There's no better way to overpower a trickle of doubt than with a flood of truth.
Francis Underwood, House of Cards.
It's part of the fun of living in an imperfect universe - no-one will ever know exactly who you are. If you asked all the people who have ever met you to describe you, you'd receive a different version from each of them. We can think of this as the Infinite Me theory. If perception is reality, there are as many 'mes' as there are other people; for all practical purposes that's an infinite number, especially if you count life forms we've yet to meet from other planets.
Speaking of which, I note Michael Douglas in the news earlier in the week. Michael is from Planet Hollywood, a glittering disco-ball of well-lit gas way out there on the left side of the galaxy. He is what passes for royalty there, which means he's a second generation meat puppet.
It seems Mr D has revealed that his recent bout of throat cancer was as a result of sapphic overindulgence, a plethora of pussy in other words. Pussy-eating, to be accurate, because it seems the human pappilomavirus, passed orally, was to blame. Allegedly to blame. Now, given that Michael's been married to Welsh bomb Catherine Zeta-Jones for quite some time, one wonders just what's occurring here. Especially after she was declared "...HPV-free...".
I'm not interested in underestimating the importance of understanding the link between anything and cunnilingus. In good health and in poor, knowledge is power. And given Mr Muff-Muncher's sway with the media, we're all more informed about the dangers of HPV. That's a good thing. And yet. And yet there's something grimy about a bloke who smoke, drank, snorted, licked and fucked his way around the universe for decades revealing that his ill-health was from a single simple pleasure.
Floods of truth, it seems, come with fast-moving tongues.
Bottoms Up, From High Between Her Thighs.
