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.