I dreamt I was dreaming and couldn’t wake up. Then I woke up. The unconscious is a dick.
It feels as though I put on the wrong legs this morning, uncooperative legs with somebody else’s fatigue in them. After all, my legs didn’t do very much at all yesterday so they couldn’t possibly feel as fatigued as they do today. These are some other fucker’s legs, deliberately confusing me and liable to take wrong turns. If I commit any kind of heinous crime today, especially one that is out of character, I’m blaming these legs.
There is an uncertain quality to the light today, a Turner-esque smeariness like I’m seeing everything through dim, misted glass. If I still have eyes in May perhaps the optician will decide to put them behind stronger lenses. Or there’s nothing wrong with my eyes and the world is simply fading into grey out of spiritual neglect.
I have come to the world of persons in order to feel less isolated. I don’t like it and cannot wait till I’m on my own again back at home.
Posted in Art, Culture, exercise, health, Life, mental health, Nature, weather
Tagged Art, Eyes, fatigue, glasses, legs, optician, The unconscious, Turner
Don’t even. But, on the other hand, don’t uneven.
Several days of almost being like a human turned into a today of sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep. It’s not my favourite kind of today but if it’s what my body needed then I guess it will be pleased with me. As if I had a choice.
I’m awake right now: I haven’t yet worked out how to write things while asleep. But after a lazy meal of laziness and tired I fully expect to be not awake again very soon.
Like anyone gives a flying fuck whether I’m awake or not, tired or not, human or from Alpha Ceti. Actually people might be interested if I were from Alpha Ceti, if only because it’s a star, not a planet, and if I were really from there I wouldn’t call it that because that’s an Earth name for it.
What do the letters 18 and 2019 and the numbers Monday and February have in common? Today! They are today. Good old cyclical month names and sequential day numbering, they make every day both familiar and brand new. Calendar people are so clever.
I’m not clever. Nor am I big. I’m a short-arsed dumbo and I don’t mean that my actual bottom is undersized while my ears are so huge I can use them to fly with. I seen a needle that winked its eye…
I mean I’m not a calendar people. Actually I was once a model for a scantily-clad charity calendar shoot. Can’t remember which month I ended up with but I was playing pool with my top off. All very risqué as I’m not even very good at pool. But we did raise at least seven pence towards testicles. Or seven testicles towards pence.
I known it’s difficult to tell when mostly I write gibberish and nonsense but the above paragraph is predominantly true. It is also true that there is a woman on the cafe I’m currently sitting in who resembles someone from the telly whose name I don’t know, nor do I know what show they’re in. I’ve only seen trailers for whatever they’re in. Should I go over and say “Hey, aren’t you whatshername from thingy on the tv?” No, I shouldn’t. She’s taller than me and might thump me.
Beware the ides of March. In a month’s time. Meantime, don’t beware of nothing. Or do. Up to you really. Personally ima beware of bitey dogs eyeing up my gonads, Russia, eating urinal cake and anything stabby. A comprehensive list, I think you’ll agree.
Well in that case, I don’t agree. I think they can play; they just need a new manager.
If you know what the heck that means you should probably marry me. Or should you beware of marrying me? I’ve confused myself now.
Hello, it’s Friday: all of it, although experienced in sequential snippets. I’m a unique and beautiful snowflake and you’re not. I’m rubber, you’re Johnny. Beware the orange-faced President, The jaws that bite, the words that dance drunkenly like those of a five year old on methadone. Snicker snack. Twitter twat.
And now I’m not writing.
Posted in Culture, drugs, internet, Language, Life, Literature, Media, Politics
Tagged A Fistful Of Traveller’s Cheques, Donald Trump is a fucking disaster, Fight Club, Jabberwocky, Julius Caesar, Shakespeare
Hands up if you love me
Hello Thursday, will you be friends and pals with me and not ask me to spend all the day being sick? You will? Then I like you and won’t throw gravel at your shins. Oh, and will you encourage me to consider myself a whole human being despite the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m single? Yes? Well you and I are going to get along famously, Thursday. Hope I don’t die before you end, otherwise people will assume I thought you sucked.
Yeah so whatever and sales of chocolate and stuff. I buy chocolate a lot anyway so fuck off, Capitalism, I’m already ensnared without you making a huge deal out of a ‘saint’ who some allege was de-sanctified in 1969. Was it because he was also the patron saint of faking moon landings? Or because the ‘love’ he experienced came in the form of ingratiating letters from his jailer’s juvenile daughter? Sure, in the 1970s nobody would care about the whiff of paedophilic subtext but unless Rolf Harris can prove to be St Valentine reincarnated it’s not acceptable now.
Yeah so what and ranty rantface and stuff. I bitch about Capitalism a lot anyway so fuck off, Valentine’s Day, I’m already ensnared in cold, fiscal measurement of meaningful emotional interaction without you insisting I buy some words written on a dead tree. What’s that Thursday? You’re fed up with my grumpiness? Well fuck you too. That didn’t last long, then. Thursday, you suck!
Posted in Culture, Economics, food, History, Life, love, Politics
Tagged Al Capone, capitalism, chocolate, Rolf Harris is a convicted paedophile, St Valentine’s Day Massacre, Valentine’s Day
Still broken. With added vomiting. That’s nice, isn’t it, to have an added extra? It’s like I’ve won a prize but, because I’m just a piece of shit, I’ve won a really awful prize. Still, I’m sure certain orange faced presidents would get even worse prizes if the world really worked like that.
Going across to the shop to buy some things for my body to be throwing up was my Everest today. By which I mean I took loads of Sherpas with me, lost several toes to frostbite and had to convince Brian Blessed that he’d have even less need for oxygen if he’d only shut the fuck up. Only joking, I mean that the shop was double glazed and guaranteed to keep out the elements for forty years.
See, see how broken my brain is? What’s the point of me? I’m going to eat rice pudding now on the ground that it already looks like sick.