Nothing ever happens on facebook

I have no energy and I have no idea where my energy has gone, I slept last night and I slept this morning and I slept on the train to work and I slept on the train home from work and I was in a daze on my way home. I bought a ticket to Sutton because I needed to do something. I bought a ticket to Sutton but the platform was too long, so I crossed to the other platform and went in the other direction and when the train started moving I thought I could get off a couple of stops early and just go home but then I remembered that the train was going in the other direction and for a moment I saw myself travelling in opposite directions, drifting apart. 

There were scenes in my head for the whole trip home, the cast had been gathered from a dream I had the other night, the dream was nice in a way but when I woke up I was confused and upset and the images didn't get washed down the dirty plughole as I showered in front of the spattered mirror and behind the grubby screen. Too much to clean, I'm tired of cleaning I'm the only one who cleans and they think it's a sign of madness of obsessiveness I don't see what's wrong with wanting to live a clean life but they think I'm mad. The images have stayed with me, I thought I'd lost them a long time ago but they're still here with me. The images of a dream I had the other night, of a night I had the other year, of a day I had the other summer, they had returned.

My mouth had lost its taste and the sweets weren't strong enough, I couldn't get enough taste in my mouth from the sweets and the bad thing about bon bons is that it's only the sweet dust and the hard shell that are worth eating and then you're left with hard caramel and the challenge of trying to find a way of softening it and saving your teeth. I sat on my bed and I didn't know what to do, music wasn't sounding the same way, the music wasn't strong enough either, there was no point, I sat on my bed and I thought about my ticket to Sutton. I'd bought a ticket to Sutton and I had to use it, I'd bought it because if I bought it I'd have to use it. I had to use it. I sat on my bed and didn't know how to proceed who to phone what to do whether to drink and smoke or just lie on my floor. It looked appealing. 

On my other bed and I had no energy. My top off and I had no energy. I had no belt, no top and no energy. I sat on my other bed and I eventually lay down. I couldn't lie down like that, I'd slept all day, I couldn't sit up, I was too tired, my arms are so thin, they've got no strength, my arms are thin like nothing else in the world, they're so thin they've got no power they can't save me I'm looking at my arms and I can't believe how thin they are why are they so thin and why am I so tired? I'm lying on the bed but I can see myself lying on the floor.

I have a ticket to Sutton and I have to use it. My tenses are jumbled and my arms are so thin, look at the tenses: they're all jumbled. My place in time is lost and the images from my dreams are all in my head and my body is vanishing I have no energy I don't know where it all went and I don't know why it went. I decide that the only thing to do is to use my ticket to Sutton and I talk to my friend but nothing seems to register and the night will have ended before I've even started, I'm now worried about what I'll see and what we'll do, and all I can think of is what she said and why she said it and what she did and why she did it and the images are all in my head and I wanted them to go away but they stayed with me long after everyone else left.

the jokes on me

I have no interest in talking to people other than the ones that interest me today, and I have no interest in ceasing my incessant note-taking. If I were to cease, then it wouldn't be incessant. So, maybe rather than having 'no interest', I should really just face facts and say that I have 'no ability'. The joke's on me. Oh, the jokes on me.

Internet forums are a good place to make bitter enemies, as the text flies from behind monitors and keyboards, between people who have no idea of how big or small the person they're arguing with is, and who have a clear opportunity to take their anger out on a complete stranger. Words are misinterpreted, tempers flare, apologies are non-existent, nobody backs down, and there's no pretty girl to step in with a stern look and say: "BOYS! STOP!"

Pussy control is what it's about. Without pussy control, the world would have ended millions of days ago.

I write all this after being inspired by a long rant from a friend who's just been caught up in an online war in which everybody momentarily lost sight of the fact that they were geeks arguing about technology and started to think that they were born to beat people up.

Listen, such shit is the last thing on my mind, even though that's clearly a falsity of some sort, as it's the first thing I've chosen to write about. Was I supposed to write about my three-course calm-down meal instead? The third course was a disappointment: the cheesecake tasted slightly strange and not nearly unhealthy enough. When I eat cheesecake, I expect to throw up.

And when I put a record on, I expect to dance. When I put Lykke Li on, I expect half the room to dance, and the other half to cry. And when I'm reminissin', nissin' you... that's why I'm playing the records in the first place.

When I type, my fingers find the rhythm before they find the keys, and they dance around gracefully, finding the words before my mind even finds them. It's a reflex now. All I have are the memories, and the broken dreams, and I sit here in my room, I'm reminissin' you. 

21 Jump Street

The nonsense flowed today, or maybe it flew, it flew with speed as the wind carried it down the seafront and into my face. Ladies held their skirts down as the wind tried desperately to raise them. The waves got excited.

And then I found myself trapped in a cafe with the most drab music, it was like something out of a terrible nightmare, stealing all of the energy that I'd built up over the course of the day. I had twenty minutes to spare. It didn't seem long enough at first, but then I realised that the dire music would dilate those twenty minutes and I'd have an hour or so to spare. 

The music stole the nonsense and suddenly sense started to fall out in the most boring and predictable manner. The dots started to find themselves arriving at the right time, and the commas appeared in the right place. Apostrophes are always placed correctly, as this is the difference between the average idiot and the above-average idiot, and nudity here is not stylish but just plain stupid and rude. These people claim to be artistic. My only wish is that "art" was a harder word to spell.

And I had no clue that when I imagined myself sitting here typing in Italian for no obvious reason that I'd actually have transferred the thought somehow into the drink I was consuming, leaving the text that I was producing to be consumed without the usual shouts of "Bastardo!" coming my way for choosing to write appalling phrases in languages that few people seem willing to learn.

