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Typey, typey, typey….

My fingers are cold, which makes me feel like a fat retard with a typewriter. I miss the fucking sun. I can see its reflection right there, but it’s too low to come through my window. I just need a little heat. Fucking cheap bastards keep the temperature a couple of degrees lower than comfortable. Is that so we don’t fall asleep on the job? Well, it doesn’t work! I just pass out sometimes. Why do I breathe so loud when I sleep? It wakes me up and surely someone must have heard and realised that I was not awake. This job has nothing for me. I’ll stay till I leave. But it’s close to home, I don’t have to do muthafucking shift work. The weekends are mine. The public holidays are mine. I get home before 5. It’s all daughter time. Home is where you left your loved ones. That’s my life at the moment. That is my purpose. Sacrificing career for quality time. But aren’t I meant to do more? Work is such a big part of life. You should enjoy it. I enjoy the people. I have enough talent to do other things. I just don’t have the passion… the desire … the drive to do anything else. I just drift. I don’t want to do anything. I’m going places, I just haven’t left yet…

When I day-dream, I’m the creator of all the great songs in my life. I can’t carry a tune. I don’t have the talent. Fuck.
I used to hate hip hop. I like it now. Does that make me a hip-hopocrite? I also like Country. And Western. I really should stop telling people that …

You can bomb the world into pieces, but you can’t bomb the world into peace. Can’t have peace till the Niggaz get a piece too. Why can’t we all just get along? There are no good people in the world. All sinners. This disappointment no longer hurts me like it used to. What does that say about my soul? But you’re happier when you don’t care, right? Don’t piss off the terrorists. Shi’ite Happens.

I react. I can come up with quasi-greatness, but only when inspiration comes to me. If not, I drown. I know what that’s like. That time I drowned … I just started breathing and believed it was air. If you survive, does that mean you’re meant to be here? And if you’re meant to be here, are you meant to do something worthwhile while you’re here? Sometimes at night, I’ll wake with the realisation that sooner or later I’ll be dead and everything we do is futile anyway and it scares me like the first time I learned that sooner or later we all die and I cried and cried and my mother had to comfort me, but did she really? She was the one who told me in the first place …
We all waste our lives. Should we all just get wasted? What would Bob Dylan do …?

The angry cloud casts its shadow
Over the sheets of white that follow
The train tracks

What the fuck does that mean? If I knew, maybe I could pass it off as poetry…

Sarcasm is the sound of one man laughing.
Obnoxious! Me? I don’t even know how to spell obnoxious. Oh …
I don’t try to be funny. I’m only ever trying to satisfy my own twisted sense of humour. I don’t intend to be offensive. It’s a defence mechanism. Cast a net of confusion and watch their reaction. Shock them, get them on the back foot. And yet people find that funny. Now THAT’S funny…

What’s in my head, what’s in my head? Mmmm, Boobies.

You're only as good as her last orgasm.

You can only lie so many times
before all people will believe
is that you lie

I’ve never been able to work out whether I believe the glass is really half full or empty. But I’m perceptive enough to know that my insecurities have a grounding in fact. I am my weakest link. I may not always face my demons … but … at least I know what they look like. I never claimed to be more than I already am.
I am so full of shit.

OH FUCK, I’M FLYING LOW AGAIN!

If I sit here long enough, perhaps something intelligent will come out.