Random Boo

This conscience is going to be the death of me, I hate being soft, I want to be evil, with the evil laugh and big red button. Not some pansy herb growing, reindeer patterned jumper-wearing ponce, drinking organic milk and eating Kiwi Fruit! I want to victimise some random ill one-legged orphan child with a cricket bat and shout, “Ha, I’m bigger than you, and I have a big stick to further minimise the effort required to beat you!”

My existence appears to be nothing but a red wine stain on the fabric of this misfit society, to which my attentiveness is bordered.  Are not we all but travellers of space and time. Yesterdays dream, now today’s concept of time’s hangover. Tomorrow you’re being fed to the worms.

Love is a burden. Love is possession, love is a private social network of oneness divided and solitarily confined. Love owns you. Your freedom compromised, are you even you anymore? This silence, it deafens you. As the mistress of your undisclosed desire surges, you lose all grasp of reality, the drums beat in a heartbeat rhythm; the sails drift you to a cesspit of sexual orgy, follows then the decline in your ecstasy. The spider web of a make-believe family conceives a BBQ smoke screen of denial. You love to be loved, but somewhere a consciousness breathes life into an existence that categorises you, and fences you in like cattle.

Men in long dark coats, eyes obscured by their beaver hat’s shadows, clanging empty bottles in creates in the dark alleys of the night, as the cigarette butts in ashtrays invade the pub’s atmosphere with its stench. You try to gasp for air but you can’t. Has it hit you yet? Life is not beautiful, it’s an endless disappointment, persistently hit with poverty, famine, sickness, unfulfilled desires, loneliness, and a perpetually wretched cold dead feeling. Oh, and tiredness, you are always tired, it’s not lack of sleep, its loss of hope. Ignorance is bliss, for only the naive can survive. Love only looks good in the shop window, truth is it’s a Trojan horse to an endless flood of despair, it will drown you until you’re nothing but a husk, a number, a single note in an orchestra, a single and instantly forgotten tick from a clock.

Love doesn’t free you, it traps you, your biggest possession possesses you.

Now this societal disability was not necessary a conscious choice, but it has its beneficial delusion of rationalising advantages. We say ‘rational’, but what we really mean is, I do not want a mansion; I am happy with my cardboard box with twig fence accessory.

I guess ultimately, the average loner is alone because they can’t deal with being judged, but I’ll never deal with that, a bit like BT Customer Services; the fault is never with them, it’s everybody else that’s wrong”

But like with many anxieties, you can make many successful steps on the ladder but only takes one snake to put you back where you started. It’s difficult once you’ve been rejected.

I’ve observed people in bars, shops, and pretty much anywhere that these congregation of ‘oh you’re here so I’ll talk to you- the person that unless not conveniently placed right in front of me, I would not bother’ people take place. I often wonder just what it is you people thingies talk about?

Now I have, believe it or not, taken part in one of these fruitless tokens, and the topic of conversation was basically a series of questions for the interrogator to build an ill-constructed profile of me. However, this is not really, to me, a conversation, but really just an interview for the position of acceptance. Or forcibly trying to find a likeness or similar interest in the attempt to relate, which is, in its self, nothing more than an attempt to justify or verify the right to be themselves, whilst applying subtly with the rice filling questions like: age, origin, and name. Name being nothing more than a URL to what to them is you, the No Frills silhouette version of you that can sociably fit within the insipid background of their own selfishly personal world.

I’m homeless, and that what is be labelled home feels as welcome as a female Klingon with PMS. My brain needs reformatting I thinks. The cutthroat ecstasy of space dementia that cometh from but a jam jar keeps jumping out on me, with the tennis ball dropped, I’ve lost everything. You know death is nirvana right? Eh? Reality ostracized once again as itinerant monkeys sit on roller coasters smashing though the pumpkin walls of China.  And OMG!

My MINI has been hit more times than Justin Bieber on YouTube! De-prioritize! That’s the key to a successful life thingy… “How much is bravado?” “Well, ASDA currently have three-for-a-tenner at the moment”. I won’t let you kill it, it is bigger than you, I’m not suicidal, *washes hands in imaginary water* right then! Who’s first?

Grab a kazoo; let’s have a duel, now when I count three. Did I ever tell you the story about; cowboys! M-M-midgets, and Indians? Then maybe afterwards we could take a tour of the zip lock bag factory, that would be fun. Do not be fooled by April Fools’. It’s all true, we are but sane. But you will learn, no there’s no place like Manchester, it’s like a cross between a Jimmy Hendrix and a Captain Beefheart album; sort of like being drunk whilst experiencing a headache, and somewhat sedatively philosophical like a fly with its wings stuck in honey. Frank Zappa would be spinning in his grave. Nobody looks good with brown lipstick on. A master to one is a servant to another, even at the top they are the servants of all them below. You want to know what power is, it’s having another man’s fear in your hands and showing it to them. Of cause, there are always the grains of wheat on a chessboard. Know your enemy, you can tell more about a person by what they say about others than you can by what others say about them. 