But then, if you don't know how to use an apostrophe, then I couldn't possibly imagine how you'd go about learning another language.

- - - - -

So far this year, I've tried "Homemade Lemonade", "Authentic Indian Lemonade", "Sicilian Lemonade", and R White's Lemonade. Among other lemonades that I can't recall, or which lacked the "Lemonade" description in their name. And where has this got me?

There is no conclusion to be drawn here, only money.

- - - - -

Nonsense flew out of my fingers all day long, as a reaction to the diabolical state of my house and of my life at the moment. Likeyougiveafuck. I'm going to dinner and I'm going to eat three courses.

La under it

For my next trick...

I'm not the only mad one in here. I have lots of friends who are mad too. Like you. Madness is sexy. Miaow.

Friday 13th is a right write-off thanks to the lack of any ability to sing, or even talk without sounding silly. Put an extra comma in there and you'll have a fun time imagining me sounding silly when I sing. Like when I sing along to Burial for a laugh if i trust you if i trust you if i trust you... will you realise that being deranged is nothing worrying unless you can't handle novelty? The write-off was written off in style by a fire which made me take a different route home, on a bus, going to the wrong town, but via a vegan restaurant which is rarely open and which holds meditation sessions rather than meals when it is open. Soya cheese pizza is hardly something you'd eat, but I'd eat it and relish every moutful. You can't say 'soya pizza' without saying 'oya pete', so say it and I'll turn around and expect you to be a geordie.

Cake is great but not good enough to return my brain to me, and everything has been written off this evening, the records won't spin properly and I can't talk properly and after spending a day doing nothing but waiting for time to pass so I could go home I now find myself spending an evening doing nothing but waiting for more time to pass so I can go to bed and get the fuck out of this cruel world for a few hours. When I wake up, it will be party time once more, I have a framed picture of a naked old woman to pick up so I can hang it on my wall and scare anyone who dares stay the night. I have records to collect, and others to pick up besides them, and friends to pat on the back, and the launderette beckons.

THE LAUNDERETTE BECKONS! A lovely word, and a brand new experience. Fuck your "arty" pictures. The launderette beckons, one day a girl went to work there and the letters had gone missing, her clothes went unwashed, the pub was visited and the ladette was created, and now look at the mess we're all in. The talent is in the asylum.

I can explain it all with one statement of fact: a cappuccino was drunk this morning, yet sleep was had this evening. And that really doesn't happen. When I wake up tomorrow, all of this will seem like it never happened, and my dream will be the only thing I want to think about. When I close my eyes the reality arrives. When I open them and find that I'm in East Croydon, I can't work out what's a dream and what's reality, and for some reason or other you're still there and it confuses things even more.

Another statement of fact: nodding off at my desk on Thursday, I managed to install an IDE, but when I came back from the cafe I didn't know if it had been real or just a dream, and when I pressed ctrl+alt+del and saw the stuff there, I was unsure where it had come from and why it had come. The only thing to do is to persevere and try to work out the purpose. But I'm still trying to work that one out. To press ctrl+alt+del.

plain useless

When you don't want to feel, you can't feel the cold, and when you don't want to feel, the rain doesn't matter either, and when you don't want to feel, the music means nothing, and when you don't want to feel, you don't want to feel, because the feeling is horrible. When the people look like they've just seen an alien because the feeling has disfigured you, and when the people look scared because the feeling is reaching out into their zone, and when you can't see yourself properly because the feeling has blinded you. Shouting here is pointless. The swearing will come later.

Have you ever waited for a bus and the other person waiting looked so worried that you just walked home instead, and you wanted to walk forever but your house was closer than you wanted it to be and the route was far more familiar than you wanted it to be because with every step you took you walked into another universe of memories, but the memories had been disfigured too, and the whole world was grotesque and you wanted to retch and throw it all up, back onto the world, but the confusion was too much and lying down would be the best thing to do, but you can't lie down because you can't do anything because nothing seems to exist any more? This isn't poetry, it's just stupidity.

If the rats crawled out of the sewers and into your car and all over you when you were trying to flirt and show no fear, and if the rats threw up blood and your hair got dirty and your friend ran away and told the world about your baby rat and you felt so stupid for ever driving anywhere, even more stupid and confused than reading stuff written on the internet makes the writer look, then what on earth would the people think and what would your friends think and would it be an experience to treasure for the good side or for the bad side and do you think you could ever look back on it at some point in the future and laugh about it, or would it disturb you for the rest of your life?

When you leave the house and it's sunny so you've got no umbrella, but then the weather turns nasty without warning and you get soaked by icy water... then what, bitch? You just have to feel nothing and change your clothes and dry your hair and wonder why the fuck it happened to you. Petrol prices are on the up, slut.

back like that

At least I've finally realised why Martyn's DCM remix of "Broken Heart" gets all the attention. All I needed to do was step back and sit down and do something else. I zoomed in, but now I can't work out how to zoom back out. Nose to the grindstone? (I used to think they were saying "grimestone"). The time to phone and feel less alone has long gone and now you won't even poke me I write rhymes with juvenile patterns so the vicious thoughts can't choke me IF ONLY!

When I drop the dots and dashes and silly adornments and lay the words down bare, do I give the impression that this was written because you don't care? Nonsense nonsense nonsense! Read it however you like, you'll read it the wrong way because there is no right way: it's all wrong, and all that's left is a rhythm of feeling and a trickle of memory, the imaginary reader who sits on the other side of my screen is probably the only one who won't read this, but in another universe there exists a version of this and a version of that and they come together more gracefully, with no collision, untainted by puerile images injected into your brain by those shows on the television WAKE UP and put down the children's book and the adult's magazine and the commuter's newspaper.

I have to go now, because I have a record to mix in to the one that's just started revolving.