Tom

Who Am I?

Last night I ate a porcupine. It was roadkill of the funkiest kind and the quills stuck in my mouth but the flesh was rich and tender, perfect, succulent morsels of fried hedgehog-ham. Barry Manilow warbled in the background (he wasn't even invited but I let him in anyway). I realised what I had written. I realised it didn't matter. I'd rather eat a porcupine and write a story about it then let it go to waste.