I despise my girlfriend.

Last night, returning from a work leaving do, we end up lying around and doing the max-chill thing. This is acceptable. The Goth Strokes (Copyright Charlie Chu) of Interpol playing. A girl's head resting on you. Sleepiness for her. Satisfaction like good brandy for me.

She wants to hear a story.

What story? Anything. How about something off that idea you blurted down the phone at Christmas. The woman's referring to a one line gag, as cheerfully demented as Antony Johnston's Zombie-Aquaman. A giggle, y'know.

But since she asked, and because she's looking so adorable, I can't say no. I start making up a story from the X vs Y high-concept gag, off the top of my head.

And then, with mounting horror, I realise it actually is a story. Everything dovetails together, ties in a mess and becomes a genuine plot with character arcs, intrigue and heavy-ultraviolence. I end up agitated, twisting, turning and fighting the desperate urge to write this pointless, bastard thing rather than do anything productive. Or sleep.

Damn my girlfriend. With a twist of a mental-akido hip, she turned my powers against me.

I will have my revenge.

Meanwhile, while I dreamt of remixing a major corporate sci-fi alien icon and an icon of medieval British culture together, space-explorers head towards their death. People die when travelling every day, so logically there's no reason why this should shake me as it does. This is why they call it emotions rather than logicons or similar.