I’m already an old man or I once was an old man and I’ve just recently remembered. As it is my memory grows more with each passing day about being old and bald and fat and tired and my back hurts and I cannot stay up late on weekdays and I cannot sleep in on weekends no matter how hard I try how late I stay up my internal 9 to fucking 5 clock jerks me open and breathing by 9:30am on Saturdays and 10am on Sundays and that’s just a pain in the ass. There are benefits, however. I can sip whiskey like it was tea. I can ingest incredible levels of alcohol with street trash and in less than six hours later I can speak to highly important people making ridiculously expensive and important decisions, for example about hundreds of thousands of dollars while I periodically pick out the sugar boogers from my internally bloody nose. And it blends in perfectly, because there is a secret pact among the old that nose picking is perfectly fine when there are no young people about – it’s a secret you must grow old to know – the young have no idea – they’re fucking morons, the lot of them. Ok I lied about the whiskey, every now and again I do make that little face people make when they taste whiskey. Go figure. Returned from figuring. The quiet is like knives to my ear. I am forced to write because I cannot get an internet connection to finish what I was doing elsewhere on this machine. So whilst I wait for the airwaves to clear and connect me to the world, I bitch for you. Yes for you this is not for me. Ok I lied this is for me, but it’s for you too, you sick, twisted fuck. Drunk alone dead. Absolutely not dead, more or less actually. Fuck. I can now finish for now for there is no finish until you know when. I will speak of trees and flowers and the beauty of life and positive thinking. The beauty of the illusions. Ok so I’m not actually speaking as I’m writing this but then I’m not actually writing as I speak of this. Writing is a form of speaking but speaking is most definitely not a form of writing, you belittled fart knocker. There is no hope. Hope is the built in self-propagating ignorance that enables an intelligent, self-aware species to function with the knowledge of its own death, and moreover and more importantly, its very, very apparent and real true insignificance. And yes spell-check did that word for me for I no longer have to remember how to spell it unless I’m in a fucking Bee. And I’ll never be in a Bee because I don’t really like honey all that much, unless it’s from the French Alps, les villes fleuries, and those fuckers sting. I just learned that a simple left-click will dismiss those fucking annoying bubble pop-up start menu fucking things as my computer shifts in and out of wireless internet connectivity on windows XP, although it still fucking shifts the focus from this fucking word document goddamnit.  I just added my own particular spelling of goddamnit to the Microsoft Word dictionary. You know, I won’t be in the history books but fucking Microsoft will. Goddamnit. None of this is true. Now, finally, I am a bit drunk after fifteen dollars including tip at 8:51pm on Monday, October 30, 2006, and the fucking coffee shop is closing and I have to go home where I will watch TV and wait to fall asleep. And this isn’t even a page of my cathartic thoughts but maybe if I hurry I can fill up a page and this is great hunt and pecker typing practice because I refuse to learn how to type for real because my hands look so pretty when they type, unlike those still, practiced hands of fuckers who know how to type. No dancing, the fingers just tremble oh the music has stopped the end.

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