With this, I would like to direct a message to a particularly incompetent and inadequate dark corner of my pathetic excuse for a well-functioning brain and ask, “What the merry fuck happened to that last ounce of accepted behaviour and dignity?” Though perhaps I ought to direct my enquiries elsewhere, as I cannot be entirely sure whether it really was my brain or some other part of me coming up with such a foolish and detestable idea.
Well. The kiss in itself was not that detestable, I feel obliged to admit.
But that is, obviously, beside the point. The point, overshadowing every minute feeling resembling one of distant pleasure with its infinite size, is that even the mere idea of the two of us continuing our activities for the smallest of nanoseconds is so entirely pointless and ridiculous that my having a harmonic and exciting intimate relationship with a jug of pumpkin juice would seem more likely to work out. And, mind, I loathe pumpkin juice.
Ah, I know. The whole incident is naturally a direct cause of the traumatising sight it was to catch Lupin and sodding Black at it. Solution found, mind eased. The bastards just have to shove the fact that I am more surrounded my particles of air than anything else into my face.
I wonder if that is a good enough excuse.
Oh, I am fooling no one with this constant elusion of the subject, as I upon rereading this load of rubbish have concluded with.
Very well. The woman is entrancing. I hope that satisfies the other dark corner of my brain in which something rumoured to be called a conscience is lurking, because that is all it is going to get as of today.