We are all wandering around vaguely pretending to be in the moment – all casual and relaxed-ish. But really, we are always waiting… waiting… waiting… for the following…
You know, the fuckening. When your day is going too well, smoothly even, with sunshine and smiling. But you don’t trust it – and then something happens. And you think, ah there it is. Hello darkness my old friend. It’s the fuckening.
Not a shit storm, or a wall of shit, but apocalyptic amounts of crap. Probably presaged by a sentence like, ‘It’s all going absolutely fine’ or ‘Gosh for once I’ve got things under control’. And then VESUVIUS-LEVEL EXPLOSION. It’s coming in from all sides, it’s hailing shit, there are shit locusts, and shit running down the walls. You are drowning in shit. This is a horrible metaphor. A shitaphor.
Was it because you slept with so many arseholes? Is it because you don’t really like animals? And you don’t fancy Idris Elba (what is WRONG with you?)? And don’t recycle properly? Or watch the news? Something in your past means that you’ll be facing the cuntsequences. At some point we all have to. In this life or the next.
It’s waiting for those politicians, both American and British, no names mentioned. But we all know they are.
This is the deal you make with the biscuits, and the chips and the bread and the mayo. Yes, you are ready to fatone for it all right now.
Why do dead people suddenly become saints? Perhaps we should all live like we are going to end up with an epitough – “She wasn’t that great, a bit of a bitch at times, not so sorry to see her go.” Or “Not safe in taxis, small penis.” Let go of the legacy, people. Quite freeing.