The important things in life.

“mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Oh yes, about a month ago I was thinking about this same thing!

That inability to love Mum as I once had. As is so natural.

Isn’t it amazing what brains do in the background? I forgot that thought, now it’s all grown up.

Yes, they do grow up fast.

Mum isn’t for talking about the universe, about ideas. Even if she were, I shouldn't be bitter because of how anyone chooses to love me. Except testicle squishing and melting eyes with welding torches, those are painful.

Mum is for knowing I have somewhere to rest when dreams collapse. When they fall and the earth tremors –– my powdered life ambition asphyxiating the very reality on the ground that brought it down.

Mum is for these times. She’s where I can ball up balling. She’s for saying dear oh dear what do we have here my son? while brewing us both a milo.

Thank Evolution for the mind, who works on these realisations silently. Stubbornly, I reject its proposals. I say no, this just can't work for me. But the mind is smarter than I am. It stays back, researching after hours. It spirals around in the background until the obvious can no longer resist exposure. It spirals into control, punishing me with tears and the demolition of dreams.

It tumbles on and on like this.

Tumbling, spiraling, snowballing. The mind, just like the rest of the universe that spawned it.

Bang. Then galaxies, planets, one of them earth, life, man, me, and learning to love mum properly.

On and on and on the snowball grows. And it collects more than pure, virgin white snow. Rubbish is sandwhiched between the layers: genocide, rape, actual rubbish, not hugging mum when I leave for four day psytrance festivals interstate.

A rolling juggernaut punishing its path of least resistance. An engulfing stampede which deafens onlookers with the continual flap flap flap flap of rubbish. Until it rolls so fast that the rubbish hums. A screeching, industrial mosquito.

The eye of a monster dilating.

What's driving this progress? What's driving thought, life, the universe, the swirling?
Why don’t I just sit motionless, speechless, lifeless? Why, even, the compulsion to breathe?

Why not just cut away at my flesh? Why not excavate muscle and bone? Where the bloody hell am I?

Life sometimes saddens, but it always spirals, tumbles, snowballs. The monster’s eye always dilates...

Love! love love love! Oh, that’s why. I love my parents. I love my brothers.

Why not the compulsion to just love them fully forever, if that’s what we’re here to do?

It would be a funny situation. But why not just sit with my family, looking at them all, loving them? Our laughter would acknowledge the sharing of a raw, nervous curiosity. Then, overwhelmed by love, we'd cry together. Sadly, nobody knows what this is supposed to feel like.

No one ever does this most natural thing.

I should atleast love Mum.

Mmmmmm, yes.

Spiralling, tumbling, growing, slapping the innocent with haphazard waste collection, the universe is the snowballing dilation of a monster’s eyeball.

”

Then, he snapped out of it. No time for silly, trivial thoughts. He had important things to do, like que up at the photocopier.

Suspense: the film ends before my dick stops spinning

I had a wet dream inside a wet dream sometime some months ago.

I dreamt she fucked me while I was asleep. Then, I woke up again to the usual virginity.

It had been tongue pumping penis erect with spasms under foreskin.
Better than real sex.
Better than my real dick.

Christopher Nolan conceived inception, but he has nothing on my conception.

Because this morning I was shocked by truth. I was given a private porn tape in which I was a lead role.

The girl of my dreams had taken advantage of me while I was asleep.

"So sorry" she said, as she flashed me further proof. The abortion receipt.

I've been thinking

The reason I'd be sad to find out no one told me they thought, or even better, if they knew, that I'm autistic, or socially retarded, is because I honestly feel I've the
capacity to fix any problem once pointed out.

Unfortunately knowing this translates in no way to an alleviation of my self-diognosis-osis. Especially not after I've strapped someone down, arm hair to deck chair with severely sticky duct tape, told them this (what I persistently label "my problem"), and they look back at me like I've accidentally ruined Ludwig Van for them Clockwork Orange style. They just cliché straightjacket scream at me. They just scream "sorry", and they just scream "stop it".

All I need is to be told.

Until whether or not that ever happens, I'll just meander around with these patterns of clothing iron skin meltings on Malcolm McDowell.

Full Monty Python rip offs

"And it is so obvious, he was forced to remind himself, that everyone has the right to a unique perspective,

But still, there was that flicker of a moment when Sam knew that anyone incapable of appreciating his quirky sentence required compulsory euthanising.

Which was why, after remembering that it was merely a cheap paradox about stumbling over 20 20 vision, he worried about the solitary confinement his life has the potential of being sentenced to. For life."

So you couldn't muster up an appreciation for that little, deliberately trippy, character development?

No, of course you couldn't dear.

Well I'm terribly sorry but it actually doesn't matter how reasonable your distaste for the text's inherent arrogance was, because it says right here on this dotted line that your neck must be chopped immediately.