Ah the blust! The crossfirecomedown and you can’t fight it at all sure didn’t you know that hearing crying as laughter and laughter as crying and God forsake us he has foresaken us it’s a terrible auld master the Plop, what! The plop of the porter or the stout or Godhelpus the naggins of Vodka in the phoceaid and off down Camden St for a gallop into Whelan’s for a few more fizzy tonics and then out like an unsteady reaper up the Luas tracks under the madmoon and home to bed to surf the web and whatchamacallit your littlechap before you fall asunder or ablunder or asleep or was it sleep at all? I doubt it. Didn’t feel like it, doesn’t feel like it for a few days, a few fucking days after, a blister on the mind that you cannot burst and Godhelp anyone who comes a breath away from you the fucking state of you. Irascible — big angry serpent eyes on ye and the cravings coming and going and cursing and fuckin and blindin every which way BeGod it’s an awful louse of a thing the Plop. But you’ve gone through the horrors before, the primal horrors, the evil terrors before with the anxiety so present and every sinew within you grinning taut like a mad elf, you’ve been brimming and glistening with sweat and scratching and itching and writhing for the life of yourself, you’ve cut flesh for the want of it, choking the littlechap lifeless under the madmoon for the need of it and then after a couple of winks and a benign scent comes across the breeze then and you’re back romanticizing it, back seduced by it, except you dislocate it, you fantasize it geographically and situate it in a less banal sphere. Ringsend maybe, Sandymount, Glasthule — all less loaded and egregious environments where you wont be inveigled into drinking yourself to within an inch of hell. But you do anyway you silly auld cunt.