Don’t I get lonely? Well, after spending your life amid drunken crowds you kind of crave solitude. These days, I prefer the quieter ones, post-apocalypses, mass extinction events, that kind of thing. But I must admit I was glad when people lolloped onto the scene, with their dodgy hair style and fashion. The Seventies all over again – indeed the Seventies have happened several times throughout history. Didn’t you know, every era has one. Wait around long enough and eventually you’re back in fashion. Anyway, they weren’t great conversationalists to begin with. Lacked table manners. Body odour issues. But they soon scrubbed up – although their personal grooming regime took a few millennia to perfect. They were so charmingly naïve to begin with. Gullible some might say. Easy to tempt. Especially the women (or maybe I was the one being fooled). They could see the hidden knowledge in the apple of my eyes. Wanted a bite. One taste and they were insatiable. The sex was great for a while, but when you lose count – I don’t like to boast but – it loses its appeal. How many times can you get off with a stranger in a drunken manner? I’ve tried most variations, but these days, I’m celibate. When you’re faced with tipsy revellers wanting a bit of fun, well let’s just say I’m a bloody frigging saint. Forget about those desert dudes. Forty days in the wilderness? A cake walk. Try surviving the Roman Empire. Saturnalia? Saturday Night Fever, more like.
And the less said about that two-faced Janus the better.