The Comeback.

I haven’t written anything in a while, not that it’s worth noting since my blog became more of a bulletin board and playlist and less of a journal. I don’t feel like i have anything to say anyway, and when i do, it’s even clearer why i shouldn’t waste it on people.

Today is a good day. I gotta tell you, nothing is funnier than hearing a rapist say they got raped by their rapee, or that people miss Gaddhafi; but i repeat myself. Coldplay’s new album leaked today, and not even finding out about graduation by mistake through people talking about it in my vicinity rather than actually bothering to tell me could bring me down.

I’d forgotten what it feels like to sleep, having pulled two all-nighters to study for a physics exam that i eventually walked out on halfway through, when i enjoyed the utter bliss of 18 hours of sleep. I’ve been told i hadn’t even moved, and I'd find that hard to believe but my stiff neck and headache that wouldn’t go away with a frozen bag of aubergines confirm it. Nothing interesting about that fact, but i just felt the need to record it, like one might feel about taking pictures of their babies to look at em when they’ve turned into hormonal mofos and be reminded that one day, that actually happened and is not entirely a figment of their wishful imagination. And, well, seeing them as a baby makes it harder for people to kill them, not that it’s relevant, but babies are evil hoaxes using emotional loopholes as a means of leeching off for survival. But that’s off-topic.

Ever wanted to write on an ex-friend’s wall and then the internet crashes for two hours at that exact same second and you’re inevitably led to think that maybe, just maybe, rabena 3ayez y2ool 7aga? Or maybe you were about to make tea and found a deserted packet of 3-in-1 coffee just lying there chipping away at your conscience, seducing you by its slender figure and you’re like, I’m not cheating on you why do I feel so damn guilty? Or maybe you end up giving your favourite book to a friend on her birthday just so she’d forget the author’s name next time you fight and you’re certain that  you’re right in whatever the hell you were arguing about and that she’s an absolute and utter bitch that you never wanna talk to again and then get an overprotective instinct to your book that makes you wanna kill that friend and retrieve it? Or when your borrowed cardigan finds its way through an intricately woven web of people to your best friend the same day she’d forgotten her jacket at home and was freezing her ass off in the middle of the desert and stuff? Yeh, God works in mysterious ways man. It’s ooh-ful.

Or you’re hopelessly pareidolic.

I’ve been reading a book, an autobiography actually, about a drug addict and alcoholic who successfully pissed away his life at 23 and i find the suicidal absence of self-pity utterly inspiring. He could run against saint peter and win the elections and a bronze medal for missionary work for converting people through scaring the fuck out of them by being the worst case epitome of the possible consequences. You don’t think it’s possible for people to get better or be happier? This guy redefines the idiom ‘down in the gutters.’ And it worked for him. It kind of makes you think twice on whether or not you’re, as a matter of fact, an absolute and utter pussy.

And i could go on and on and onnnnnnn, but who cares?