They’re back…

At first I thought it was just another element of my long-running mental deteriation but it just kept getting worse and worse until eventually, with only one nights sleep out of the last four, I realised that it was them-they’re back.

I thought we had killed them all, the little buggers, burnt their homes and bled them dry. But somehow there were survivors, they regrouped and set about revenge.

Fucking fleas, they’re driving me insane.I have to boil wash all my clothes and linen-again.

Today, both my parents have on seperate occasions and independent of one another said that they are transfered via pubes, I didn’t get what they were hinting at until I was halfway to the bus stop. Great innit? On top of being unable to sleep and the constant unquenchable urge to scratch my own skin off; my parents now think I’m carrying STIs. Ah, the glamorous life of a traveller

and lo the battle raged on….

Seriously, how much stout did I drink the other night? I’m being ambushed by my own poo! I’d just be sitting there watching tv when all of a sudden this monster grabs a hold of my large intestine and demands to be set free. I have suicide bombers in my stomach, they attack seemingly at random and I end up legging it to the nearest jaxx-no warning, no explanation.

Then when you do set them free they insist on hanging around, gloating. The stink could kill a man and the blackness, the apocalyptic blackness of my Guinness poo, why frankly it makes you question the existance of God.

I’m convinced that there’s something alive in there, something undead at least. The ghosts of all the dead generations; the thieves, the low-lifes, the pimps and the whores-the most fowl criminal minds, all the most base of hideous, evil and deathbound creatures, the cursed souls-these are the people who now inhabit my bowels.

Hells got a work-placement program. Instead of sitting on their asses all day getting whipped and beaten and burned they’re working the chain-gang. All day long they bash and bosh, sweating puking and bleeding all over my pyloric sphincter. Poor bastards, no matter how bad I feel its probably a lot worse for them. It is them, afterall, who are stuck in the engine room.

Still wish they’d piss off to somewhere else though….

Passive agressive?

So we went to this pub in the Haight yesterday afternoon. It was really nice and chilled, classier than your usual with expensive whiskey and light jazz. The barman was giving us decent measures and apart from his frequent trips to the bathroom, possibly to attend a burgeoning nose bleed, seemed pretty nice.

Then one of Laneways work friends came in. The barman asked for his ID, Anto said something cheeky, and the prick proceeded to ignore us for the rest of the night. I was standing at the bar long enough for him to start serving people behind me-cunt! We downed drinks and left.

We were outside chatting when I decided that not tipping him simply wasn’t punishment enough. Its one thing getting kicked out or given out to, but the silent treatment? I’m not even sure what we did wrong, we were sitting in the corner chatting quietly for fucks sake! No, I needed justice, tough vigilante street justice! I marched right back into the bar, right up to the barman, stopped, turned and made a B-line for the bathroom. I then proceeded to piss all over the walls before a very satisfying spit on the floor. Fuck you!

I was humming I.R.I.I.S.H. for the rest of the night and have never felt so justified in doing anything, ever