It’s just pathetic, like Dappy from the N-Dubz craven coxcomb clan, kind of pathetic, begging for attention like some petulant kid; like sparkly pink lipsticks, or wearing tight provocative leather pants like some Tory MP two seconds before a fatal masturbation accident. I know, lets sing a song and everything will go away as you fly on your winged unicorn of delusion through happy clappy rainbow fantasy la la land where happy little elves play hopscotch with semi-sedated leprechauns on flute stilts drinking pink chocolate port. Because life isn’t like that, it’s a gray wash dump yard with dead squirrels and homicidal gangster clowns that you owe money. You’ll never find what you want, and you’ll never be happy, for the raison d’être of your raison d’être is perpetually displeased. You feel overlooked because you feel inessential; you feel incomplete in yourself as you crave supremacy. The Kraken in your desire is a wild-goose chase, the fruitless errand, you are you and nothing outside you will make you anymore you than you are. That splendorous intelligence of man is clouded in this self-worth preservation. Homo homini lupus, here, see my hammer, I am right! You nothing but an onion-eyed milk-livered lout and the next time you marinade yourself in Lynx I hope you drown, you Impertinent minion.  Who needs intelligence when you have a big stick, hey?

“Things should be better,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “The grass should be greener and the sky should be bluer. Maybe if we keep saying out loud how things should be better, they will become better. Things should be better. Things should be better. Things should be worse. Fuck, I mean better.”

He had to stop talking then because he had fulfilled his sarcasm quota for the day.

Funny how life can make you feel dead, like reminiscences of a girl called Fred, yes, it’s called creative control, you don’t like it then change the channel, philosophical by Chanel. Look Ma, it rhymes. Like a cat flap in the Radio Times. Look at you, you pathetic sell out, what happened to the rebelling anarchist of the poignant illusion? I got my rivalling bite from a bug of alternative disposition. I’m a new me because, as so often in my life, I shed a skin and become a new. Not always by choice but never regretted. All elements to a bigger picture like a paint stroke on the canvas of what was and is, my concluded individuality, which will be, as for everyone, presented in a box. Enjoy your retirement.

It’s the summer of discontent in a twist of intentional winter wannabes that be this generation of self-pitying sloths. The canvas of creativity needs a wash of monotonous shades for the vivid colours of individuality to strike the foundation of what ‘is’ by comparison ‘was’. By definition, what is fashionable – is boring. In a world where every snowflake is identical, beauty is disappearing with the socks in the washing machine. I yearn for the splendour of what was the majestically infecting disbelief of the ‘should’ anarchist. Welcome to the happy house, we are in fact sane, but only by a selective contrast. Cocktail parties, football games, bar mitzvahs, political rallies, and even nations are all social realities. They aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination; they’re real, really really real, objectively real. However, at the same time, they’re all made up entities, at least in a sense. Cocktail parties exist only because a group of people get together and say, “we’re having a party now”. People just sort of decide that these things are going to exist, and so, they do. Social realities are just creations of the human mind, not individual human minds, but collections of human minds. Is it fashionable to categorize fashion? Too many human minds, too many people, far too many people in this world, only really need about six, look at you all, all over the place like a nest of pigs! Is it fashionable to categorize yourself? There is a difference between being a movement and following a movement.

