I’m comfort eating – roadkill mainly. Dead and decaying flesh wherever I can find it. Occasionally living flesh! The flesh that squirms, the flesh that tries to run away…

I prefer the taste of flesh that’s already dead, but there’s more fun than catching the living type! There’s a lot more sport in it, naturally… There’s a real sharp thrill when you feel the living flesh desperately trying to get away, when you feel the fight that it puts up! Even for a jaded old creature like me there is a thrill in that. But the other side of the argument is that the dead and decaying flesh tastes way better – there’s a real flavour in it. The flesh becomes so soft and tender. I even feel quite emotional talking about it! I feel quite sad, oddly enough.

My mood has been down for a while now, come to think of it. I’ve been fairly low in mood of late. Hence the comfort eating, of course. It distracts me from how I feel, and for this I am profoundly grateful. My thoughts keep going back to when I was a human being and there are definitely unresolved issues there; many of them, if I am to be frank. Probably I should have got help with them when I had a chance but I never did. Now it’s too late. Very obviously it’s too late…

The humdrum headlines of yesteryear flit through my head: “I murdered somebody and became a better person”; “I had an affair with my best friend’s wife and saved their relationship”; “I became a heroin dealer and cured my chronic low self-esteem”; “I quit my permanent pensionable job with the Inland Revenue and became a forest mutant.” That type of thing. That sort of stuff. The humdrum headlines of yesteryear, the humdrum headlines of yesteryear…

I had never been a particularly nice human being, mind you – I’d be the first to acknowledge that! I wasn’t nice at all, but at least I was a human being. I had a life to lead, I had things to do and places to go. I had a neat haircut and I was always careful about keeping my fingernails clipped short. I wore a smart jacket. I drank in wine bars and ate at expensive restaurants. I slept in a bed with nice crisp clean sheets! Sheets that smelt faintly of fabric conditioner. It makes me cry when I think of that – I can’t pretend otherwise. ‘Why didn’t I appreciate my life when I had it?’ I ask myself. Why didn’t I appreciate it? Why was I such a pig?

We never do appreciate our lives of course. None of us do and I know that full well. We all know of course that we should appreciate the life we have whilst we have it, but knowing that doesn’t help us any! Knowing that we should appreciate things is NEVER any use. I’m so so angry with myself – I’d hurt myself if I could. I’d hurt myself, but I can’t bear the pain. I’m far too much of a coward for that. I’m such a dirty rotten coward – I’m even scared of my own shadow! I’m terrified of my own shadow. Although in all fairness, it is a rather a frightening shadow. It’s actually quite horrendous, if I were to be honest about it…

‘What have I let myself become?’ I ask myself. How is this even possible? No one ever told me that such a thing was possible. Why didn’t someone tell me that such a thing is possible? Someone should have told me that such a thing is possible and then maybe I would have listened and this would never have happened…