Double alliterary whammy. As if that means something.
Loads of shitty things going on everywhere and the brains need to be emptied bowel-like to be fed things again. Amen't I disgusting? But everyone who is anyone does that. And the fear of being stated mad is only fleeting. It is the truth, though. And truth shall set us free. (We all like free)
It is cold as hell. And as I'm rolling around in the deep, deep muck of self-doubt and tangential existential crises (yes, plural) imaginary conversational smartass discussions that are automated every other second in the ever distracted mind of mine, a very Clockwork Orange-like scenario crept up. Where someone's training me as a mere canine (the adorable kind, I admit) to write. And write fast. And loose. And now.
The whole good and evil mini-me shoulder people are getting too crowded with the shades of grey. Oh, I rant so much. But the world has too many straight thinking coherent writings to read. Or I presume. They'll have better things to do that continue here. I cannot help but think how anyone, everyone cannot help but he helpless all the time with everything that goes on. Keeps going on. Unceasingly. That shithouse that this world has become.
Granted, it did provide answers to the other kind of acceptable shit that goes on. (I read somewhere than vulgarity is no alternative to wit but as if I care, not all the time).. Shit that goes on that is acceptable and makes not even a tiny flea-much of a sense to me. Like admirable healthy social lives and sports programmes and need for giant amounts of connection to every which thing and person and germs around you.
Need to belong to either here or there or to a position where it's acceptable to be while you ponder and debate and deliberate over where to be here or there or to the positions where you yada yada. Yada. The choice to not make a choice of even ambiguity is never seen. Invisibly to the naked blind eyes of the sheeple. Not to be political or anything but it's just a shitty term. (So much hate). Shitty not in its being but attributed to the reason it exists. Oh how the fingers move in misanthropy.
Those madmen make so much sense who sit in a corner observing life and recording counter incantations to be buried deep inside obscurity. Because madhouses are better than shithouses. A lot more entertaining and they stink less. In fact, smell rosy and gay. Gay is always nice. Gay is happy.
What is to be written about is written about too much and done nothing about. I wonder if there was no talk, people would walk the walk. But only zombie-like. And none shall find any brain.
The cursor blinking unfailingly does not fail to remind me of the very legendary American History X and the epic assignment. That died bloody. Oh, kids and guns. How did I not see that. Magic mental connections. Neurons working their asses off bringing up coincidences. I had a whole load of Adam Lanza story essay planned which must be lying in the drafts somewhere. Shall continue on that, I only hope. Because the furore's all fried up.
Like everything that ever exists, it passes.
