You know in every one's life there comes a point when they are asked questions. Now I don't mean embarrassing questions, I mean basic random questions. Sometimes they come for well meaning people and sometimes they come from a very troubled but impressionable place called mind. Why am I a misanthrope for instance? Or why am I so cynical? Why am I not writing here so regularly, the way I used to. Why have I put a picture of a protagonist of a fascinatingly evil character of one of the most brilliant films ever produced? Why do I feel like telling listening to Sympathy for the Devil? Why am I writing all this?
And the real irony is that sometimes I have very good answers. I don't tell them. It's a matter of little intrigue. I suppose life steps you down a little sometimes. There are beautiful losers everywhere, and there are some real ugly one's I'll never mention.
I've been reading Breakfast of Champions, you can call it Goodbye Blue Monday if you like. The book's a real work of art, I mean sometimes God should keep genius's around for a little longer. This place gets depressing otherwise with all those fat, lousy, single-minded, jackasses that take one stupid but very fine pointed point and start drilling a very fine hole in your mind. Oh I love it, I really do.
I just have to leave this planet in sometime, but with a towel of course. You know something reminded of a very brilliant bit that I read from Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, humans have a very particular habit of asking really stupid but very obvious questions. It made more sense, a little while before I found this MAD Books on Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions.
So well I know I'm not saying anything much. I'm sort of rambling. Those of you who are exceptionally kind and regulars readers may realise that apart from a few occasions, I really just go on writing what I really feel without much coherence of reason. What worries me is that some morons may want to believe on some very tangential lines that I have to do something with Virgiania Woolf. I don't really like Woolf much. Nothing particular, but just like I don't like mad dames. I mean I love the way she killed herself, that's extremely fascinating. What depresses me about her is the way she goes all that crazy in an early Victorian setting, and then she has to tell it in this intelligent but sorry way.
Just like that not many students love ole' Chaucer -- regardless of how much they love the prude for writing all that, like all that -- but to study all that length.
Right now I plan to kill effing Wordsworth.
Well that all is over, I only have exams now left. After that I'll chuck the crap away, or find out how I can sort my life out a little bit. I know I sound very common, and that's terrible, but I sort of hate these things, exams as they say. I'd rather watch porn and enjoy myself then do those things than be tested by a couple of morons.
If you're actually feeling like blaming me for all this that you've just read, I'll just say I had a headache, I'm no effing Opium taking poet giving you an elaborate imagery of a Romantic super star poet that somewhat looks crazy and make your children's children read all that crap in a bloody school-book some centuries later. Some people really have fascinating lives you know, everyone has, one just has to think of one's life as a movie. No I'm not quoting Mr Morrison. I mean it. One just needs good projection, that's all. Now look at all this Bachchan effing wedding Rai, who gives a fuck. If you're really lousy to say yes you're just spending a real life of sham. Just a little worse than everyone. I'm getting out of here, metaphorically I meant.