Two-five is here at last. It’s not as though it dropped in unexpectedly, but two-four was bad enough without adding another year. I expect/want to live till I’m 55 (or did I say 2055 AD?) so I may be close to halfway there already.Floyd: Wow, did you use your fingers to count that? Happy Birthday, doofus.Considering that I’ve only really gone about life for about 11 years and slept one third of that time away, that leaves me with some 7 and change years done and an actual 20 to go. All my versatile number crunching may be obvious arithmetic, but I’m bad at telling this sort of thing.I hate my computer. I want to write for the sake of writing, but as soon as I sit down in front of the keyboard, the words dry up until I find a half decent laxative. I don’t write when I’m emotional, I write simply for the enjoyment. I am probably my own biggest fan, not because I’m narcissistic but because I can go back as an unbiased reader and judge everything I’ve ever written and sometimes hate it, but sometimes love it too. And I love that I can love my own stuff.Floyd: There’s a word for self-lovin’ y’know…The rest of this post: CANCELED in favour of self-loving.“If I could be who you wanted, All the time”Opus – Live Is LifeSheryl Crow – If It Makes You HappyNow frequenting: Wendy Molyneux at
http://fakeinterviewswithrealcelebrities.blogspot.com
It is difficult to get along, to match minds these days. The world grows ever rapidly and as more people populate the planet, it will be increasingly more difficult to get along, to find a matching of minds in those days.
Happiness seems to need to be earned (which is not always a bad thing) so it is probably a lot easier to find comfort in knowing that your conveniently begotten sorrow makes you more alike the rest, than your happiness can.
Since one is alive, one is likely at any given moment, to ask the universally clichéd and redundant question of “Why do I live?” The truth is that the answer holds neither importance nor value; the real question one might want to ask is “Why should I live?”
All things must die and therefore, one must too, at whatever time is deemed proper. But, since one cannot know if said time shall be struck by the clock within a reasonable count of seconds, days or years, one can always assume that the time is near at hand, so as to comfortably take into account all that is required to complete what is deemed to be a satisfactory lifetime.
I’ve never stopped to think either way, because I already know that I don’t know either answer. It is less trouble to ignore the question than to be haunted by the knowledge of your own ignorance.
Not knowing the answer to the first question is no crime. Most would believe (or want to) that some unrevealed purpose has been pre-ordained for them and that they are merely fulfilling their respective prophecies, however insignificant/not they may be.
But not knowing the answer to the second question is abuse of the right to survive. If I don’t know why I love to live, what is the point? Lots to learn as yet.
Floyd: Fuckin’ eloquent as usual, eh? Here’s a tip, MEET NEW WOMEN! Then we’ll see how you find time to keep spouting this morose bullshit.
“Life, is a single skip for joy”
Matt Willis – Crash
Peter Sarstedt – Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?
Nothing good can ever come of the truth. Truth is an ugly, honest-to-god un-beautiful thing. It may seem sad to the altruistic mind, or even one corrupted manifold, but THIS IS the truth.
See? Nothing good came of that either.
Our entire existence is spent living in the elaborate lies we create, tangled into those woven by the people we let into our lives, and each one touching a hundred more till the web is infinity in itself. No matter how much one may say one is truthing, one will never be completely truthful. In fact one is not even capable. What good can come of it?
You’re beautiful. Although, you have that wart on the back of your neck… and soon, once I’ve seen enough of your face, I’m going to focus all of my attention on hating the wart, so that every time I see your face I see the wart and soon I’m not going to want to see your face anymore just because I’ve started to hate it just as much as I hate that wart.
The lie is what gives life its value and bearability. It makes lives worth spending in the company of friends and loved ones. Because they don’t need to hear your truth, because they know just what the truth is and because they know just how to keep the truth in that dark place where you keep their secrets too. The difference between these lies and the ones the world will tell you, are in the ends for which they are the means.
The truth is embarrassing; the truth is raw; the truth is a host of negative emotion. But if you knew it all, for the sake of naked, unashamed, white-faced honesty, would you want it still?
The truth is humbling; the truth is innocent; the truth is horrific. The truth is the child who killed himself because he understood. The lie said he was disturbed.
The truth is not love; the truth is not light; the truth is not the sacrifice. The truth is the loner. The lie is in the wedding dress.
The truth is not what’s bursting out; the truth is not what we’re dying to tell the world; the truth is not what we’re desperate to confess to our closest companion; the truth is what we don’t.
I wish I never did this.
“Be not so long to speak; I long to die” – J
Cover week:Sheryl Crow – D’yer Mak’er
Girls Aloud – I Think We’re Alone Nowimage courtesy cricinfo.com
I try hard not to be stupid. I have to try really hard sometimes. But it’s pretty hard to do.
Idiotica seems to be a facet I’ve developed quite nicely over so many years and it is now coming beautifully into bloom. I would love it as much as, if not more than life itself, if I could wake up one morning with the realization that I weren’t stupid no more. Tree of knowledge and all that. I should grow one of those.
Take for instance, the simple act of telling time. We learn to tell time as little children and that’s something, along with riding a bicycle and picking our noses, that stays with us as we grow into and past adulthood. In fact the tiny collection of my infrequent moments of glory starts with the day when it dawned on me that I was a time reader. Digital clock or one of those clocks with hands, it didn’t matter ‘cos I could tell time as good as the rest of them.
