Hate

Ever hate someone so much that you could rip off their ears and choke them with them? Of course you have, you’re an animal. It’s as natural as being hungry or a bit sad. It’s not treated in nearly the same way by our society though. Fine enough is the passive aggressive accumulation of status and materials, the righteous lament pointed at BBC, Mail or whoever, the car. 

People might start thinking that you’re a bit mental if you start spouting off that you want to rip off this person’s arm or punch this one’s head until you’re through to carpet. It’s a natural response I imagine, who wants some nutter going off and rampaging about the place, running amok and fucking up all kinds of shit, after all? Not me. I like it nice and calm. You tell me that that guy at your work really annoys you because he’s always asking you to figure shit out for him and you want to slap him? Guess what, he’s your boss and that’s your fucking job.  I tell you what. The next time you complain about your boss, I’ll punch you in the neck as hard as I can. You’ll feel as if you’re being choked, you won’t be able to do much. Your hands will be on your throat and your subjective experience will be “I cannot breathe”.

This is when I will show you my pen. Plenty of people would love to get their hands on my pen. Prisons are a doddle nowadays as everyone knows. Gone are the days when long swords and bad language were allowed past the gates of our mighty correctional institutes.

My pen, yes. It goes through your fucking eye if you try it on. If you want to get all technical it goes here:

I'm a little guy, I can't afford to fuck about. Bear this in mind if you feel your 'temperature rising'. I might just fucking kill you on the spot.

 

As a wise old lady once told me “Feeling are neither good nor bad, they just are. It’s what you do with them that matters”.

Morning

Mad ankle boots destroy the symmetry of my perfect gravel driveway. Two of them come, destroy my oblivion sure as fuck. I peer, roused. Eight fucking am. Fear. Awake as ever now I grab at dressing gowns, slippers, yesterdays roughly cast aside office wear, anything. Throwing myself down the stairs, dodging the omnipresent cat, not slipping and breaking every bone in my spine is a feat to behold, if ever there was someone to behold it. Barely more than brain dead I answer the door to be greeted by an apologetic young man wearing short pants. I blink at him. Casting his gaze to my newly fucked up driveway he mumbles at me;

“Ms. Davidson, package”.

“I was sure that there were two of you fuckers”, I hope I don't say out loud.

“You just need to sign it. I'm sorry to disturb you, doctor” he replies.

“Ah, he thinks I've been on call, thinks I'm a real doctor so he does, maybe he can't smell all this drink”

“Here”

He hands me his fancy ticket machine and thrusts an inadequate imitation of a pen into my hand, demanding a signature. He gets one. For a second both of us stare at the scrawl I've made on his, frankly really shitty machine. I perceive nothing but pity in his eyes.

I close and lock the door.

“It's Dr. Davidson, dickwad” I declare to the hungry cat staring at me from the stairs.

Chat conversation end

L.O.V.E.

It causes me tangible physical pain to type into this box. I have long abandoned the absurdity that no original thought exists. Personally, I can testify that that I have no novel thoughts at all, at least very few. Certainly none of any consequence beyond the scope of my own unconscious grasping for meaning. These certainly have profound meaning for myself at the time, but upon waking reflection possess nothing but hollowness. My first waking minutes are spent groping for ill remembered dreams instead of looking to the day ahead. Longing for something I know I will never recall which moments before made my whole reality. Forgive me for pretending that I am a passive vessel for the mundane experiences I stumble across. I do not exist.

Melon Colic does it for sex(Anytime)

(Sad Face)