Bloomer

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so specific.

Not particular. Specific.

I'm not particular. I'm quite easy going. If I ask for a Coke and you give me a Pepsi, it's no big thing. If our plans change at the last minute, or our usual restaurant table is occupied, I'm perfectly happy. I can change on the fly. I'm not particular at all.

But I am specific. I'm only ever me.

I'm always exactly the way I am. Everything has to be just so. I'm always utterly Paul and nothing but. It's frustrating.

I'd much prefer to be non-specific. I'd love to be general. Many of my favourite things are general. I don't want to be pinned down. I'd rather be a mist. You can't pin down mist.

I yearn to be vague. Defined identity is for squares.

It's not that I don't like myself. I like myself fine. I just wish my self wasn't so clearly delineated. I'd like to be wider variety of person. I want to be painted in broad strokes, but instead I'm printed in jet-black ink.

You know where you are with me. More than that, you know where I am with me. I'm right here. And I'm right him. I might as well be carved out of wood.

I wish I wasn't wood. I'd rather be spores.

***

Yeah, it's Friday. I'm bored and anxious, as usual. I might go and get a sandwich. I already had a baguette, but that was two and a half hours ago. And it was just the baguette. I didn't have any extras.

I'll go and get a sandwich.

...

I used three dots there, rather than three asterisks. It's because, though time has past since my last paragraph, the content of this section is a thematic continuation of the last.

I got a tuna and crunchy vegetable bloomer.

The shop was playing a terrible, terrible song. I don't know what it was. It was one of those modern songs. I've heard it before, but I don't know where. I don't listen to modern music. I'm thirty.

Man, it was terrible.

Maybe it's on an advert. That might explain it. Ugh. I can still hear it through my memory ears.

I think it's a man singing, and there's some other noise.

Whatever happened to proper music? Whatever happened to Emma Bunton?

These are the end times.

%%%

I used three percentage signs there, rather than three asterisks. It's because I wanted to see if the zeroes looked like tiny coffee beans. I'm happy to say that they do.

I could easily repeat this device, typing three of every single symbol on my keyboard, then saying what they look like or what they connote. But I'm not going to do that. Twice is enough.

I took a picture of a really yellow tree yesterday. I'd include the photo here, but I can't access the internet on my phone. It was really yellow, though.

***

Oh man, I thought I'd already finished this. I don't know why. Did I think the yellow tree anecdote was a good closer? It wouldn't fly in Vegas, I can tell you that. People would be asking for their money back.

"Hey buddy," they'd shout. "We didn't come all the way from Hoboken to hear some guy in a SHIRT tell us about some crummy yellow tree."

"Yeah," his wife would say. "I mean, if you had a picture, that would be somethin'. But we don't even get to see the damn thing. How do we even know if it was yellow?"

Then they'd head off to the slots, like the scum they are.

What kind of animal would voluntarily go to Las Vegas? It's the worst place in the world. If one city represents the worst of humanity, it's Las Vegas.

It has the delusion of LA without the beach; the disgusting wealth-fetishisation of Monte Carlo without the attractive women; the lasciviousness of Amsterdam without the weed; and the cultural bankruptcy of Australia without the kangaroos.

"Have you ever even been to Las Vegas, Paul?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS ENDING THE BLOG POST IN CAPS, TO ARTIFICIALLY CREATE A CLIMAX.

###

I'll see you next week.