Why then, does this elegant ability escape me in public?
A peculiar phenomenon seems to be set in motion whenever someone stops to ask me the time. What it is, is there’s a bright flash and a huge swirling vortex of thunder, lightning and the colour mauve opens up before my very eyes, sucking me into its wet belly and transporting me back to the exact day before that first fleeting glorious moment of mine, so that suddenly, digital watch or any kind of watch, I can’t read the damn thing anymore. Panic sets in and I’m staring around wildly for a while, attempting to display some false sense of composure or even orientation, before making a second, pretend-nonchalant attempt at deciphering the time. Of course, that isn’t going to work… By now, it’s been at least fifteen seconds, way longer than even a celebutard would have needed, so I ditch it all, abandon every pretense and just twist my wrist around, showing the poor detainee my watch, expecting them to read the face at that awkward angle.
One might think this is foolish exaggeration, but if one only knew the minimal extent of my hyperbole, one might be quite aback-taken.
Floyd: Loser is as loser does.
I have even gone so far as, once I’ve got over the initial shock and stricken staring phase, to pretend that my watch has stopped working. So there I am, knocking at my watch, harder and harder, as if the force of each successive knock were directly proportional to the probability of either the watch coming back to life or me eventually figuring out what the pointed hands and silver numerals meant.
And those women fingers. Ah, nemeses of mine! I never fail to never look at them in time.
I can’t tell the number of times I’ve kicked myself post-first-meeting, when I realized I, once again, didn’t check out her left hand. And this last time, when I forced myself to wake up and look… well, it wasn’t worth it. Big fat band on a slim ring finger and then she can’t stop talking about life in France and why her husband doesn’t like her hanging out with single friends. Thanks a lot, life. Again.
Floyd: I rest my case. Again.
“Perhaps you’ve had an experience like that in childhood and told no one; perhaps you’ve had that brush with a world so large that you seldom or never saw it again.” – Finnegan Bell
I think I’d miss you even if we never met, said the man-whore to daddy’s girl.
Lifehouse – You and Me
Colbie Caillat – Bubbly
Sue ushered him into the room, “This is Mr. Smith and Mr. Gray”. She turned to him and winked, the hint of a smile forming on her face before she moved out of his field of vision. ‘Grey’ was right. Sitting behind a large steel desk were two gentlemen who, he judged, had not had a sunny day in their entire lifetimes. Grey haired men, in grey suits and the furniture being the colour it was... what was it about this place and monochrome?
“Thank you, Miss Pendleton. Hi, I’m John Smith!” said Mr. Gray. Sudie strikes again! She may not have brought as much efficiency to the table, as one might expect of an executive assistant, but she was beyond reprieve… just one of the perks of being the boss’ niece. Besides, it was always nice to see her pretty face before you knocked at Kellams’ door.
Suddenly he realized he was alone. Sue had left him standing just inside the doorway and was now back at her desk. He stepped forward hesitantly to accept the hand Mr. Smith was still offering to him.
The real Gray motioned him to the solitary chair. Michael sat down slowly, feeling his weight sink into the cushion, not knowing what to expect from the grey men.
Floyd: As cohabitant contributor, I reserve the right to refrain from refraining from expressing myself.
He worked in front of a computer screen in a fairly large office where everyone else also worked in front of the brilliant glow of a computer screen. If asked, he was pretty certain that he would not be able to explain his job to just any layman. But he was no exception; in an organization of this nature, with such ‘highly skilled’ operators tapping away at their keyboards all day, things were never that simple that they could be put forth in everyday terms. And if things were explained as they were, he was pretty certain they would never be understood.
So generally, no one asked.
Floyd: Smart… you obviously ran out of ideas there… dintcha?
The computers were white, the walls were white, the carpet and furniture were all white. Mr. Kellams liked things that way. “Colour does not inspire a sense of security in our clients” he had famously said.
Employees were assigned cubicle workspaces and all cubicles connected to a main aisle that ran straight down to the only thing that stood out in the room: the black door to Mr. Kellams’ office. The same aisle every male employee stared down every time Sudie had to make the long walk to speak with Barry from Finance.
Floyd: Now this is getting interesting.
She might have been romantically involved with him, but no one really knew and it didn’t really matter to them either. The fact that her cute behind had to sway past each row of cubicles every time she made her way down was good enough for them.
Michael could no longer hear the drone of Mr. Gray’s voice. His eyes had glazed over as he flashed back to the three and something years he had already spent at this corporation. The white sandy beaches, pinacoladas by the pool, the wife at a day spa, kids at her mother’s, Sudie’s polka dotted bikini… when he signed on the dotted line, this was the impression he had of the things his job would afford him. But that meeting was at The Hilton… and this was obviously not.
Kellams was definitely good at hooking ‘em.
Floyd: And what about the bikini? That’s it…?? As cohabitant contributor, I reserve the right to express my fathomless disappointment.
Tiffany – I Think We’re Alone Now
U2 – All I Want Is You
Two-five is here at last. It’s not as though it dropped in unexpectedly, but two-four was bad enough without adding another year. I expect/want to live till I’m 55 (or did I say 2055 AD?) so I may be close to halfway there already.
