Of my way.
Just because your wheely bag has ease of use for you dragging it around the underground in confined spaces, doesn’t mean you should wheel it slowly under my feet.
Not only does it consume the space in which three other people could potentially be taking up, instead of them gently inserting themselves into each other like some sort of morbid tetris sex game, but those utilising said bags also seem to think that they are already on holiday, walking at a pace so leisurely that I am genuinely surprised their pulse has the motivation to keep beating. I wish it wouldn’t, at least then they’d be horizontal and much easier to pass in a crowded corridor.
You are going on holiday. Get a move on, so you can get there quicker.
The worst of all is when the perpetrators travel in packs, coffee in one hand, bag in the other, looking at you like you’re Satan’s own offspring when you try and get past their wildly meandering child, plugged tirelessly into their imaginary world, where three foot high humans are actually a semi permeable item. They are not, in reality. Yes that was my knee. I’m not sorry about your face. Pick your damned bag up.
We are a generation of care-lessers,
Sugar in the tea-ers,
Another piece of cake pleasers.
Sleep is not for dreamers, achievers,
We have our coffees extra large,
Whipped cream topped caffeine charged,
We are extra fries,
For the love of it.
We are fat pigs.
Yet, do you know what my issue is right now?
I just ate so much chocolate that I feel sick.
My body has taken on so many sugars, preservatives, and false flavours, that it’s rejecting them. It’s had enough.
And somewhere, somebody just died of starvation.
Hunger tore them apart to a point where they were in intense pain.
Part of their internal organs probably started digesting themselves in shame.
I’m so disappointed in myself. My response? I’m going to comfort eat.
A number of thoughts have sprung themselves through the grey matter in my skull today.
A culmination of electronic connections that couldn’t go any further, requesting further assistance.
A thirst for knowledge.
It’ll not be quenched. It’ll just die of dehydration and reincarnate and try again.
So many people in my place of
slavery work boringbrainnumbingpointlessfuckingwork
God I’m in so much debt. Not so pointless.
Not the customers. The
Always the same words dribbling without fail from their lips.
WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE? A question I ask at least one member of staff every shift I work.
I’ve not had an answer that consisted of actual words yet. I’ve worked there over a year. I’ve been asking the question for just under a month now.
Or just a shrug. A forlorn look. A laugh. A wriggle of the hand meant to represent money.
As far as I can see, nobody in the world is capable of being stuck anywhere.
Mostly, it’s a bit of a depressing employment for sure. It’s a halfway house of finance. Whilst you’re progressing to better things, here’s somewhere to work for now. Most of us are studying for degrees. Something better. A couple of them already have degrees. Why aren’t they doing something better? The rest, merely lack the qualifications or drive to be anywhere better. In which case, the company will progress them to a better position.
Until that point, people seriously need to shut up their
whining bitching moaning. This isn’t the be all and end all.
I’ve done so much wrong with my life.
With this knowledge, I’ve never been happier.
With that knowledge, I know I will never be as happy, but will be happier than, I am about to be.
Wriggle your grey matter on mine for a while.
I hope they gel nicely.
The rose, does not smell sweet. The rose, if you in fact smell it carefully, such a flamboyant and extravagant flower in all it’s species, breeds, and extreme defence mechanism, smells, like earth. You can tell it has once been alive, but no longer, it lacks the sweetness that many of it’s cousins may contribute to the nasal palette. I have never found joy in a noseful of rose. (I may point out at this point in time that I know a young lady called Rose and she is quite delightful and this is in no way a sly little dig at her or anything of the sort.)
As far as I can tell, a greatly overrated flower.
I have found that the sweeter smells come from lily of the valley, or just the lily itself. Pale, sloping, elegant flowers that grow of their own mean wildly or easily by man. Low maintenance. Understated, subtle beauties with their own little uniquities, with the strongest of flavours.
To be bold of appearance is not always to stand out.
I think women could learn a lot from this. I’d explain more but, if they’ve not learnt it by now then by god let the aphids get them.
