It's been a tough week. It's the reason why I've not been able to upload another entry up here, but this one's a personal one. Um, just so I don't go into to too much detail in case you get a little weepy (for me cause you love me) and/or confused, I'll simplify it.
Milk was spilt, somebody cried - a LOT, and there was a lot of wetness everywhere in general; earlier some nutjob was throwing water around so everybody who was still in their right mind or claiming so were slipping across the laminate like crazy. And no, we weren't having a water fight, but some kind of a fight and damn people, it got UGLY, dudes.
This week has been damp, man. Seriously my little Blogg troggs, if I didn't have you to confide in I'd probably be in my bed just thinking about how I never got a chance to turn this whole scenario around so that it looks good on me, cause I want to be the Good Samaritan in this play. And gosh that would lead to, enevitably - DEPRESSION. And probably bed obesity, cause I'd never leave my bed as I weep over unclaimed riches and popularity and those will be compensated by shovelling junk shite in me gob.
I'm not making sense, I'm sorry. Tired, face is like concrete, body is hardly responding as to how I'd like it too. Because his is the confession of a temperamental antagonist. Yep, I started the fight, but no I did not end it. I was not the ugly one at the end of it, fortunately.
But it did make me think hard, and I thunk for a goodin' few days. Am I ready to deal with the world in the shoes of a journalist? My mind poured out miles of a list in a mental image of my head being a fax machine, feeding out the result - and they were mostly reasons to why I was best to work in a retail shop and do jazz-all other than sleep, drink, eat work, and occasionally go to the loo.
I had to re-enforce myself before I flew right over the cuckoo's nest and end up in the shitpile.
I pucked in a couple of rechargable batteries into the Guitar Hero and strummed out a few hard felt emotions, letting the music ride all over me. I stood 3 feet away from the 52" screen pulled up to a loud volume as I whammied and plucked myself free from the nonsensical mess that appeared as my reality. I shook my hair of insecurities and stocked my neck up to the mouth with TicTacs and cold coffee and I found myself again in the midst of a riff in 'Stillborn' by Black Label Society.
I know what I want to be when I'm big enough to understand 'responsability'. But I'm gonna have to go through a load of counselling if I want to end up seemingly well at the end of this rocky road.
It's terrifying to butt heads with a M9 pistol. Thank god I only do it in COD.
