ACRIMONY

Shit in one hand and collect wishes in the other. See which hand gets full first.

TwothousandandgreatTwo

There's the male organ and the dick it's attached to.
There's the tug of the spine that makes the muscle jerk.
Manifold worries and uncertainty.
The skunk that delivereth us unto the moment.
The crushing stress.
The stressful crush.
Drum & bass.
Drills, sparks and chains.
The word amazing.
The backlit proscenium arch of the window at four thirty a.m.
Two, maybe three kids whose heads are begging to be stomped on so their eyes burst like boiled eggs.

I want my joie de vivre back :(

Bookish

My great fear - if I will admit to it is that I'm running round the inside of my own head, and nothing's changing. Reading to expand my brain, my intellect and my vocabulary instead makes me bitter and distracted. Habits, defeats, cycles, clean teeth, the sexy Italian waitress chewing gum, nonchalant and maybe even dismissive. Her eyes looked Egyptian, fish like. Run away run away, Ed your anger will make you sick.

Failure

Reading a book on failure I realise I sit in the category neatly summarised by Confucius: Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we do. The defeat that puts faith in future victory, that defers it for a later time. So where's the fucking victory then? Am I to suppose; am I to hope - to fall back on optimism? Deep down, maybe I am a piece of shit. Despite being utterly annoyed at Valerie Solanas for saying it, maybe she was right. Men deep down know they are pieces of shit. It's tiresome to be told by someone else though.
Instead I'll opt for empty rhetoric that might serve to kill this bastard hour, lead me to another hour that is linked to the next and so on. Disgust at the mother laughing at the Creed show because it's upsetting for a Sunday. Cunt. I don't have a dream of redemption for myself; you remain a cunt and I'll never see you again. I'm a piece of shit and you'll never see me again.