I often wonder.
I do that a lot, and then ponder.
On the exact purpose of doing so.
It doesn't achieve anything, yet this I do.
It depresses me terribly.
It angers me horribly.
Until I have to, forcibly,
Write it in a blog.
I'm a dog.
Why a dog, you may ask, out of the hundreds of beings that inhabit this confusing world, in this time.
Why not, I reply, at a dime.
What's stopping me from writing absolute bullshit.
Maybe the realization that I'm a git.
An absolutely dysfucktional, true-blue asshole. Of the first class. There aren't many like me around.
Whose heads are so firmly rooted to the ground.
I wish I could fly.
Or at least die.
If I died, perhaps my soul would fly among the cloud-cover that deposits alluvial deposits of acid rain in one part of the world or another.
But I've got a fear of heights, so I'd not rather.
It's fucking nonsense, I fear.
Trembling ramblings of a thirty-something, give me my beer.
Or a simple vacation would suffice.
But even there, the greens do not play dice.
Life is a random sequence of events. It is complicated but livable.
But taking your own by committing the act of suicide is at best sueable.
But then it's at least doable.
Hahahahahah, this post's utterly shittable.
I knew it; I've wasted precious minutes I'll never get back.
But it matters little to me. An epicurean by behaviour, I hardly bother about old father time coming knocking at my crib in the wee hours of the evening. He can hit the sack.
I'm not getting up for every idiot that tries to rouse me, nope.
Because it's not cool and it's not dope.
Even if that old geezer's the pope.
So far, I'm sure you've understood that this blog's not going to get anywhere in a million years. How could it? It's on the web. Stuck.
Like my life is, which I'd sell to make a fast buck.
Maybe I'm not that desperate.
Or maybe I don't have even the slightest inclination to, for all the years of my life, give something back, reciprocate.
Fuck me. I'm high.
That's all right. I'm low once more, I thought I was going to die.
Then I remembered dear old college.
Which is supposed to be a provider of good purpose (which is to serve the nation to the best of our abilites; are we really that selfless?) and knowledge.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, and not often in that order.
Why, they tell us to alter colours, read strategies on how to sell people things, when the best way is actually to hold a gun to their head and get them to buy it. Kotler can kiss my ass, I prefer Don Corleone. They even teach us to add a fancy border.
And then some.
Now I'm hungry. My stomach rumbles like a bear, all old and shaggy and flapping and happy.
Happy about what? My own brain is a little gappy.
Oh, that's right, you're going to be fed. Mister, live on beans and hard tack. Or smoke.
Because you're not getting to eat anything even if I have to choke.
One more meal missed while I write this blog.
Is it large enough, the size of a dog, or a log?
Sorry, someone pass me a light, I'm lost in a swampy bog.
I wish I were a hog.
What's to wish, my heart says. You're already one.
Go away, I reply. You've been no help at the end when all's said and done.
Three heart-aches you've given me. You aren't entitled to an opinion. You're a bad judge of character.
Or else a really good actor.
In either case, fuck off, I've got no time for bodily functions that don't help me.
You're part of the problem when you're not a solution, see?
Now my fingers are tired.
By giants was I sired.
Not real giants, mind you, those ones with tall figures and those huge clubs with which they'd go knock, smash, knock.
No, these are the educated giants. They go tick tock.
Like those clockwork toys we used to play with when we were kids.
When we used to put the salt in the pepper pot and just for the heck of it replace the lids.
Ah, it was fun.
I wish I had a bun.
Go away. I'm sick of rhyming. I honestly don't know why the hell I decided to type.
And I absolutely hate to use modern day softwares where people keep bobbing up like jackrabbits whenever you go online. Like skype.
This needs an ending, what have I been thinking.
I've been in nonsense sinking.
You better not.
So for the interest of your sanity, leave this post.
Risen up and gone has your host.
Because this is an unending entry.
I could keep writing until I get dysentry.
Then I'd probably carry the pc into the bathroom and proceed to type from there.
And both of us, me and you, reader, would badly fare.
So goodbye, khudafis, and as the french say, ... what did they say? I seemed to have forgotten.
My french is as bad as my brain, whisky-sodden.