3-1-14 25-15-21 3-18-1-3-11 20-8-5 "3-12-5-22-5-18" 3-15-4-5?

I'm in a bad mood and I don't know why. I feel like punching something, but I fear it might be looked upon as a breach of office etiquette. I'm trying to take out my frustrations by typing. It doesn't work very well.

I can't hammer on the keys too hard, or it will annoy my colleagues.

I thought I might be able to release some aggression by typing certain words. But I don't know if it will work.

Smash. That didn't work.

Aargh. That didn't work either.

Perhaps I can create some kind of linguistic dischord that will simulate a rage-induced outburst.

Cod-frock, for example. Or B'NAMF.

They don't work.

Perhaps I can rail against some hated object. I could wax lividly about The Daily Mail, or the film The Butterfly Effect, or that rubbish episode of Horizon I watched yesterday.

But it's not the same. You can't beat a good solid punch as a therapeutic outburst. I could punch the desk and pretend I was killing a mosquito or a mole or something. I could headbutt the screen and claim that I slipped and tried to use my face to steady myself. I could chew paper-clips.

Or, I could take a deep breath and stop being stupid.

But I'm not going to do that.

***

I'm still unsure about Twitter, but I have found an excellent advert for it. Tim Key is a poet who you might recognise from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, or the sketch show Cowards. All his Twitter entries (or tweets, in the parlance of our times) are short poems. They're great! Here are some examples:

Poem#264. Oliver kissed his wife and squeezed her fat hand. She wriggled free and baked a celebratory cake. (32)

Poem#323. “I love you baby”. She kissed me and I unwrapped her gift. It was a Moby CD. Yes! She’d listened. She’d picked up on my hints.(0)

Poem#171. “I’m not marrying that pig!” I said to mother. She continued to leaf through the portfolio. (32).

It makes me want to do something similar. Put poetry has already been covered. Maybe I could write an entertaining series of numbers.

99207223645511892, for example.

I could gain a cult following. People would call me 'that number guy'. Numerologists would study my work. I could adapt it into a stage-play and then a sitcom, and then a feature film.

Numbers are under-represented in art. Except, perhaps, for Caravaggio's 'Thirty-One'. And as everyone knows, that particular work doesn't exist.

That's why Caravaggio is the master.

I wonder if you could produce a truly revolutionary and profound work of literature in less than 140 characters. That's what Twitter is for. Every day, every tweet, is a search for genius.

The search may be fruitless, but that doesn't mean it is not worthwhile. Unless you are searching for actual fruit. In which case, go to the greengrocers. They will help thee.