landing.
He drinks and calls a prostitute.
As the hooker arrives at Diabet's door he instantly recognises her as his true love.
They say a few things to each other, such as;
Diabet: "Hey..."
W: "Oh, hi"
Diabet: "so what's new with you?"
W: "um not much really, you?"
Diabet: "not much ay"
W: "so where's your faggot friend Harp?"
DIabet: "ugh, we had a falling out cause that lil' bitch couldn't deal with my beautiful realizations about how shit his life is."
W: "whateverthefuck dide. You guys are two peas in a pod, two testes in a ball sac, i'm sure he felt the exact same way as you. Just a dumb miscommunication, no doubt?
Diabet: "It goes deeper than that you two dollar whore, you couldn't understand. GET IT! Now suck my dick.
Chapter 2:
YOU COULDN'T UNDERSTAND
As Harp walked down the street he breathed heavily. He felt shocked that the friend he had first thought to be a bastion of sugar-free sobriety to ve so thoroughly fucked up. The Montréal snow kicked from the toes snow boots: His gait was by-no-means elegant. Due to his torso being the entrail of a nickle wound cross harp. He was perhaps, the only nice guy left on earth
"FUCK DIABET!:"
he deeply inhaled on a cigarette and got a bit out of tune.
Chapter III:
everyone cares, everybody understands
to pin-point the emptiness he felt inside himself.
These things were certain he decided;
a) he didn't love himself
b) he didn't hate himself
c)
He would return to work. Harp has a goal he had that ment he had a gaol, and more than just any rationality.
Harp settled into a new routine, (which involved frequent masturbation and the rare clove cigarette).
He thought he would never see diabet again.
Diabet thought he would never see harp again, cause his sweet strings to hum in sonorous rapture again.
But of course fate had other plans...
CHAPTER FOUR
'Diabet is a bad guy'
'Harp is a good guy;
'is this true'
'spread the news'
'spread the blues'
'cause it's a sunny city'
'and im drunk and blind'
and so wrote harp in his sketch book as he sat, propped up in his ugly spot on the New York metro, tearing him from his ex-lover/his ex-brother, he clasped the clips.
CHAPTER 5
CLIFF HANGER
HARP LIKED WANKING. IT'S ALREADY BEEN ELUCIDATED THUS. AND DIABET HATED HIMSELF, HASTED HIS HURT, HEROED HIS HATES. DIABET HANG HUNG FROM A CLIFF SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA, HIS HUSSY SHOT THROUGH WITH ONE OF THOSE NEW FANGLED PIMPS. SHE FELL ASS -FIRST FOR THIS SUCK-FUCK-STRIP AND STRIP BARE, STEAL HIS WALLET HANG HIM FROM A CLIFF TYPES. DIABET, HUNG TO THE CLIFF, WEAKLY HIS ALREADY MEASLY ARMS WERE WEAKENING BY AN ABSENCE OF SUGAR, AND ABSENCE OF INSULIN, WHILE TURNING DIABET INTO LIMP A LIMP DICK. HE STRUGGLED TO STRANGLE THE SHEER CLIFF, THE IMPOTENCE OK HIS GRIP ACCENTUATED BY THE INDIFFERENCE OF HIS EXPRESSION. WAS IT A STEP TO FAR TO SAY DIABET WOULD DIE? PROBABLY NOT.
CHAPTER SIX
At this point in time as both sat crossed legged with impeccable posture, in Harp's dusty attic. The journal they were both reading aloud ended.
Harp: "Oh dude, what the fuck happened next? Did you end up dying? I can't hardly remember these young adventures of yours..."
Diabet: Oh hell man, who knows, I mighta died. Who cares, we are in the here and now and by J.S. Bach and by Krishna and Shiva, we made it through, past and beyond our ennui and look at us now!
Harp: Ummmm....
Diabet: Our pancreas's are in better shape than ever, And goddammitt i'm starting to appreciate all the sweet things in life again
