Harry the Hormone. A Children’s short story by Eve Fuckwit (I haven’t quite decided on that one but it’s got a certain ring to it)
Once upon a time there was a hormone. Its name was Harry. It was a little fucker. Every few weeks it decided to fuck about with its surroundings. Graffiti, needles, raves…the fucking lot. Then one day its owner, a slightly neurotic young woman decided she’d had enough of Harry’s antics and went on the pill. Harry suffered from suppression for a long time.
He even went to the doctors and was put on tablets that made him want to vomit and call all his loved ones complete twats for no reason whatsoever. But Harry was strong. He saved up all his energy believing that one day he would once again be a free spirit. Years passed and there was no sign of little Harry until one morning he awoke with a feeling of spring. He was no longer trapped within his torturous existence. He was free at last to live his dreams. A year passed and Harry was happy back up to his old tricks, although this time he made sure he made the most of them, not knowing when his time would eventually come. Unfortunately for Harry, the naïve young woman had read a few books in the time that Harry had been away and had discovered a new lifeline. It was called Progesterone. True, the poor woman had to live her life with a moustache and teenage acne but at least it got rid of the little fucker.
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It’s a good solid lesson to learn and it’s also a great way of getting rid of a dull husband.
Funny isn’t it how they think it’s okay to grow hair all over the fucking shop and scratch their arses with the same hand they caress your face with and then when you decide that facial hair’s the thing for you, want to leave you for the slag with the slapped arse down the road.
No, I may sound like a bitter old whore who’s never had a decent relationship in my entire life but it’s not true. I’ve been living with a freak of a man for a whole year now. The freakiest thing about him is that he doesn’t seem to notice that I’m a fucking idiot. Or perhaps he does and that’s what he likes, I don’t know. We moved in together after seeing each other for three months. Six months down the line I was in hospital after a routine check up discovered I had a tumor growing inside me. I think a child would have been nicer but fuck it, you just have to put up with it.
Even now, he’s still somewhat intrigued by me and stays just to see what daft things I’ll say and do as life passes us by. It’s like Shirley Valentine. I have a great big scar and I think he thinks it’s all part of me and my experiences of life. Albeit his name’s not Costas and he doesn’t own a fishing boat on a small idyllic Greek Island but he’s more of a person than I could ever hope to be. Anyway, this is too serious, let’s discuss why no-one has stood up in the middle of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and shouted ‘Whose responsible for this steaming pile of shit?’
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