I wrote lots of things today, lots of things and some of them are evil and should never be published ever. There are other things too, less bad things, more literary things that could be posted but they can’t because there is a note that I wrote earlier that states that they should be read. Well fine. Sure. Asshole.
I’ll record those noises later then, probably. There was a desire earlier for me to just record what I say, to not write any more. But sexy kissy time changed that, as it does for everyone and everything. It did do some good though, as silly as it was, it did save me from falling into that dreadful pit again.
So it goes.
Midway through discussing Said’s post-colonial theory regarding The Tempest, my brain wandered to the thought of what torturous fun it would be to brick someone’s head up. Having the weight being too much for an individual to lift, but still not stuck to the ground so still able to be moved with enough force. Having a breathing tube fitted or merely a hole into which food or faeces may be poured… I then returned to the essay and finished the paragraph regarding Caliban’s desire for Prospero’s books, understanding the link between knowledge and power and that by depriving Caliban of knowledge Prospero has made him into the “abhorred slave”, the “monster” that walks on “all fours” like a beast.
I then reach here and begin my final two essays of the semester, which I have left to the last minute due to my distinctive hatred for my future self, and I remember a similar torture that was discussed one drunken evening with a biologist. If you kept the body working through machines, the heart beating and the lungs processing oxygen, could it be possible to encase the head in water without it drowning and then watch as it slowly rotted with the brain still active, silent screaming til dying of shock or something… I forget the conclusion to the drunken conversation.
I’ve not been writing much lately, I found a giant clump of notes that I may have decidedly hidden from Chris due to their almost diary like nature, but some of the ideas seem good enough, or funny enough to be expanded on.
I need to buy a tambourine, that’s a lie but it seems a good enough thing to do. I would have done it already, walked into the nearest musical store and proudly exclaimed my desire for the simple percussion device but I am quite poor. The loan cannot come soon enough and there are only so many wine bottles at my parents house, and only so many that can actually be drunk.
Though bathing regularly will be a treat, shaving too. I have lost interest in such behaviour of late, seeing no point in looking nice or smelling flowery. This may change as due to the conditions of my hospitalisation I will be getting a new wardrobe. My current wardrobe is 10 pairs of tracksuit bottoms that don’t fit, threadbare jeans in case I get drunk enough to be directed to a club, 20 t-shirts which are mostly my Dad’s, bar the Pokemon t-shirt I bartered off a guy in a pub, and 3 white shirts that I wore constantly during a week when I thought braces were awesome. These are to be replaced with whatever Claire and Amelia can persuade me to buy, or if I’m drunk what they want me to buy.
I don’t know how this break will be, I think there will be a strange regathering of all people who have lost contact over this year and last which will have varying results. The one place I would go for the New Year’s party I will not be able due to last years new years eve and the destruction of his Microwave (different times but relevant), so it may be a more interesting/shit departure to the Land Of Less Reputable Fun which may have varied results.
I don’t know, no clue what to do… though meeting with Jack, Carty and Chris will be hopefully rewarding if not hilarious. I don’t know how I feel about the others, they’ll be fun but not really there but maybe a connection will rekindle once we meet again. I doubt it but, fuck who cares I’m not Bez.
Writing an essay is like masturbating a pig.
I have a job that pays little and is greatly unrewarding, tiresome and dull. I work as a bartender for an events venue, whose only event is of old people singing at other old people. These elderly alcoholics look to me with the hope that I can provide that last damning coffin nail to the withered remains of their lives and I so gladly oblige them utmost vigour, and considering I only work a four hour shift the amount of hatred I feel towards all these people has begun to build up… each passing second amongst these drunken wretches drives me into such a state that I can barely show any emotion to these people, just in case I snap and begin aiding them out of their corporeal forms. So I stand there, my face blank, eyes dead and my soul crying out for mercy as they begin AGAIN to sing “Who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler”.
I think it is the watching people getting drunk that is doing this to me, I don’t think I can stand drunk people any more. The past few weeks have been enlightening to this matter, I was taken to a few parties by a friend named Barney George who, being in a band, knew of a wide variety of people that have active and horrible social lives. This initially began in a positive note, I met a man named Fulf who sold me some LSD which was fun, however the parties themselves were populated by really, amazingly stupid people. When I first met one he said something so idiotic I thought he was joking, I was laughing about it and then HE GOT ANGRY and through a chair. I don’t know why he through a chair… I guess it was a good way to show the world that no matter how stupid he was he could always win the CHAIR WAR that will eventually occur in our lifetime.
What made these people worse was the alcohol they had drunk, and I don’t understand that when I get catatonic people seem able to still communicate with me… however these were the views of a sober man at a party of 17-18 year olds and though I am 19 these people were just far too horrible to empathise with.
I recently have come back from a brief holiday in Bordeaux, I have no idea why I went there and it was horrible. I can’t speak French, which is shameful, well I know the key phrases of failure like “Je ne parle pas Francais” and “JE SUIS ANGLAIS” so wandering around a quiet little town that point blank refuses to acknowledge that the English language exists was fun to say the least. I was just the awkward, insecure person with the wide eyes, begging people to just say something that might have, could have, should have, sounded vaguely like something I might of learnt once when I was in year 9.
After two days of starvation I caved and decided to risk going to a restaurant near the hostel (30 euros a day with no toilet and a shower that was hidden somewhere within its labyrinthine passages) and there I met some Americans called, get this, Brad and Joel. Brad and Joel didn’t speak any French either and so we bonded in the way that most cunts do when presented with a complicated puzzle: dicked around with it like motherfuckers.
We made up our own language of gibberish and just destroyed any chance there of us being understood by anyone… that sticks out the most the rest are all just vague concepts of fuckabouttery that came about through our drinking contests and games.
I did find moments though, between the stupidity, to write a lot and have some god ideas for some stories that I could write or give to Chris to fondle and then give back for me to do… something.
“Clunge” sounds like a disgusting word, and I figure it is but it does sound magnificent. It just brings to mind sexual diseases, crusty yeast infections, dribbling pus, stained tampons floating in chunky puddles of period blood. Or maybe that’s just me.
THE MOON IS ON FIRE
Dude, that’s the sun.
Yeah, I think it would be bad if all family feuds could only be solved by purposefully having 6 children, training them all to fight like badasses and then dressing them all up like Pokemon. Awesome but morally objectionable.
