Two Wrongs Make a Write

Frustration + Low Productivity x Coffee = Blog Post.

MATHS.

Here are some things I HATE:

1) combination washing/answering machine. IMPRACTICAL.
2) poisoners
3) A Film Where The Main Character Refuses Magical Fruit
4) gun nuts (I'm allergic)
5) curbs that are too high
6) inconsistent capitalization
7) James Bondi Beach

That was stupid. I'm always writing lists. They're easy.

I bet I'm repeating myself too. I've probably made that gun nuts "joke" before. I should be ashamed of myself and am.

But what can I do? Get on with my day?

Man up? Grow a set? Develop some other form of misogynistic bravery?

I should be an adult about things.

But I'm not. I'm typing like a petulant teenager stomping on his bedroom floor.

Stomp stomp stomp.

I have no power, but I can make the light fittings shake. I can make your afternoon slightly less pleasant.

Yes, maybe I am being petty. Petty and caffeinated. Like all the great heroes in history.

Stomp stomp stomp.

I'm frustrated with my position in the world, so I'm making a statement. This is like civil disobedience. I'm disobeying the conventions of not being an idiot.

Stomp.

You know what?

YOU KNOW WHAT?

I should just take a deep breath and stop being such a child.

Who is this good for? Nobody.

But then, isn't this what the internet is all about? Humorous lists and adolescent rebellion? Grown men acting like children? Strings of questions? Self-referential follow-up questions? The World Wide Web as punching bag? A voice for the disenfranchised? Or just the lazy enfranchised?

Isn't it that?

Isn't that it?

I'm just doing what's expected of me. Free will is a myth.

We live in a deterministic world, and I have no choice but to fail to live up to your expectations.

And you have no choice but to skim this, dismiss it as "one of the weird ones", and flatter yourself that you've given me a chance.

Thank you.

Genuinely: thank you.

***

I wrote this earlier today. I don't know what to think about it.

To be fair, I haven't read it yet.

I'll read it. Afterwards, I might know what to think about it.

While I'm reading it, listen to this song:



OK, I'm back.

I just read the first part of this entry.

I don't know what to think of it.

It's probably genius. That's a fair assumption.

It's tough having to spend as much time with myself as I do. Though our menstrual cycles have become aligned.

I'm going to bail out now. I'm pressing a little button that will catapult me up into the night sky, and then a parachute will open.

I assume.

I mean, they didn't mention any parachutes when the eject mechanism was installed. But they wouldn't sell one without a parachute, right?

I mean, that would just be a death trap. Without the parachute, the whole system is fatal.

So I assume there must be a parachute.

And there's only one way to find out!

Check for the parachute.

Ah.

Yes.

I can see the parachute.

It's smaller than I was expecting. And isn't connected to the chair.

And it seems a bit tiny and thin to effectively harness the cushioning power of wind resistance.

Ah.

Ah.

No.

No, that's not a parachute.

It's an eyelash.

THAT WON'T SAVE ME.

But we've had some laughs, haven't we?

Feel free to bury me where I land.

Just one thing before I bail out...

Ah.

I just made an eyelash wish.

I think everything's going to be OK.

And a little someone might - just might - be getting a mountain bike.