< The distant summit of Mount Cargill viewed through the portal in a portentous sour cream and chives chip of uncertain tidings. Five hundred years ago people built shrines around shit like this, but I think it's enough that I document this visually and leave you to decide its significance, if that is the correct terminology.
It might bring roses, but I fucking hate this time of year. That not-yet-xmas xmas lead up, always so stuffed and sickly with its gross monetised sentiment and pressure to visit and be sociable; I suppose I should just be grateful that the latter imperative doesn't coincide with winter and seasonal affective shit down here. Because that would suck, and I feel badly for all my surly northern misanthropic homies. Late Nov/Dec also licks hairy balls because of the ambient psychic christmashead phenomenon- that *durr jingle bell durr* static that interferes with my attempts to write long form fiction. So if you're staring at a plastic xmas tree in a shop display somewhere thinking about custard, can you please cut that fucking retarded shit out? Thanking you in advance.
It might bring roses, but I fucking hate this time of year. That not-yet-xmas xmas lead up, always so stuffed and sickly with its gross monetised sentiment and pressure to visit and be sociable; I suppose I should just be grateful that the latter imperative doesn't coincide with winter and seasonal affective shit down here. Because that would suck, and I feel badly for all my surly northern misanthropic homies. Late Nov/Dec also licks hairy balls because of the ambient psychic christmashead phenomenon- that *durr jingle bell durr* static that interferes with my attempts to write long form fiction. So if you're staring at a plastic xmas tree in a shop display somewhere thinking about custard, can you please cut that fucking retarded shit out? Thanking you in advance.
| Last night I dreamed that there were greyish naked little deformed chicken-type legs growing out of the back of my shoulder blades, squashed up against my bra strap and was mad at R because he didn't tell me about them. They didn't enable me to fly, couldn't type, scratch anything awkward, did nothing to enhance my sexuality and just caused a sort of vague generalised anxiety because I couldn't see them clearly. This morning I sliced a nice fucking chunk off a fingernail bed with our Silky Zubat saw whilst halfway up a cliff face cutting down an overhanging tree. I still heartily endorse the instrument involved and recommend it to fellow luddites everywhere but its fair usage-to-accidental mutilation ratio leaves something to be desired. Exposed nail bed stings like a bitch so not happy. |  |
What the fuck else in premenstrual hell can I complain about? Yes that was a fucking rhetorical question and no your opinion does not fucking matter swings star mace on chain, wipes spittle from bloodshot eyes. You may be getting more flowers and lipstick this week. Just nod and murmur how much you like those things Back toward the door.
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