David, David! What’s that you’re doing with your sister in the basement? Your Id is your ego, which then is influenced by the oppression of society, society being the misinterpreted ego of mass. Some daydream’s foreplay conceived a subjective superego, and now translated by an orgy of craven clay-brained conformists, man is ruled.  “And the pup bit the hand of God, and God saw that the pup was evil, and in forty days and forty nights he drowned the entire litter, for God is a gentle, patient, and loving God, amen”. God never changes his mind, unless he changes his mind, God is everywhere, God is, oh, hang on, Able has gone missing again, I’ll ask Cain. I must tell him that it is bad to eat the apple that gives him an understanding of what bad is, and then he can eat cream and honey.  
Once upon a time, a book of ethical guidance was required as part of a healthy diet for the developing disposition of humanity. Now it is the day before tomorrow, and humanity is past the setting of dawn, said progression is due a surge. The cultivating of the third eye is the flicking of a light switch to a room that is, until now, best kept in the dark. The Roman Empire is unified, scaremongering children has concluded, and there is no longer a savoury sin to basin wash your odiferous brow. Leave the auriferous pipedreams for them that hold the pitchforks.
RE: Christian Fundamentalist groups (which are about legion as the atheists)
Please stop, just stop, with this “must be a God; it says so in the bible” stuff and inflicting your hostile and sadistic attacks on the opinions of thinkers. Self-elected goons representing the American Christian male community, who spend all day on the internet masturbating over a keyboard whilst searching YouTube for fights, you should be hung like the sodden rags you are. Ha, I have your SunnyD, drinkless, what you going to do about it you creationistic parasitic cretin, how you going to pretend to be drunk now? Get back to Mummy’s house and tidy your stained-Cliff Richard-poster-riddled-room, you left-winged hippie, you left your Velcro shoes in the middle of the hallway again haven’t you, you artless fuckw*t? You lily-livered, Beano reading, bootless, barnacle, referring to your online Facebook friend linked acquaintances as ‘heads’. You’re the result of a drunken back-seat grope-fest and a broken prophylactic, yet you consider yourself my saviour.  So bloody go to Heaven then, and swap knitting patterns with your hymn singing, turtleneck reindeer jumper wearing virgin friends, maybe they’ll let you watch Spice World, oh, you have it downloaded do you. Well congratulations, you’ve somehow successfully managed to make piracy gay! You’re the kind of person that applies to be an actor and ends up playing the flamboyant policeman on Balamory, you quartz-brained puny ninnyhammer, you vexing helminth with your Art collage bus pass and Chris de Burgh music CD collection. Go and prance about on the M6 in the dark you moronic wannabe, you’ll soon see the light. Do you really think God would approve of your dogmatic internet-gangster routine? I know I should just let you get on with it, but it irritates me.
It’s like a Jack in a box; you turn the crank, a puppet jumps out, everybody cheers, and I die a little inside.

Numerous born and countless dead, in a world of dreams and nightmares, it’s crowded in here. Put the milk in the cup first, your divergence is the testimony to your madness. Pick a cat and provoke a fight, hands on table, lips pursed, and, go! Retreat, then, into the hours of night, which is your deluded haven, “be polite”. Society is a symphony of logic, but only on paper, it burdens the creative individuals that can potentially generate the spark, which becomes the flicker of light in a room of darkness. The weirdoes become eccentric, the eccentrics become geniuses; don’t underestimate what you cannot evaluate. Time continues regardless, you don’t, so ‘heads up’, judgement day is a comin’, accept the leaflet, and donate the two pounds. You know how to whistle, don’t cha Steve? Heaven is paradise, but for who is the fantasy tailored? Oh, and duck! Ha, you actually believe something sympathetic can willingly conceive a concept such as Hell? Lies! Lie more times than a cheap Japanese watch. God, you are submissive to the oppression of mass, fear not the Spanish Inquisition. Mackerel sky and mares’ tails make lofty ships carry low sails. All the cats will go and the million pigeons remain, ready to be hooked on new religions, clip your wings and fly to Daddy. Existence is a toss of a nickel. The fizz is in decline, gulp it quick or slurp it flat; you can’t quantify life, don’t squander it in trepidation. They do do though don’t they though? Patriotic vitriolic potatoes in uniform make horrific cheesecake. The field is overflowing with sheep, thank you Mr Jintao, don’t ask Reagan for help; he has a cold. Four horsemen with an arrow of time, good show Friedrich Heine, shame about Thor, must have been looking for North. Welcome to the Oscillatory Universe; are you ready for The Crunch? Look in my bag of entropy, there’s a Big Rip; you can blame Caldwell for that. Uh oh, St John is on the punch again, oh look at who’s the messiah; “it’s all who you know”. It’s getting hot, no cold, HIV, HMV, oh mind your step, there’s a Meteorite there, just push the red button and it’ll all go away. Say what you see Mr Chips, “fat lady singing?” and so our survey says *uh uh* No sorry; death is not on the ‘to do’ list. Just row your boat down the stream, life is just a dream. And in 2012, when you’re up to your knees in snow sunbathing twenty-four foot under the sea, raise your glass to the invading aliens and say “chin chin old chap”.

