I’m sick. Of this world. Of pretensions. And of conforming. Conforming to what? To your rules. To the rules of society. FUCK SOCIETY. What’s it ever done for me anyway? Made me feel miserable at every point of my damned life? Is that the only thing it’s good for? 6 billion years of evolution and THIS is what you stupid, stupid humans came up with? A society where half of the people die of hunger while the other half are on medication for obesity? Pathetic. The whole fucking lot of you. Pathetic.
Some time ago, a long long time ago, I don’t exactly know how much, not really a perfection chaser, me, nevertheless an undisclosed amount of time ago, there lived this really really old man called Bord Ghistaker. Now don’t look at me like that, that was his name, as he told it to me. What do you expect me to do? Change it because it isn’t pretty? You should have heard what he called me, you’d be vomiting all week. Anyway. So, this Bord fellow came up to me when I was on my usual late-evening walk to the end of the universe. “Howdy, I’m Bord Ghistaker,” he says to me. I looked at him like he was a madman, well he certainly looked like a madman and sounded like one. Who says Howdy in India? Except, of course, really rich people who pretend they’re foreigners because they’ve been drunk for around 60 years. He says, “Howdy” and I, well, blurted something back. Don’t remember what it was, I think it was an innocent “What’s up” He looked hard at me. Yes, hard. He actually, looked hard. If he’d looked any harder, there’d be scratch marks on my face. He continued for a while, I allowed him. No one looks at me anyway, so it was a welcome change. After what seemed like 5 minutes, might have been 50 seconds, might have been 5 hours, who knows, he says to me, “You look familiar, do I know you?” I hadn’t seen this man before in my life, so I very normally said, “No” He said “Okay” and went away. And, well, I carried on with my late-evening walk to the end of the universe.
Anyway, the point of this post: did you know that the Earth is so full of bacteria, to any outsider, it’d look like the human race was an infestation?
You know, like, Americans.
‘Twas the Year of Our Lord 1781
A man came running to his boss
After discovering the 7th planet from the sun
“What should I call it, Sir?” asked he, hoping for a reprieve
Guy couldn’t catch a break even after what he achieved
The boss, a man of a low boiling point,
Wasn’t in a very good mood
Having been scolded by his wife
He looked his worker up and down,
“My ass,” he said, hardly hiding a frown
Now, the worker wasn’t a very perceptive man, thus,
The planet came to be known as Uranus.
There once lived a man named Johnny Bell
Guy could idle very, very well
He used to idle morning, noon and night
But still craved for some more respite
From the people around him who worked round the clock
They’d make his head hurt like being hit by a jock
He asked them to slow down and smell the flowers,
Eat the pie and sleep for 10 hours
But the people looked at him like he was the Devil’s brother
And started to work harder and harder
Just to show the fool, the rewards they would gain
While Johnny would at his steady pace remain
Johnny looked at them and was a bit confused
Any amount of convincing would just earn him abuse
Slowly and slowly, his head began feeling alright
But he started to crumble under their might
Nowadays, Johnny doesn’t idle so well
He’s keeps his head busy to keep it from hurting like hell
Who’s at fault, you might debate,
Fact is, this was always Johnny’s fate.
This is an exercise in self indulgence. Posting and writing things in a personal corner of the Internet that is shielded from all questions, all sorts of raised eyebrows, just by the virtue of being an expression of your/mine/their inner self.
It’s my blog, I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.
Yes, I can even use the word Fuck.
My bone of contention, why must this be limited to personal spaces only. If you don’t give a fuck to what someone thinks of your blog, you’re saying you don’t give a fuck to what other people think of your innermost desires and form of expression. Which would then lead to me assuming that other people do not matter, even when you get out of this personal zone into the big, wide, bad world. But that isn’t the case is it? Because when you/me/they go out into the big, wide, bad world, everything suddenly changes. People take out masks and put them over their faces and cover every inch of their skin with it.
Now if everyone wears masks, and everyone knows that everyone else is wearing masks, then what is the point of masks? That you’re hiding your true self from a bunch of pretentious bitches by becoming a pretentious bitch yourself? It would make sense if you did that to secretly eat them up and wearing the mask was the only way to get into the herd, but again, that isn’t happening either. You’re not a wolf in a sheep’s hide. You’re a fucking sheep in a sheep’s hide.
Rant has ended.
Self indulgence satisfied.
Hello dear you,
I would have said ‘Darling’ but that would have sounded too much like The Doctor, which I would have loved at a normal(-er?) time, but not today. Today I don’t want to sound like The Doctor, not that I usually do. What I mean is that I do not wish to be thought of as eccentric, or weird. Weird is a very difficult word to spell. I just can’t seem to get it right the first time. So yes, I don’t want to be thought of as weird, but just a normal specimen of the same stupid species you belong to. No, I will not say something like ‘Weird people have feelings too’. I want to, but won’t. Instead I will say stuff like, ‘A room heater is a piece of art’, or ‘Letters addressed to strangers turn me on’. Because that is what is expected of me. And this specimen here does not like to not deliver on expectations. So, with all due respect to thy holy greatness, I say unto thee,
A unicorn shaped cabbage tastes just as good as a unicorn.
Christmas is 23 days away.
I want decorations.
And jazz songs.
And someone to love.
It’s been three months since I last touched a guitar. A lot has happened since then, but none of it, made me quite as peaceful and content as the 15 minutes I spent with the rust-covered instrument.
It’s a nice feeling, letting everything go, forgetting every trouble you have just so that you can hit that note just at the right second, not a millisecond too soon, not a millisecond too late.
Sixty six, the number of words she had used in her last message.
Fifty eight, the number of times he had read it.
Ninety two, the average number of seconds he had devoted to each reading.
Seventy seven, the number of letters he had shredded.
It’s not easy being addicted to numbers. You form a connection with each, searching for patterns and clues that would bring sense to apparently random characters. Sometimes, the connection does come through and you’re satisfied knowing that you solved the problem. Other times, you aren’t so lucky. Nothing comes in handy. You invent parallel universes just to bring some meaning to the chaos. You invent new rules, and say 2+1 equals 5.968, and carry on to prove yourself right. It is then that you cross the line between “guy who needs help” to “guy who can’t be helped”. It’s 5:33 right now. I’m listening to a playlist that is scheduled to end at exactly sixty six minutes from now.
Sixty six, the number of words she had used in her last message.
It all makes sense.