Great night. Lots of sex. Took a nice walk with a girl then bonked her brains out. Sitting back now and listening to Mother Mother. Can't talk much now, there appears to be some sort of solicitor at the door, have to shoo him away. Enjoy yourselves, no one.

~Your First Consul

Here.

My deepest apologies, nonexistent viewers, for my lack of updates yesterday. Time makes fools of us all. Also, reviewing my last blog post, I realized I may have assaulted you with a bit too much information at once. I do not wish to bore you, nonexistent viewer, with the explicit details of my rather boring past. The purpose of this blog is to tell you about my exciting present life, after all.

So I shall tell you first about yesterday.

Timon came to the door with a girl, rather sweet looking. Nice, fair skin. Some dots of freckles about her face. Average, though, not like the normal ones Timon usually brings home to consort with. For a moment I had thought the poor boy had fallen in love.

She called herself Lucy. So did Timon, so I believe I can trust to call her that for now. Timon met her in a bar down on Fifth, probably hoping to dip his wick in a poor prole girl for variety. Not that I have anything against proles, you must understand. "The workers control the means of production" and all that, eh? Never really read Marx. Don't honestly plan to.

I am getting off track. Yes, so Timon smiled that same poor foolish grin he always gets and asks me to come with him and his lady to this new club. On Fifth. Called the Fitz.

I normally don't mingle near Fifth Street. Not in some snotty upper-class aristocrat sort of way, just... different circles. Besides, the women there are harder to get in bed than a glued-up ball of squealing howler monkeys stuck to the other side of your face.

I refused. Timon's ladyfriend seemed a bit dismayed. But then Timon called in one of his little... favours. God damn reporters. Always much too nosy.

So I went with him. And, surprisingly, I had a smashing good time.

I'm thinking of going again. Alone this time. I'm always best when I work alone.

Besides that, nothing today had any special occurrence besides almost hitting some jaywalking businessman with my bike on the way to visit my step-sister.

~Your First Consul

Life and Times

New Year's, New Year's, and once more, New Year's. My most grievous of apologies to you, nonexistent viewer, for even DARING to not update this most ignonimous of outlets for my obviously deep-rooted psychological problems. Ah, ha ha. If only my life were so exciting. I sometimes imagine that, beneath the warm, embracing and extremely well-endowed exterior I am secretely some sort of serial killer who performs daring and extremely poetic murders at the drop of a hat. That amused me. Such as the one time my good older brother Michael attempted to get me into film school. It was highly entertaining, and I believe I would have been the next Alfred Hitchcock if I kept it up. But six months into production I lost interest, and severed myself from the school and production completely. Hopefully someone will start it up again. I was particularly fond of the script.

Ah, yes, I promised in my previous post that I will tell you about myself. Very well. I shall begin.

To say that I'm not well off for myself would be an utter and blatant lie. So would be the fact that I actually worked for a single penny of it. My father, god rest his soul, was probably one of the most hard working men I have ever seen. He, a humble office clerk in a backwater agency downtown, managed to almost single-handedly transform it into an enormous multinational corporation with branches throughout the world and became one of the most influential men in his home town. With, as was his motto, "grease, sweat, tears and very liberal investors". I quite admire him, really, though the whole business thing was never quite my style. He stole the corporation and started up his own large business, Cesar Enterprises. You probably wouldn't have heard of it. It does a little of behind the scenes stuff, I understand. I wouldn't be the best one to tell you, though. Never could wrap my head around the stuff. My good brother Michael is a good one to ask, if he doesn't bore you out of your skull.

 My childhood was spent in a mansion at the edge of town that was much larger than necessary. There were only nine people that inhabited the drafty old place, yet it could house the population of a small English town. It reminded me of Versailles; sure, it looks all nice and grand, Louis, but it doesn't change the fact that the peasants are starving to death and plotting the tear the bloody unnecessary lump of gold you call an aristocracy down anyway.

The nine people that inhabited the mansion was I, my good brother Michael, my father, the cook, the housekeeper, the groundskeeper, the butler and whoever was my father's wife during that time.

Oh yes, my father was a bit of a, ah, what was the word? It will come back to me. He remarried a lot. Never really had much a motherly figure, but oh well. That is about the extent of my deep-rooted childhood scars, I'm afraid. ;)

Bugger. Timon just knocked on the door and he's got a girl with him. Good god, man, this early...?

~Your first consul.