“What does it feel like?”
No words could describe the cosmic euphoria that I was feeling, the enlightenment that accompanied the vision of the universe through all of its divinity. So I could only reply in the best way I could.
“It feels like fucking Buddha.”
Unfortunately this incredible sense of well-being quickly turned into a suicidal decline of insanity. The feeling that one’s mind is lost forever isn’t the nicest of experiences along with the morbid thoughts that the only way to escape from such a place was through death. Then the feeling that I might hurt someone because I was in such a state further heightened such irrepressible anxieties. The best simile I could come up for such an experience would be saying it’s like having the best sex you ever had in your life then the lights switch on and you find out it’s your mother. That’s drugs for you.
Now my drug taking experiences have led me to enjoying such activities that involve being sleepless in a tent with a Viagra induced hard on whilst praying that the sandman would send me to la la land rather than skull fuck me in every facial orifice. How does such an event come about I hear you say? Well I was given rub-on Viagra at this festival, me being the generous person that I am accepts the gift. So this bad boy is in my pants, and after a long day’s worth of rave, speed, pills, and other assortments I come back to my tent. I was unable to sleep, unable to do much at all due to all known company enjoying dream world. So I am lying there, thinking what can I do? Then a light comes on and me being the curious chipper I am reach into my pocket and pull out the lovely blue Viagra cream. Got nothing else to do, so why not, so hey presto my lil’un is standing at attention! Unfortunately during the wrist activity that occurred next the nice-ities of speed and other substances wore off. So whilst pummelling away, I start to feel like death had just took a runny vindaloo shit on my brain. Now I am in this tent too tired, and too exhausted to even finish myself off. So there I lay all alone in my oven baked tent sweating my bollocks off, a cock harder than industrial concrete, and a head ache making me wish death was ever so close by. Now kids, this is what happens to people who take too many drugs.
For me I am getting closer to the point of quitting the whole lot. The excuses that I tell myself to hide the fact that I commit brain cell genocide are running out. My brain is quick and brutal in its responses to such justifications
“No you fucking dumbass, just because you've eaten an apple today doesn't mean I will be ok after you snort ketamine with cocaine. God I hate you so much!”
I can’t keep it up anymore, and I don’t want to. The body is giving up and so is the mind. There is so much more to life and I want enjoy them with more than one brain cell. I want to move onto bigger and better things like…..like………….aaaaah fuck.
Wednesday 23 July 2008
Tuesday 1 July 2008
Doctor Pepper
Doctor Pepper, what’s the worst that could happen? I don’t want to fucking know! Why the fuck would I want to think of the worst possible things that could happen when I open a can of the sugary beverage? Don’t they know I have an overactive imagination!? Don’t they know that such questions cause me pain and misery!? Why can’t it be “What’s the best that could happen?” With a logo like that I wouldn’t be thinking about the umpteen bad things that could happen involving a Doctor Pepper can. Like a group of fanged demented teenagers coming across me who desire my beverage so they beat me, finish my drink, and then ram the can up my arse whilst playing happy hardcore on their mobile phones. See now this can of Dr Pepper has made me a paranoid shambles who throws accusing stares at the local populace whilst hissing. The negativity provided by such mediums of advertisement and media has now made me a recluse hobo man thing hobo, a dashingly handsome one though (but that was only because my mummy and daddy have good genes). Why must I be told every minute about how the world is going to skull fuck me and leave me a rotting violated corpse by the media, can’t people just be nice!?
“You’re fat, ugly, stupid, and your mother never loved you because you’re the creation of a relationship bourn of rape and STDs!” are the things the media would say to you if it was of a human incarnation. Then there is the part of the media which is the News, which only ever says “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! AAAAAAARGH YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH AAAAAARGH!” BUT MR NEWS MAN I WANT TO LIVE! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! WHY MUST I DIE! I AM EVER SO YOUNG AND FERTILE! THE LADIES NEED ME MR NEWS MAN! WHAT MUST I DO!? TELL ME!? But NEY! Mr News man simply ignores my pleas and comes up with another gruesome way in which I will end up being buggered by Satan and his 4 horsemen of Apocalypse (of who are all members of Al-Qaida). Now because of the News I carry a knife around for protection, just in case Global Warming comes along to rape and pillage my household whilst throwing anthrax at my face and stealing my job.
