Random Boo

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.