27th
Talbot Street, and Anne Frank!
As I was walking up Talbot Street in my half asleep state this morning, I spotted a pig staring out the window (for scumbags with an unexplainable hatred of An Garda Siochana, insert pig-related joke here. Happy? Now fuck off!). Quite aware of my hallucinations and how they mock me, I almost left it at that. What made this pig unique, however, is that he was directly above his greatest of enemies, the butcher!
Staring at him there, imprisoned in such close proximity to the place in which his very own kind is slaughtered on a daily basis, I couldn’t help but to draw comparisons with Anne Frank. But would the comparisons end there I wondered, now really loosing the plot. Perhaps this pig is penning a diary too, committing to paper (and history) the hardships faced on a daily basis. What would this diary read like, I thought? Below is the excerpt that materialised in my mind.
Monday:”Lived in my own filth”
Tuesday: “Lived in my own filth. Looked out the window for a while”
Wednesday: “Lived in my own filth”
Thursday: “Lived in my own filth”
Friday: “Lived in my own filth. Looked out the window for a while. Had my picture taken by a ugly balding man”.
And that is where the comparisons with Anne Frank ended. Stupid brain! How dare it mock me.
