Tuesday, May 20, 2014


What a charming smile...

You know, some days you just DON'T want to get out of bed. There doesn't seem to be any point. You feel like shit and you're convinced your participation in the running of the world (further down the sewer) wouldn't be missed - at least not temporarily. Then you realise that you eek out an existence for a split second on a speck of cosmic dust and suddenly your will to leave the comfy confines of your duvet fortress takes a jaunty saunter straight on over to "Don't-Give-A-Fuck-Ville" and that short trip between bedroom and cold bathroom seems like the Comrades.

And then there's that pesky disorientation of waking up without a hangover - that alien feeling of confusion and a body in a state of shock. But you chose to experiment with sobriety last night, so you resolve to make the most of it. With chest out and chin jutting upward you take on the day. Until you realise today is the day you've booked your car into the auto-electrician because you're too cheap to invest in the newer wheels you've been eyeing for years. Luckily you come from a monumentally advantaged background and you have the use of another family car, otherwise you'd be forced to endure the shame and potentially fatal contact diseases related to using public transport. This also affords you the luxury of jump starting your own stricken vehicle in the rain. Once you have booked the beloved old girl into the car doctor, the prospect of a nice brisk walk back home in the fresh morning air motivates you to be positive and as you stride out into the new day, the Arctic wind blasting through your hoody onto your wet hair instantly deflates you into a shuffling mess of bedraggled, cursing hobo clutching your only worldly possession - a random handful of cds you didn't want to leave in the car - stoically to your heaving breast.

You haven't even started the commute to work yet. You know, the traffic is much worse an hour later than I usually travel...

Then you get to the office, which is thankfully devoid of the physical catpoop which usually greets you, but not the smell. A cup of coffee later and you're happily ensconced at your desk behind your computer catching up with the events of the day and using every zen mind trick to stop yourself gouging your eyes out with a pen as you read the vomit that currently passes for news coverage. The social media that has been the saviour of your sanity over the last few years - you just cottoned on - has also deteriorated into nothing more than a collection of moronic pseudo-observations, reposts of shit long since irrelevant, incensed activists bouncing up and down in anguished indignation and triumphantly linking half the story, and every band in creation pushing their own half arsed agenda. Your own disenchantment is echoed by your equals and that is even more disheartening, so you decide to shake things up and try something different. You actually try to do the work you're adequately paid to do, but after a few seconds of delving through the shit-avalanche of emails that up until now have remained mercifully unopened, you come to the swift conclusion that everyone in the world is a fucking gigantic asshat - especially those in your company's employ - and start thinking about the nap you so clearly deserve when you get home this afternoon. If only to get away from the aural abuse offered by the apparent skinning of cats on the airwaves.

I'm going to have some lunch.

NGDG: We want the finest beer known to humanity. And we want it here and we want it now.

Spread The Love. Take Up Minesweeper.

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