George Osborne‘s tears chat about their appearance at Thatcher’s funeral
I stand here, teetering on the precipice, on the very brink of calamity. I peer over the edge and stare down at deep, sagging eyes, blackened with remorse and self-loathing.
I look dead ahead and see the reflection of both myself and my creator in the bathroom mirror, we are a sight to behold. There are parallels to be drawn between us and the mothers we denied welfare, babies we deprived of food.
He considers all his wrongdoings, all the people he has hurt, the elderly, the young, students, parents, the disabled, a rainbow spectrum turned greyscale through poverty and deprivation.
I fall, I cascade, coursing over deep wrinkles, etched in by months of guilt, through a proverbial wilderness of stubble, grown from weeks of regret.
My owner makes deadly eye contact with himself, his own eyes burning deep into his soul as his right hand pumps furiously away in fervent masturbation, his only release from a life lived so wrong.
I trickle off his chin and plummet downwards, further lubricating his pleasure. He eventually finds his release and his entire body shudders. The feelings of masochism subside and he is once again able to don his veneer as master of the coin and return to his sordid life.
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