I couldn’t care less if your mobile phone could err, sharpen pencils! My phone can call people, which is odd isn’t it, considering that is why I brought the dame thing! It’s quite depressing that I’m the one considered ‘odd’ in a world full of trivial monkeys nervously shouting “that’s Spartacus there!”  Whilst, like illuminated crickets, they text people stood next to them ‘did ya get me txt?”
Materialism is a burden on your disposition, like baggage of ‘this is me’; like vomit in an ASDA plastic bag with one of them paper miniature umbrellas that you usually find in cocktails. With the aforementioned yoke carried, you’ll fail to fall through the self-sieving that is, what is, the development of constructing a constructive experience of your experience, err, hang on. Your glass maybe half full now, but there is no escaping the fact that the glass is also half empty. Happiness is a temporary distraction. Every distraction and every obstacle is a cause of concern and an obstruction in your will, that is, by you, labelled ‘evil’. He whose desires are in difference in comparison to yours is wrong; he who blocks you from your destination is ‘evil’. Revenge is wrong and unnecessary, unless said act is committed by you, apparently, by your innate logic anyway. Man serves himself, and his neighbours loathe it, as it interferes with their self-interest.
What is ‘evil’? Do you think, really, that the universe has any concept of ‘evil’? If in musical chairs you lose, then you lose, and that is ‘life’ as they say, whoever ‘they’ are, presumably a bunch of haughty, overpaid, overfed, triple chinned hermits sat round a table inventing job titles.
Praying to a God for a ‘get out of jail free card’ is simply just being arrogantly delusional. You are naturally polarising your perception by naively ranking yourself above standard on the goodness scale, stop it! You are not God, kinda. The dichotomy of good and evil is either a lack of knowledge or a refusal of acceptance; crowning one evil is the equivalent of “ask your mother” in this dynamic world of bigger houses and noisier cars, where charity is collateral, and love a token unity.
Rivalry is the mother of development, but development is then the product of envy, thus unjustifiable outrage is the frustration of man and the architect of war, thus rendering the ignorant monkeys forever belligerently unsettled.  Ok, to some, life is a game, and to win a game, everyone else must lose! True, but, unlike the duration, life is not relative, define winning before you throw the dice.

If man was a train, society would be the track; a predetermined result of compliance for the leader of the pack. Unfortunately, it’s as encouragingly meaningful as the religious tale of the crippled sheep. “But why?” she said, “why not?” he responded, “if, as I stand here, in line, waiting to be served at the ASDA checkout, I decide to rub my fingers in circular motion around my nipples, then I will” well what could she say; he had a point. You can’t derail yourself from the tunnel, but when you see the light, you can make sure you’re brighter. A ghost has no concept of time, correction; a ghost has no concept of our time, but then time is relative to everyone anyway. The corpse is nothing more than a husk with the spirit elsewhere, the ghost is the spirit, the ghost is living, or an echo, but we’ll conveniently avoid that bit. Death is nothing more than a transition, and thus you live forever, that is, if ghosts are real. Unless your husk once housed a nut, then you believe in religion (same thing), and therefore believe in heaven, even though it clashes with the ideal of every other living organism on this hanging sphere; I bloody hate harps, and discussions on the calories in Philadelphia light. I don’t want to be rewarded for my inhumane ignorance and arrogance by a creative version of Mussolini. “Is this banana flat?” pondered the monkey on drugs “let’s publish a seven hundred thousand word essay about it” said the other monkey, which had an empty wallet to fill.
Now do that tie up, otherwise you’ll trigger the disapproval of our leader *points at sky whilst doing a woo noise* No; you refuse too? Then I’m afraid expulsion is the only answer, it’s the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane!

