The Facebook years #2 - The bath.

My last post may have alarmed many of you but I can say without an iota of doubt that the bath was jolly good. Much better than many FB food pics I've seen, in fact. Although why anyone would want to bathe in food is beyond me. Still and all, I do have many fine friends who are into that sort of thing... But that's for another time. Onwards with 'Tales from the bathtub', then!
So I was seven eighths submerged in the bath just now, surreptitiously appreciating the magnificent fifty year old form before my eyes. Well, the knees anyway. And frankly they were indistinguishable from the Radox suds. So we'll meet halfway and say that I was admiring with no small amount of cordial and critical eye the lithe, muscular, vaguely humanoid form of Adonis before me when (for no other reason that I'd been inadvertently sniffing petrol from the mower earlier in the day) it occurred to me that Anthony Robbins and his dream mongering clones may well be onto something.
Peut-être there is a cosmic determinism at work. My curiosity piqued, I ebbed until my ears were well below the suds and water line to hear only my murmuring heart and sibilating breath. It was in that instant - with the ghost of Basho upon me - I realised that I was womb-wrapped once again and that when I emerged newborn, the world would be fresh and new! Correlative and contingent to this and still abusing the Robbins logic, as it were, I would also mysteriously have won the Lotto to the tune of forty three million dollars and simultaneously find myself having to turn away any number of celebrities and sirens because, 'Scorcese is screaming for the screenplay I promised him and I'm already two weeks overdue and when am I going to find time in my jet-setting life to star in his remake of 'Night of the Hunter'.
Well I needn't tell you, dear reader, that I emerged from that bath with my mind overflowing with all manner of earthly delights and wrinkled like my grandmother (my body -not my mind). Mention too should be made of the unmentionable matter covering me from chiseled head to cutesy little toe that deserves no further attention in these august and manly circles. So newborn I surely was! Could it all be true?!
Alas, however, that is as far as the cosmic joke played out because here I sit once again. A beloved mock turtle to the many, an idiot to most, typing my foolish and whimsical daydreams and laying my twisted DNA bare to the masses.
Let me simply end by uttering the wise words of somebody or other (possibly a doppleganger who, like me, also happened to escape the pathetic clutches of of the Scientologists in Castlereigh Street);
Fuck Anthony Robbins. Fuck him, fuck him and fuck him.
Or to put it more civilly, determinism schmismism.
Yours in modest sincerity,
No Relation (No relation)

Far away...