Late Night Mutterings and the Cold
What is going on here, what is this madness? This metaphorical voodoo as you may have it. Don’t you know who am I? This is a discrimination born of a prejudice reaped in a thousand annals. I blame those Carthaginian bastards! They only want you to think they were annihilated back in the day, I bet they’re hiding round the back of Lou Diamond Philips’ shed. Probably conjuring atrocities so vivid and deranged they would cause Ballard to be committed whilst attempting to post his house first class to Freud.
Nah it’s madness, something which no lumps of circumlocution can possibly rectify, something trapped in the chasm of physiology, gasping for air, with no chance of escape. A terrible quandary I know that much. Well, ya see, and hear this, let that inner voice ring the fuck out, I have the cold. Yes, that viral strain of common cuntery. But not only that. I’ve had it about two or so weeks now. This is where rational sequences jump the hell off the wagon. It’s got worse over the last two days. OK, so it incubated for about four or five days, and then the nose stuff and throat convulsions hit me. Following a suitable period it dissipated, leading me to conjecture that “oh, things must be easing off now. The worst is over.” Like hell it was. I’m in the pit right now. Well actually last night was probably less favourable, but I won’t jinx things.
This means I’m in a constant state of nose tissues and mad spasms where I swear to fuck my lungs are trying to lunge out my crusty mouth. And of course you don’t want to be the cough-person, we all hate those. While we all know exactly what it’s like, we nevertheless think, “fuck I wish that coughing bastard would shut his yelping jowls, or at least die.” What can you do? I’m the coughing person. When you’re asleep, dreaming about Hegel, or whatever the fuck kids dream about these days, I’m there, coughing like a smoker, yet I never touch the things, senseless.
So here I am at expulsing those viral thoughts, while Bobby Dylan mutters some high quality poetry from my Winamp. This is mainly because last night I must have had a good hour of failed sleep due to intermittent coughing spurts. Hell and I didn’t even approach the bed till near . It’s a disgrace. Not even a Nytol can save me tonight.
It’s an awful debilitating of all enthusiasm as well. There’s plenty to be going all energetic over and rolling around in while undergoing a fit of pleasant disposition. Activities that warrant a smile (or at least a close-mouthed smirk), maybe a yippee in the vein of old misogynistic Felix there, a rousing chorus of upbeat verbal exchanges. Yet nothing beyond a “meh”. I agree that meh is a useful response to many a conundrum and query, but there are times when it should be holstered up, kept back like the Oscars owed to Jeff Fahey.
Oh, I just felt a yawn, often a dirty low-down tease, but it comes with an intimation of forthcoming possibilities. Luckily right there and then the song ‘Voices In My Head’ by Denis Leary, a particularly upbeat tune, just beckoned from the Winamp. Here’s to Bill Hicks.