verbal masturbation.

kept away to maintain the complexion of this here hole. cos i'm just too fucking lazy to think at all, much less think up things that i've thought throughout the course of [insert period of inactivity here]. and cos i'm also too fucking tired every single day of the bloody week after spending more than full halves of the days either hurrying or frolicking or prancing around. and also it'll be too much of a depressing affair looking at recent occurrences hitting roughly about 8.756 on Beng Chang's Scale of Fucked Up-ness and Bloody Mess-ness and Generally All Things Fucked Up Yes. so much so that it'll be in the predictable pattern of mourn-mourn-bloody-mourn-uh-mourn-mourn ad infinitum.

is it just a biological consequence or is it that the prejudice (mostly on the side of the alpha males and females) concerning male dancing people is justified? i mean, red mules on top of, or should i say, below, an all white ensemble? and the latter over jet-black underpants, no less. and pink umbrella. and funky-looking tattoos if you know what i mean. complete the look with a pastry (i defer to the cream puff but sometimes egg tarts are nice as well) hairdo and walah - you get decades upon decades of derogatory stereotypical adjectives thrown at you. ok perhaps it's just this one person, but the added funk to his steps really screams 'motherfucker of a flaming homosexual no fucking doubt oh yes oh damn!'. i mean, nothing in hip hop says anything even remotely close to hip gyrations the only polite description of which is 'motherfucker', nor are raised buttocks well past comfortable levels (normally at the buttocks level) a pre-requisite to being a male dancer of any sort.

the idea was mistaken, after all. i really do only have a fixed amount of words to be said, like, per year or something. i mean, all the social activities and facades that take so many words out of me in the public sector has taken its toll on my private doings. so much so that i am becoming more reticent than ever (if that's even possible in the first place. of course 3 words per night to 1 per night is fully comprehensible in the mathematical sense but there's little to be done with the latter ration with regards to making actual communicative sense). then again. perhaps it's a good thing for people in both sectors, since public people take more to public sounding people and people in my public circle probably have had just about enough of my verbal idiosyncracies. or that perhaps it's just a consequence of my dumbing down due to my stark refusal to believe that lack of sleep can cause this. dumbing down, i mean.

let's chase the dragons instead.

isn't it strange, given all the wealth of experience you have, you still never catch the flying shit hurtling towards you at breakneck speed in your rear view mirror until the very last moment when however much you swerve will matter no more cos it'll still be 100% contact with said shit, the only difference being the angle at which it makes that contact, which will only mean the degree of mess it'll make on the adjacent people cos of the ensuing deflecting splatter? i suppose deep down, however much of a my-glass-is-half-fucking-empty-you-cliched-piece-of-crud person you are, to be a functioning, or, generally speaking, alive, human being; you'll have to be optimistic in some way or other, that you always hope things will turn out well in the end however much you claim or act otherwise.

it's also an exponential increase when it comes to maintaining the facade of normalcy. it's like herion: in the beginning, you take hits to achieve the high that acts like an escape from your sorry-ass semblance of a real life; as you go on, you find yourself needing more and more of it to sustain the same degree of high and at the same time you begin to discover the bitter, to say the least, aftertaste that is withdrawal brought about by increasing dependence on more hits per unit time; and finally, you spiral out of control cos it gets to the point whereby it becomes ridiculous and impossible to sustain the level of your indulgence/dependence. cos the facade is just so appealing and sexy and beckoning and sugar and spice and i can't tie a proper splice and everything nice.

but you will still have to go on, you and your fucked up self-righteous shit which you yourself don't believe in in principle but which you follow blindly, cos that's the blinding guiding ideal light that no one really aspires towards because of the sheer impossibility of it all; cos it's just the best thing you have now, which means it's a 'best' on the relative scale but counts for peanuts on the absolute scale, if there be a latter in the first place, that is.

i think it's right on time for the mandatory perennial fuck-up. how predictable again, and how the cue is given and missed even as you are looking hard and expecting it all along. shit comes in many colours and makes, but that makes for a poor excuse of fucking course.

sick, tired and sleepless; with no one else to shine for.

somehow, when you're in the presence hundreds of people dealing in products with seemingly ridiculous values of around 500 bucks per gram or something, cumulating in a total of maybe 2309304940609 dollars wallowing in the space equivalent of a football pitch; it doesn't strike you that you're in the presence of hundreds of people dealing in products with seemingly ridiculous values of around 500 bucks per gram or something, cumulating in a total of maybe 2309304840609 dollars wallowing in the space equivalent of a football pitch.

and advertising gimmickry for gadgetry somehow just doesn't make as much sense, however far, or lack thereof in the distance category, the point is stretched in the first place; as that for automobiles. i mean, for the latter, there is at least a somewhat coherent logical link between the objects used to push the products, namely, scantily-clad women with a penchant for too much make-up and a skirt length limitation of at least 3 inches above the knees; and the products themselves: "uh uh uh you have the money to buy a 300-grand car and so you will have the money to fuck me uh uh uh." but electronics? "uh uh uh you have the money to buy a... wha - 300-dollar mp3 player? fuck!" then again. perhaps the rationale is there as well: "uh uh uh you have the sense of mind to buy a 300-dollar mp3 player instead of a car the majority of the functions you don't half understand and the other half you can't legally utilise which means you're stuck with an overpriced bundle of 4 seats and a steering wheel and therefore you will have the 299,970 bucks to fuck me uh uh uh."

so things worked pretty well for me and the fair. things i wanted to get were not on sale and, at the same time, i didn't have the money to buy those things anyway even if there were up for grabs. the power thus grows stronger in me. however much the scale of its recording is in pittance-units. fried to a crisp and nothing to show for it. damn. and it's a record as i've smashed my head right into the space-bar in particular and the keyboard in general for the 4th consecutive night. if fatigue is a disease then i'm struck with an epidemic in its terminal stage. and for my faithful multitude, kudos to you if you spotted the difference. what a fun thing my blog is, games and all.