Delicious Christopher

Exactly five minutes after I stopped chuckle chortling I noticed the red shoes on the floor next to the peppermint cradle.  These shoes were fierce, but I was determined to Google them.  I checked, and surely saw the surly straw of reality slap my blister-dicked wheelbarrow of a brain.

It turns out these shoes were once owned by the magnificent Delicious Christopher.  His passion for red shoes was almost as demanding as his sense of inflammatory nonsense and brickle fits.  Can you wake me when this dream life is gone?  I know I'll stagger out of here all dead and expired, but I really have to try on these shoes.  I have to know what ghosts feel like, wrapping their transluscent windjammers all around my walkabout fingers.  I have to feel the energy of a thousand years.

I have to know what Christopher Delicious knew.

I have to triumph, and I have to turn my ashy whittle swizzle haunches into melonaise and brandy water.  I must be victorious.  I must be mustard.

I must be my own red shoes.


I'm totally dead.  I knew it.