It starts again. The plug of cable to laptop repeatedly connects my mind to a spiral of distraction and desperation to not do, exactly what it is, that I am meant to be doing.
One half of my brain enforces that, rationally, I should be getting on with my essay and working towards a future that, although indeterminate, is successful and will make those that are aware of my existence here feel some sort of sense of pride. The other side, smaller and weaker, the irrational that I have managed to crush down and tape up to some degree for most of my life takes over. It’s not a sudden breaking free, it has been unravelling itself for some time now, some sort of contortionist of some faraway circus unfolding themselves to show their impossible agility.
It’s like letting a toddler have control on the levers of your emotions for a while. Sometimes, the tantrums will just subside, you can stop it before you start. But mostly, it’s an uncontrollable fit that just has to run it’s course. Let it wear itself out. And externally, you see nothing but the rage, the sadness, the one emotion shining through that’s been held down with spider’s webs for your sake. All I’m saying inside is ‘you poor bastard. You don’t deserve this.’ Always at the weakest possible recipient, the one who deserves it least. And when I’m procrastinating, well am I just making myself the victim? Winding myself up for the sake of it? It just takes one match for my bonfire…
Or spark the laptop plug. And this. To do anything but what I’m meant to be doing. Again. Do not cross me today… you poor bastard.
You are, without a doubt, the most vile, disgusting human being I have ever met in my life. Over the few months that I have had to endure your lecherous, wrinkled, swollen old face totter into my pub, my hatred for you has increased dramatically. You have about as much relevance in my life as the plaque I brush off my teeth each morning.
At first I assumed you just a lonely old man coming for a drink after work, now I realise you are just another dreg of society, who comes in every day to commit a slow suicide, to solve a life that you’ve obviously failed at, just buying time and avoiding going home to cook dinner for the mother you still live with at the age of sixty. She’s probably been trying to get rid of you as much as I have, but no amount of ignoring, bluntness or just plain rudeness can shake the cheery hello you give me, the words floating over on disgusting, putrid, cigarette and ale breath. I’m amazed your teeth haven’t just melted away in that stench, or stood up and walked away from you. And you always attempt conversation…. Why can’t you just face the fact that I despise you? I do not care about your mundane, pointless life, I’d compare your existence to that of an insect but at least they have their place in the food chain. What’s more is that every time you waddle your way up to the bar, you seem to have swollen a little bit more, like a steadily angered puffer fish. I’m feeling awful for thinking it, but I really hope that the fat just finds your heart one of these days, because, quite frankly, you look ready to die. You’re fifty seven going on one hundred and fifty seven. Your hair resembles that of an unwashed Albert Einstein, and that’s a compliment for you sir. And you are unwashed. I can smell you before I see you, I do not exaggerate, a stench of bodily odour of dubious origin, chip fat and cigarettes that is enough to make me vomit in my own mouth. I joke not, this has very nearly happened before. I’ve tried spraying odour eliminator’s near you and around you as a hint, but I think next time I will just spray it in your eyes to make it a little more obvious and stop you from staring at my chest when I’m pouring you another pint, and willing it to be your last. Just because your appearance is Jurassic, does not give you an excuse to be a lech. You’re too young for the senility card, so keep your eyes on my face and your comments to yourself.
You’re a caricature of the word ‘failure’, and I really hope you sort your life out, just so you get your sorry self out of my workplace, but most importantly, out of my life.
One of the things I hate most about Halloween, and there’s a lot I hate, is the determination of confectionary companies and the like to stick pointless adjectives on the front of their branding, and add cancer causing chemical colours to their products to justify said changes. No, this is not a ‘spooky’ cupcake. It’s orange. I don’t want to eat it, and it’ll probably give me a stomach ache and cost me more than a normal one.