Then we have the lifestyle magazines which tell me how fat and ugly I am. It’s not my fault I have a spot! It isn’t, I swear it! But such denials fall onto to deaf ears, the magazine rebukes by calling me a pathetic excuse of a man. It then sleeps with my love of my life doggy style whilst slapping her buttock cheeks in some sort of satanic toe tapping rhythm. Oh, how my life ales, I am ugly because it says so, and it shows me how much more beautiful everyone else is! And then to rub it in it shows me what I will never have. It tells me to purchase an object of extraordinary monetary value because it will somehow better my life! But then this trickster of a magazine guffaws manically in my face and says my purchase was “so last month”. Obviously I can’t hack such disheartening so I seek refuge and comfort from my dearest mama, but alas she is unable to help me because she is crying in the corner of her house screaming in pain because another magazine has told her that her curtains are hideous and her food is bland in taste because she doesn’t use balsamic vinegar that is fermented from a virgin’s pubic region.
Due to such influences I now believe I will never be good looking and will always be in constant fear of death. With such morbid thinking I have to have some release or some escape, otherwise I will end up painting the walls of my room red with my jugular (Caché style).So what can one do? Well the answer is quite simple, I pick on fat people. YA HA! FEAR ME! FEAR ME MY CHERRUBIC FRIENDS OF UNGAINLY PROPORTION SINCE I WILL BE THE BANE AND CURSE OF YOUR OVERWEIGHT EXISTENCE! Eat that pie I dare thee, because I will be there to ridicule yee and to throw faeces at yee, or perhaps I will just stare at yee so yee feel insecure and self conscious, the choice is mine. Finally the scared can feel like the brave, finally the weak can feel like the strong! All shall be well and my self esteem will be better than ever. Not only will this be ego boosting for me, fat people win as well. This is because fat people are always jolly, so such insults will wash of them like skid marks on the toilet that are hit by a torrential rain fall of Roy piss. So finally all ends well, and I will be able to sleep undisturbed by the world telling me how much of a shit I am and how I should feel guilty for breathing. Thank fuck!
“You’re fat, ugly, stupid, and your mother never loved you because you’re the creation of a relationship bourn of rape and STDs!” are the things the media would say to you if it was of a human incarnation. Then there is the part of the media which is the News, which only ever says “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! AAAAAAARGH YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH AAAAAARGH!” BUT MR NEWS MAN I WANT TO LIVE! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! WHY MUST I DIE! I AM EVER SO YOUNG AND FERTILE! THE LADIES NEED ME MR NEWS MAN! WHAT MUST I DO!? TELL ME!? But NEY! Mr News man simply ignores my pleas and comes up with another gruesome way in which I will end up being buggered by Satan and his 4 horsemen of Apocalypse (of who are all members of Al-Qaida). Now because of the News I carry a knife around for protection, just in case Global Warming comes along to rape and pillage my household whilst throwing anthrax at my face and stealing my job.
Then we have the lifestyle magazines which tell me how fat and ugly I am. It’s not my fault I have a spot! It isn’t, I swear it! But such denials fall onto to deaf ears, the magazine rebukes by calling me a pathetic excuse of a man. It then sleeps with my love of my life doggy style whilst slapping her buttock cheeks in some sort of satanic toe tapping rhythm. Oh, how my life ales, I am ugly because it says so, and it shows me how much more beautiful everyone else is! And then to rub it in it shows me what I will never have. It tells me to purchase an object of extraordinary monetary value because it will somehow better my life! But then this trickster of a magazine guffaws manically in my face and says my purchase was “so last month”. Obviously I can’t hack such disheartening so I seek refuge and comfort from my dearest mama, but alas she is unable to help me because she is crying in the corner of her house screaming in pain because another magazine has told her that her curtains are hideous and her food is bland in taste because she doesn’t use balsamic vinegar that is fermented from a virgin’s pubic region.
Due to such influences I now believe I will never be good looking and will always be in constant fear of death. With such morbid thinking I have to have some release or some escape, otherwise I will end up painting the walls of my room red with my jugular (Caché style).So what can one do? Well the answer is quite simple, I pick on fat people. YA HA! FEAR ME! FEAR ME MY CHERRUBIC FRIENDS OF UNGAINLY PROPORTION SINCE I WILL BE THE BANE AND CURSE OF YOUR OVERWEIGHT EXISTENCE! Eat that pie I dare thee, because I will be there to ridicule yee and to throw faeces at yee, or perhaps I will just stare at yee so yee feel insecure and self conscious, the choice is mine. Finally the scared can feel like the brave, finally the weak can feel like the strong! All shall be well and my self esteem will be better than ever. Not only will this be ego boosting for me, fat people win as well. This is because fat people are always jolly, so such insults will wash of them like skid marks on the toilet that are hit by a torrential rain fall of Roy piss. So finally all ends well, and I will be able to sleep undisturbed by the world telling me how much of a shit I am and how I should feel guilty for breathing. Thank fuck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
