The more observant of you might have spotted a change. That's right I've now put my spring underpants on. I know it's not spring yet but the winter ones were beginning to migrate towards the washing machine, while I was still wearing them. Now that I've peeled them off I feel a lot better, in the underpants department at least. Of course, that's not really what's changed. It's just a brief glimpse at my rigorous underwear regime. What's actually happened is that now I've started separating my deranged, tangential ramblings from the fiction writing. Which is going to get really dark. Opening another window into the depths of depravity which lurk within me.
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Have you ever been so drunk and drugged up that the following morning you've been left wondering how other people cope with fingers? You know those hangovers, where even your hair hurts? Well I've just had that this morning. Lying there in bed as the light of morning seared my eyeballs, I also had the following thought. What are pigeons for? Apart from shitting on statues. And you could always employ people to do that. It's a future proofed profession. How are they going to mechanize that? When did they start making soft toys. Why did people think it was a good idea to give babies bears. Bears aren't soft and cuddly.
There are a million mysteries like that on your own doorstep. Including, why do we have doorsteps? You don't really need one do you. It's not like a doorstep is absolutely vital to a home. I've been in many homes that didn't have doorsteps. Why not just build the house slightly lower. Thus avoiding the cost of a doorstep. Is it a status symbol? I don't know. I don't know much really, but now some of you may have worked out which cocktail of recreational pharmaceuticals I was smoking and snorting last night.
I'm a cruel and coldhearted individual, as you can tell. Even I have feelings though. Right now I feel like having some cheese and crackers. I also feel my underwear creeping up my ass crack. You can feel lots of things can't you. You can feel an idiot. I know I've felt an idiot lots of times. He liked it I think. Certainly put a smile on his face. Though that might have been to do with where I was feeling him. It was outside a Wendy's. Which isn't the worst place to feel an idiot I suppose.
You'll note that as usual there's no structure to what I'm writing. There's no point to my meandering discourse. Random synapses are firing off inside my skull due to the metabolic byproducts of illegal drugs. Earlier on I was in my kitchen when I suddenly realized I'd been staring at a tin of cat food for at least ten minutes. I haven't even got a cat.
Oh no. I've suddenly started thinking about ironing. That's going to be on my mind for hours. I can get very emotional about ironing. Start to obsess about it, until it becomes the most important thing in the world. When, as we all know, it's only the second most important thing in the world. Ironing is a constant worry though isn't it. If only world governments would get their act together and sort it out. Syria? That's mainly about ironing you know. Some believe you should use starch, others disagree. Of course I won't even approach the subject, as it brings up so much anger and hatred. I could do an innocent ironing related Tweet and end up in a social media storm. You've got to be so careful these days.