A Little Nugget

Taking minuscule bites, as an avoidance strategy for the usual merry feelings of nearly-bursting from too muchness. Suggestibility to fun! Protect me!

I'll paint you a picture of this land of promises and waste of all things borrowed:
children call each other a 'wanker', while (rather innocently) playing basketball; lady breaks into uncontrollable shouting fit, while bus driver refuses to tell her what time the next bus will leave, for fear of his freedom being stood on. Lady threatens to call police, fire and ambulance, calls him a 'wanker', while (rather innocently) reinforces the stereotypes of middle-aged-to-old-aged women; wearing two tones darker than skin wrinkly tights, shoes purchased at the pharmacy, and excessively warm combination of coat, gloves and hat, to protect from "freezing cold" of 15 Celsius. Lady works, looks after 30ish year old children living at home, and massive, massively lazy husband (who, rather innocently calls every male a 'wanker') sitting on his bottom counting down his days to Retirement Fun (which will never come, as he will then hate being stuck in his house).
Joyful, fun-starved children knocking on doors, insisting on a tradition of carol singing, whilst staring at your hand the whole time and blatantly counting the coins inserted in theirs, before you even close the door. 'Wanker' they call you when they see it's less than a gazillion. Quite innocently, you think they are doing it because of pushy traditionalist parents, and wish to shut their tone deaf vocal vibrations up.
I went to the shops, hoping to find something un-tacky and affordable to wrap my presents with. On my way up the street I had a dodge-o-war with an irritating oldish man who refused to let me go past him and chose to step left and right in an opposing manner to mine, whilst menacingly glaring into my eyes. He eventually proceeded, uttering the unspeakable: "baby, if only I had you (in my lap?) I'd show you a good time". 'Wanker' I called him. Not so innocently. Walked past him wearing my face of disgust, traditionally reserved for such exhibition of perve. I didn't find anything at the shop and came back empty handed, only with a packet of strange flavoured chewing gum in my coat pocket, bearing the words 'fresh', 'strong' and 'healthy' on its packet.

Merry Christmas. !

in preparation

As the Big Event is looming, I'm haplessly attempting to 'arrange'.
The product of this is nothing. Big and very very w i d e.

So, instead, I gathered the following thoughts, in order of preference:
- songs featuring the lyric: "tic tic tic" always excite me
- rain is unimportant when carrying a heavy bag, but a distinct lack of tissues is forever frustrating
- warmed radiator socks could possibly equate to a physical interpretation of love
- cheap crumpets are significantly more enjoyable to squish.
- time perception and waiting- it is apparent to me that the brain of a small but significant fly can differentially perceive remaining time, when counting down, versus when simply existing without interest in future events coming closer to it's present
- nobody knows what they're doing for new year. and nobody cares. and I don't either -- only I do. Does this make me belong to the group 'everybody'? or does it just make me a hopeful romantic, anticipating for one more fucking year anything but the same and very usual anticlimactic depression?

lalalalala

Environment Vs Ego

I have decided today

to make some toast.
to find and steal and burn all bratz dolls (i know..)
to destruct by manically peeling or pulling or plucking any given unwanteds.
and theoretically smother my face in some idea disgusting and embarrassing.
Anhedonia. Possibly related to my lack of self-compassion.

And then the focus was swiftly shifted to the colour of my hands. It doesn't satisfy, today. No wonder it's all gone wrong.

St Trinians 2, Televisual information raping me. But I am severely attracted to it. Possibly even consenting? Contradicting myself, so it is time to take a side and decide on the responsibility-taking. It is all about simpleness without being humble. Non-physical weight from unidentifiable sources.-- see, narrowly avoided addressing the issue. life rerun.

FYI My ear is still safely trapped between the golden clasps of this naive decoration. And I shall attribute everything encountered today to this. I am unfortunately conscious of this, I'm afraid.

hoe hoe how dare you, you hoe (ruining my christmas)

guilt.
the christmas cheer solidifies the precise instant following the other precise instant somebody opened the window, you know, to "let some fresh air in" and "it's getting a little stuffy". The cheer transforms into a different Sub Stance altogether. it is now Guilt.

oh the guilt.

the horror of having thrown some part of you away. The miniscule joy of having a reason to be so miserable every now and again. Followed by hatred for a concept ungraspable by anyone. You don't even know yourself and you bloody came up with it you tw4t!

guilt. or is it stomach acid? difficult to tell. Anyway, my christmas is ruined by guilt and hatred for something related to my actions but i wouldn't dare to attempt to address that aspect. It could potentially ruin my holidays! that'd be a bad idea.

Vive le punk!- and fat bastards on sleighs pretending to be santa too. They have to be the best element of 'bastardisation of a holiday', containing easily generalisable proportions of differential particles essential to produce this particular sensation.

I was asked to tell the kids the story of the bald frog..

Once there was a groggy frog, who drunk too much and swore too much and fucked around too much. All these excesses had turned him into a weakling. A quivering leaf of dazed, shaky unsteadiness. His diet consisted mainly of pizza boxes and chocolate wrappers, and that only when he could bear (oh the animal puns!) the thought of food, which was once in a blue moon.-literally.

So his hair fell out. He made himself a wig out of a banana peel. He'd remembered to write on it with a ballpoint pen- it was a cheap high. He loved his wig. and it's decomposition provided tasty flies for him. A bit like me. only less bourgeois, more upper class. He was happy, until the false hair followed the natural course of what is will seize to be inevitably, one day.

So he went to the doctors and was told he's anaemic-due to shit nutrition. Initially they thought he was anorexic. then they realised, by the unsteadiness and urge to move, that it was all excesses-induced. They gave him some Berocca, they told him to eat steak, despite it being super unethical, and told him to fuck off, as he was making the nurses and the other waiting clients of the surgery uneasy with his jerkiness and twitches. He then drunk the Berocca, and felt miles better.

He made himself a cup of coffee, and realised that orangey fizzy vitamins taste horrendous when followed by coffee. He drunk the coffee nonetheless. He smiled to his reflection in the downstairs tiny mirror, next to the key box. ''I look crap.'' He went upstairs for a long nap.

The End

(Internal Thoughts: And then he died? is that too much of plagiarism? wouldn't the distance between this additional comment and the story make it legit? Three 'Enters'. I could pretend it wasn't intended to go along with this.
Also: to mark the end of this sentence in parentheses with a stop or not? this is a very damaging debate for my small head. it can't fit the constant 'strugglation'. oh make up your mind)