Sometimes the dragon loses

I’ve write dark fairy stories. I’m working on a book that frightens me, its author and creator, sometimes. I think it’s cool to wear a scarf decorated with skulls, and not just because I’m trying to be neo-punk. I think Beslan is representative of the human condition.

I see around me gleeful contempt (hmmm, obsession with Heath Ledger’s turn in “Brokeback Mountain” and teh gay + weird possessiveness over Danny Bonaduce’s bare chest; is John Gibson in the closet and angry at those who aren’t? Look, I’m not in favour of outing people, but when people start in with the same BS, over and over again, like wind-up toys, you kind of have to wonder)

and

white-knuckle hate (apparently, anyone who calls Fred Phelps and his slimy frogspawn “bigots” is also calling “God a bigot.” These people basically think they’re God, which is my excuse for using the word “frogspawn.”)

and

I see this world as largely irredeemable.

But sometimes the dirty curtain lifts a little bit. And it’s these moments that you have to keep, stuff them in the inside pockets of your coat, next to your heart with its numbered beats.

Every once in a while you bring them up to the light, or, as the case may be, the dark, and they remind you that no, not everything and everyone is a complete waste of carbon and oxygen and space-time.

Behold, the glory of Paul Potts.