Another thing is the insistence, for about a month, regardless of the date that halloween actually resides on, for girls to go out on the piss, essentially in themed underwear. Fair enough, a fittie in a corset is always nice, however a pig in a tyre is not. And for every six girls you see dressed as a ‘sexy’ zombie or a ‘sexy’ nurse, or any profession with the word ‘sexy’, ‘slutty’ or ‘dirty’ stuck in front of it, you will see some cellulite striding disturbingly confidently in a tutu that shows all four creases between her bottom and her thighs.
Coming down from businesses to young adults, I bring you last, but by far not least to children. I mean, way to confuse the little bastards. Never talk to strangers, or accept sweets off them, but on this day, if they can’t see your face for the paint plastered across it and the costume you wear, it is totally acceptable for you to knock on their doors and demand sweets or else you’ll vandalise their house with the foetus of another animal. Dark. Halloween is essentially, very specific mugging. My God, this is the next generation. I might start just throwing eggs in their faces as soon as the doorbell rings on Halloween, cut out the middle man and teach them a lesson worth learning.
What are you doing tomorrow?
Going to work?
Why not an adventure?
Who do you work for?
What are you doing with that money?
A house, close to work, so you can sleep and eat before you work?
When was the last time you took a holiday?
Did something exciting?
Went somewhere new?
Why aren’t you doing it right now?
What are you procrastinating from?
What do you want to be doing?
You can worry about that when it comes to it.
Imagine all that hard work, and no play.
I love that feeling you get when you don’t remember that you’re reading. When you’re so captured by a book that you forget you’re reading the words. All you see is the descriptions and conversations that being to play out like a movie in your head. You don’t even think about it. Then before you know it, you’ve read 100 pages without realizing it. That’s probably the best feeling in the world.
Nobody knows you have not shaved your legs for a week.
They will not experience the bristle and general disgust associated with this fact.
Only you know this, and it gives you a dangerous amount of joy that you just do not have to care.
You can look at who you want, when you want. You can even smile at them if you so please. Even though this is almost always only a matter of curiosity and friendliness, most relationships would assume that you were about to jump into their pants post-smile.
Smiles are a gateway movement.
You can stink. You haven’t had a shower for two days, and although you don’t actually stink as such, you don’t exactly smell like cranberry seeds and honey with geranium extract. Nobody is getting close enough to discover this. Great. Why bother?
You have nobody to answer to. You went out, got obnoxiously drunk and walked home singing the entire Beatles discography instead of staying in and meeting that deadline, but you don’t have anybody at home waiting to tell you off, tell you to sort your life out etc… let’s face it, by that point it’s too late… You can just crash and your night has been brilliant, with nothing to ruin the end of it.
You have nobody to miss.
This is pretty self explanatory… there will be no sporadic moments of sadness of ‘Oh, so and so would have loved this..’ Just you loving every second of it.
Life would be easier, and we could all be a little bit lazier.
Given all of the above though, I think relationships might be good for having a functional, non-disgusting life… But for now, I find the other way far preferable.
Human mating used to be so much more difficult.
The male would have to gain courage to talk to the suitable female face to face, gain an estimation of her returned interests and impress her through intellect and varying displays of manliness. They would ‘court’ for a while, until natural human instinct took over and they would probably have sex, which would later lead to marriage and children. This was all at the age of about twelve.
These days, most people don’t settle down to one sexual partner til their late thirties, by which time they probably harbour at least four hidden diseases and three abortions. However, if you have somebody’s full name or phone number, you could probably talk naked photos out of them within an hour, and as long as there’s no face involved, you can use this to support your single life and freedom of your right hand for as long as you like, regardless of your relationship with the person in the photograph. Even if you do manage to actually bed the person in the photograph, you know you’re only going to be disappointed that the high contrast and clever lighting can’t be applied in real life. Instagram just hasn’t provided that option yet I’m afraid, you’ll just have to deal with the pale skin and little bit of flab at the bottom of the abdomen that was so carefully cropped off before.
The internet and increased technologies in communications have turned us into a generation of lonely, sexy beings. And we’ve never been quite as free.