|hypothetical||March 26, 2014, 12:19 am|
You walk into the toilet. Your ass is full of shit. You are desperate. The seat is down. The porcelain beckons. You unbuckle your belt and drop your pants. The metal buckle clatters on the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor.
Something is wrong. Very wrong. Sudden dread infuses you on an instinctive level. Your fingers quest across your butt cheeks and into your crack. Your blood curdles in your veins as your index finger reveals the terrible, gut-wrenching truth;
Your asshole has vanished overnight. There is now nothing but a flat piece of inviolate skin in between your quivering buttocks. There will be no release from this torture.
WHAT DO YOU DO NOW?
|tonight I mostly made textures.||February 25, 2014, 11:26 pm|
because MY BALLS, that's why.
|and everything turns to shit||February 18, 2014, 10:36 pm|
Fucking hard post to write, but I guess I better get it out of my system. Went to work a few weeks ago leaving girlfriend in house, prior to her going to her own work. Lah de dah, everything is nice nice. I assume my GF brushed her teeth at some point.
And forgot to switch the tap off.
Now I don't fucking know how a human being can just walk out of a building and leave a tap on. She's diabetic; I assume she was in some sort of walking coma. Regardless, the overflow is fucked and the downstairs flat gets pissed all over.
They phone their landlord, who is on holiday in some third world shithole spending all that hard earned rentz moneys on blow and hookers and shit. He is displeased with the fact that his house is sinking like fucking atlantis. He phones my landlady, who tries to phone me.
I is at work. I is not answering phone.
So, she takes her key and enters my flat. And my flat is a shithole. There is a bountiful mountain of pizza boxes. The carpet is a swamp of split beer and fag ends. The roof, which has been leaking for a month now, has let an interesting genre of fungus colonize one of the walls. Speaking of walls, I have spray-painted the word FRAD on the living room wall for some reason that sounded really hilarious at the time.
She has not been up to visit the flat in five years. And the tap is still pishing water downstairs.
She is displeased.
So I get a rage-phonecall after the event. The plumbing is all fucked anyway, has been for years, but maybe I should have squirted some shit down the pipes occasionally. Whatever, problem solved, phone the plumber when I get off nightshift, just don't use the sink in the bathroom.
Aaaaaand the overflow pipe is also apparently connected to the bathtub. Because I don't know, what sort of retarded plumber does that shit?
I shouldn't be surprised. The flat used to be an attic and the plumbing is the most retarded thing I have ever seen. Big holes cut through floorboard to make the bathtub actually fit in, meaning there is less than 50% floor beneath the bath and any spillage flies directly through my neighbor's ceiling and into their coffee. Oh, and the seal on the toilet burst last year and bored a shit-piss hole straight through their roof into the walk-in cupboard. Fuck your clothes, bitches, I defecate on them with impunity for a week until you notice.
Anyway, latest and greatest travesty against the downstairs neighbors has been decreed to be the Last Straw. I am out of there in T-minus two weeks.
Went to council, who will not help me because I have neither a heroin habit, fifteen kids or a prison record. Also they decree that my notice to quit the property is illegal, so won't help me with a council house until landlady provides a N3545435X form or some shit to say yes, I have kicked this fuckwad's lame ass into the street and he is now living in a bin outside of Tesco.
Basically I am staring into the asshole of oblivion and it has farted in my face. Internets look unlikely. Laugh, by all means, but remember;
I WILL BE BACK.
|tossing off||February 12, 2014, 4:45 pm|
|fannying about on the internet instead of doing work on my book. Need some mojoes. Motivate me.|
|400 words, no fat||February 4, 2014, 10:45 pm|
think I nailed it pretty hard. Of course, I will wake up tomorrow and find it full of fail and delete it.
For posterity then.
|31 years old||January 31, 2014, 4:56 am|
|I am not mellowing with age.|
|chrischan burned his house down||January 11, 2014, 7:36 am|
|and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.|
|started so I'll not finish||January 9, 2014, 11:19 pm|
couldn't really stop tho.
|bringing the ruin to the local newsletter||January 3, 2014, 11:40 am|
|alcohol||December 17, 2013, 5:26 pm|
friday night: work's night out in hotel. Free Bar (eventual tab: 300+ quids). Behaved semi-reasonably by all accounts.
saturday night: woke up at 6pm and met up with old school friends. Forgot to eat before drinking. Got totally smashed on cheap beer before heading out for expensive beer. Might have had some (microwaved) stovies when I got home, evidence inconclusive.
sunday night: woke up feeling like a deep fried turd. throw clothes on, got on train to Glasgow. Cannot physically force myself to eat. Beer o'clock is 12 o'clock (afternoon). Got steaming minced ruined. Discover a 32% (ish) ale called a Tactical Nuclear Penguin and proceed to new heights of total destruction. Get into an argument with a Big Issue seller. Went to the O2 to watch Gogol Bordello. Amount of gig I can remember: none. Alcohol bill for weekend = two hundred quid and still rising. Return to youth hostel and experience extremely vivid nightmare about murdering the Queen of England. Awake at 4am and run around hostel room screaming about dead Queen (suspected alcohol induced psychotic break lol) with no clothes on. Other occupants of room (2 female) rather unimpressed with said behavior. Smoke cigarette through closed window to calm self down. Go to someone elses' bed still not wearing any pants.
monday night: liver in a state of severe distress. Finally ate a cheese sandwich. Bank account hanging in tatters. Still no idea if I like the new Gogol Bordello album or not.