Advertising, political propaganda, and uninformative dogmatic newspapers! ”A bag in the river may have contained The Cheshire Cat” of cause it did, it may have also contained a handful of self-adhesive tapeworms doing the cancan whilst wearing tutus. Can you get a tutu for a tapeworm? Oh yes, skip the cancan bit because that’s perfectly self-explanatory for a legless tapeworm!  Who said it was legless? Alas, unless the idea was injected into the insentient regions of the void that is your mind, you will not conceive the notion. You hear what you want to hear, but when combined with what they want you to hear, they can sell you Trebor Softmints to cure testicular cancer. Like Dr Hoffmann of Stuttgart and his leech farm, like a headless budgie to a blind kid, like New Labour, like Lambert and Butler lights, Hellboy computer games, Sunny Delight, and Push Pops, these are not stilts for midgets but a plug-in air freshener for a conservative voting aborigine living in Scotland. A talking parrot is not much better a source for wise advice as is a cracker from a country that thinks failure is the mother of success!  Don’t read the dribbling whining from stargazed decrepit charlatans at the Daily Mail. Don’t fritter your time on politics. Don’t buy a Henrietta for twice the price of a Henry. And don’t ever, ever, poke the dead bird with a stick. Do you have a mind of your own? Use it, or someone else will use it for you.

“Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, bang, bang, you’re dead” I said. “No I’m not” she responded. “Neither one of you exist” shouted the talking biscuit. “Time for bed” interrupted Zebedee. However, how can you trust a man with a moustache, or trust a man with egg on his face? Or people that eat eggs! Jesus Christ! It’s not even a food; it’s a chicken’s period for Christ’s sake, stop eating them! Suddenly, or a little time after suddenly, the sun fell off the sky, and the worms took over.
I hate people; I hate people that leave the cap of the toothpaste thus leaving it to go hard. I hate people that tie the plug chain around the tap fingers. I hate people that say things like “I tell it as it is” or “whatever” whilst attempting to create a double-u sign with their hands. I hate people that re-use teabags. I hate people that shop in their pyjamas. I hate it when people use Metaphysics to assist them in labelling their beliefs as scientific theory.
Metaphysics will never be regarded as a true field of science, as Metaphysics appears to be nothing  more than a very large bucket, for idiots to vomit their views into, with little, if any, requirement to scientifically justify their incoherent dribble. Thus, I’m leaving you Metaphysics, it’s not you, it’s me. (Meaning it is ‘all’ you, you bigoted hermit)

A sphere of cheese illuminates the darkness of night as the piercing beams of dreams of light stab the sky like an invasion of glittering monster thingies with the waving things and err, whatever. “What time is it?” said the cat, little did the cat know, that as like insanity, time is as relative as a ‘darks’ washing load. Like an apple spiralling through the velvet sheets of lust and madness, time is the dimensional observation of the observing observations of observation, err, what? QED; It’s just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right. The picture is framed like a bird in a cage, because you framed it! Don’t be piloted by a plague of locust, ridden by a deity with a face like a bulldog licking p*ss of a nettle. Don’t you people judge when the preface of your deluded vomited conclusion is “you know what I think?” Don’t vent your spleen on me because you’re a faceless quartz minded sadist with gonorrhoea that is as ingeniously useful as a snooze button on a smoke alarm. Eat what you want, drink what you want, and love who you want, and disregard all the superfluous tokens spent by the dogmatic bible bashing monkeys with syphilis riddled pointing fingers. Are you alive? Yes?  Good, then you are doing just fine.

“I have something you want” she said, “I don’t know what it is you have” he said, “I know” she said, “That’s why you want it.”

Wink wink nudge nudge, kiss kiss bang bang! The natural drug, that is, and every concept of, what is, and held by you as, enjoyment, is, forever being spoilt. Satisfaction is a cycle of surging boundaries that ultimately renders your present fulfilment in swift demise.  The value of money, like your value of anything, is relative, and thus, immaterial and irrelevant to the structure of your overall ‘happiness’.  You think tomorrow, you will be happy? Well sorry; but you’re as likely to see that tomorrow, as you are as likely to see the Loch Ness monster milking a rocking horse. Don’t stare at him though, you might die, then again, don’t worry about it, you’ll die either way.
Happiness is an addiction that can’t be fulfilled, sure, you can be ‘happier’, but any child with an imaginary pocket full of chocolate stars, can tell you that nothing is great, if something is greater!