I've changed my mind. There's a God. You know how I know? Because there's a Devil. He's real. And he's sitting inside my hob clicking. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK. 4 days now. 4 days of endless clicking. WHY ARE YOU CLICKING? Hmmmm? Do you want something? YOU'RE A HOB! WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT?! I use you. I clean you. You've never clicked before even when we wanted you to. THAT'S WHY WE OWN FOUR GAS LIGHTERS - BECAUSE. YOU. HAVE. NEVER. WORKED. Until now... click... click... click... click...
I have learnt in the last four days that the following artists do not go well with the constant, metronomical clicking of a headstrong hob: Bob Dylan, Carly Simon, The Black Keys, Matchbox 20 and The Rolling Stones. What I've proved quite effectively is that none of these musical talents would have been improved by the addition of an anally retentive triangle player who couldn't find a triangle and is therefore just clicking a hob clicker.
Ah, you tiny Devil. Small enough that you've climbed into the hob to bully me. I didn't see this coming. Of course you'd go for the hob; take out the kitchen. Usually my perfect refuge from the world where I can bake so I am happy and then feed the results to my boyfriend so he is happy. Not any more though. No. Gone. Gone is my paradise, to be replaced with a limbo, if limbo is a place where people with limited imagination and wrist mobility go to learn maracas.
I have written you a poem, hob, because you have become more deeply entrenched in my soul than any beau I could hope to encounter or melody that could permeate my ears.
Or I'll hit you with shoes until you bleed human blood.
Or I'll make plasticine penises and stick them all over you and bring people round to show them my hobnobs.
You will be mortified.
Or I will tear out every one of your sarcastically clicking rings and fill them with shit.
Yes, I realise this will just leave me with a shitty, clicking hob... but I will do it because I am desperate.
Stop clicking. Stop clicking.
See me standing on one leg?
I can hear the clicking in every one of the 3 rooms that barely make up my house. You know what this clicking has done? Made me realise how small my house is that I cannot get far enough away from the clicking to stop crying long enough to put mascara on.
I can't remember a time without clicking. I feel like one of those people who can't remember a time when everything wasn't clicking; you know, those people who swear things have always clicked. And then other people are like, "Ooh, no dear, back in my day things didn't click. And we didn't have sex either." And then the people like me say, "Haha, don't be silly, I CAN'T HAVE SEX BECAUSE THE CLICKING WON'T STOP SO ONCE WE START GETTING INTO IT, IT SOUND LIKE ONE OF US IS HEADING FAST TOWARDS A HIP REPLACEMENT."
Please stop clicking.