Sometimes, late at night, I tap on the bedroom windows of little children. Then, as I leave, I make sure to shake a nearby tree, so they never know what really did the tapping. Then I replace their dog with a mean one.

The only way to keep your data truly secure is to not have any data to begin with. This is how I hide most of my stuff. Retrieval is easy, as you just create the data. This can lead to insecurities, though, so I recommend never retrieving your data this way. The second way is to steal it from someone else. Since you never made the data to begin with, no one will be able to prove that you weren’t going to make the exact same data as your victim. It’s a flawless system. Why? Because all Cretans are liars, the barber shaved himself not, whilst the travelling arrow was broken down to half of a half of a half… I know that I know nothing at all.

The formidable dichotomy of this cloying bee’s white elephant nest of blind faith is but a tête-à-tête within the lost inner realms of the desired suave part of untenable reasoning. Your ubiquitous scintillating God is a sycophant! Walk in my ostracized shoes of stigma; don’t substitute it for some half-arsed vicarious suffering. Religion is a red herring, the mother of all quintessence. Some mercenary nouveau riche wannabe has all the answers, ha! It’s a, how you say, quid pro quo? Some vomited ostentatious perfunctory remark about your panacea is an insult to logic.

“I totally fucking hate that shit,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “I think it’s pretty good.”

“Well I guess it’s not that bad,” he said.

One two buckle my shoe, thou need not construe! “You know what a bore is, Travis? Someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with companionship.” I’ve become so introspective I see right through myself. My soul is on the other side, surfing the internet on a slow dialup connection. He looks really annoyed. I’m the kind of person that signs online just to go in away mode, but still people try to talk to me.

“Did you see that?” she said, I said “No, I paid £6.70 so I can come to the movie theatre and stare at the fucking ground!”

I think my new thing will be to tell people not to be ridiculous. “I am going to eat a bologna sandwich,” someone will say. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I will tell them. Or maybe they will ask for a favor, but I won’t need to tell them they’re being ridiculous then. But maybe they’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous, in which case I’ll repeatedly tell them “your mum” until they ask someone else.

“Real life isn’t interesting” I said,
he said that it was interesting that I would think that, but what could he possibly know about what is interesting?

Life is like a rollercoaster: If you fall off, you have a great story to tell, but you’ll be dead. If you don’t fall off, you’ll be alive, but have a dull story. But you’ll tell it anyway, as that is what conversation is all about. Like them people that knock on your door, and so you have to answer the said door, obviously I have to go down the stairs first, and head towards the door that the assertive knocking is coming from, which is precisely what I did, and you know them little glass things, like a little hole in the door that you can look through and everything on the outside looks really big, well, I haven’t one of them, so I, in trepidation, just opened the aforementioned door, and it’s them! Them people thingies that talk and stuff, so I shut it, because the majority of the time I can’t be bothered with human communication. I’ve nothing against God personally, but his work never really appealed to me.

I have of late, become somewhat a misfit, in this world of treacherous thespians. I wonder on without direction, or a fixed point of view, judge little not without caution, no place to label home, a pitiful reluctant contender, in this world to which I have little relation.

You spend your life trying irrationally to fill a gap, only to choose to die to close it. It is ones conviction of solitude, that curious phenomenon, that peculiar paramount necessity that drives you mad for emotional stability. Alas, it is, and always will be, the inevitable reoccurring hammering fact of one’s existence. You are alone, as lonely as Morgan Freeman’s toothbrush.  Ha! You think it’s ‘love’ you’re experiencing, you just love the idea of being loved.  Welcome to the happy house of wax, now be a good Push Pop, and buy the book, then close your eyes, there there now, it will all be over soon. Life is just a phase you’re going through…you’ll get over it.

“Thing A cannot be discussed rationally,” she said.

“Wrong,” he said. “If Thing A can be discussed, it can be discussed rationally. For if you ever argued that it could not be, then you have just discussed it rationally, disputing your claim.”

“Thing A, Thing A, Thing A!” she said. “YAAAAAAAARRRR!”

“It can also be discussed irrationally,” he said.

The TV eye brought the true naked horror of our lives into the public eye for all to see, then the silhouette of delusion rides into the setting sun, and down pours the names of the Gods that collectively constructed the mapping of your perception. Your life but a stone throw to a lake, tap, tap, tap, tap, splash, as you sink into the murky depths of no return.

“You’re not very tall are you?” she said.

“Well, I, er, I try to be” he said…

And then like the yank of a flush chain, funny how quickly them that love you can forget you. Whilst you’re spinning around the toilet, they’re shopping for new fish in the pet store.

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 cesspool 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 your raison d’être is perpetually displeasing. 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.