I brood constantly. It's who I am. I have ruined a career out of it, and I still have doubts that the diarrhea in the supply chain isn't entirely my fault. I mean, I'm just an ordinary multicellular being going about my life, but no one lets me. There's a tremendous amount of time and money spent on the diorama we call our reality, when in fact most of it is just rental props—stuff that you can own and must pass on after a lifetime. It's amazing how attached we all get to the stage and the knickknacks on it, and how little we value, and strangely, I feel, the real things that matter, like time spent in this life, and not fritter it away in counting the stuff scattered on stage or waste it jostling and fighting for them.
I guess having a defective brain makes me prone to failing to appreciate the beauty in violence, blood, and gore. The money that can be made, they tell me, is a lot. Yes, certainly we must keep up with the tribal rituals and proud traditions, and who am I to say anything? A mere nobody to boot, and then less, and even less, and so on, until the end of the sentence, where no additional information waits for you. Especially when there's no dearth of gurus with bloated bellies and puffed-up chests attesting to one course or another on how to do this or that. And they add that they accept all major credit cards. Bingo, there you go; your life is set. Just one course, and you're on your way.
However, mine are just inconvenient bits of unhelpful language that don't warm the cockles of your heart. In this parasocial mix-up of people that mix in their imaginary living room, lodged in everyone's mind, I assume they serve food and beverages. At least we can distract ourselves with the sound of chewing the food we're putting in our mouth, thus avoiding the necessity of putting anything in or, goodness forbid, a conversation.
My friends have told me that what you write makes no sense and, in any case, that no one reads it anyway. I agree, and I have nothing to say to defend myself. What I write may indeed not make any sense, as often this is just stuff that flows straight out of my thumb. Thumbs, more accurately, as that's what I use to type on my smartphone, and I just have an itch, and once I'm finished, I feel I can relax a little bit.
