Sunday, 11 September 2011


They had made me ill, these toxins of the healthy-living lifestyle: the holier-than-thou attitude; the disapproval of those weak enough to give in to the demands of their addictive predilections; the sickening smugness; the eternal life delusions. These unintended consequences: of food-avoidance strategies; of an excess of spring water; of regular exercise; of early nights; of the dearth of Sunday morning lie-ins. All of them had resulted in a toxicity of character far more noxious than any reckless living cocktail of the damned which had once been my modus operandi.
            “What on earth are you doing?” I asked myself, as I lined up my own answer to the failed de-tox experiment.
            “We need a de-tox from de-tox,” I replied. “A piety enema, a rolling back of years, ”
            “You do realize that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness,” I said.
            “No,” I replied, “resolving to spend your whole life being sensible; that’s the first sign of madness.”

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