No. It’s for real. I’m on it. I’ve glimpsed the truth and I hate it. I really really hate it, from pinkie to dandruff, I bloody hate it. I’d love to see good win against evil, I’d love to see things always work out in the end – that’s just in those bloody films from at least a decade ago, lately there’s a new trend: the hero dies. Fuck the new trend. This may be my second post for swearing, even though I could bloody swear in at leat 10 languages – even though I’m ashamed of it – I hate it. We, as species, are depressed.. No, I may have that wrong. We fucking lost hope. There I go swearing again. True, I don’t think it’s the mark of a gentleman, even though in real life, as soon as I hit a snag I’m going through the list of saints, alphabetically or phonetically. Nobody can curse better than a priest, though. They sort of have to remember all the good ones, since the bible an’ all.. But I digress..
The bloody truth is nobody cares about anybody other than their own person or their family. Nobody. An’ whoever thinks different is dummer than the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow – which is saying something, since there aint’ one there. I know, I’ve looked. This cognitive dissonance we shit through our synapses is bloody terrifying, you know. We all do basically the opposite of what we’re saying or needin’. How does one reconcile “love thy neighbour” with revenge? Rationalisation.
Fuck it. The only folks breaking the laws of physics by lifting themselves above shitlevel by their own bootstraps are those that understand the rules of acquisition (heh, all 285 of them) being always number 2. Number 1? Your own derriere, if you’ll pardon my french. You need approval? Love? Friends? Make yourself a couple of million quid, cash yourself out, change your name and live in Hartlepool – the White House there might be for sale. On the way for Ward Jackson’s, that is. If you be rich, there’s all the time in the world to reinvent yourself, live the life of the righteous or get married to somebody who has no idea who you are. Were. Wat? Me like whiskey, which is white wine, dry towards dehydrated in this case. Prosit.
So anyways, future me, be bloody careful an’ I hope that anesthetic was imported because there’s a difference between rubber tip an’ stainless steel when it’s about the hammer hittin’ what the illuminati call the horns of Ammon (yeah, them’s real, google it). Because I know me, an’ me’s an idiot bigger than that fellow over there to your left. No. Your other left. Sheesh. No, he’s gone. He left before you looked. Honest now, you’s dum’? And there goest me other english, I sort of gone through me dictionary tonight, who knew our cousins (colonies, whatever) write their own?
Post scriptum: Hippocampus. Really. No, I didn’t name them. Also, Uber’s going Theranos. Yeah baby, yeah!