Fucking retarded dinosaurs with laser

I have never been one to beat around the bush when it comes to saying what is on my mind. I have always spoken my mind and the fact that I have very nearly been punched a couple of time for just uttering the thought currently rummaging through my mind. More so when I am inebriated. I however do retain the basic decency to not call a down syndrome child a retard. I have however called numerous people retards even though I was sure they were not in actual fact a fucking retard, they were acting as such at the time.
What really pisses me off is that a couple of retarded radio DJs had a discussion on the topic and kept referring to people with disabilities as differently abled...Differently fucking abled!!!! What in baby zombie jesus are differently abled individuals. That’s like saying “good day sir! You are now blind; you are now able to not see! Congratufuckinglations!” Or “sir you were in a horrendous bus accident, but look on the bright side you are now able to sit...constantly and shit yourself.”
Now some may argue that this is a more politically correct way of saying but then I would beg to differ. In the way I would like to slap the person who though up the stupid Pc term with his own oesophagus after I ripped it out with my feet. See now being able to rip someone’s oesophagus out with your feet that’s differently abled.Oscar pistorius's flappy paddle feet that makes him faster than normal athletes that's differently abled. A dinosaur with lasers on his back. That’s differently abled (and immensely fucking cool)
If your disabled your disabled, there is no nicer way of putting it. My question is should there be?

That kid on the bus always had a smile on...

Residing in Cape Town has had its ups and downs. The weather here in winter, undeniably, on the down side of the spectrum. It is not so much the weather but what happens to my spirit when placed in a cold dark windy place. I inevitably turn into that person I use to be when I still spent allot of time contemplating life and its mysteries. Depression my dear Watson, depression.

I have been contemplating the depression that contemplation brings me and have come to this conclusion; a thinking man is a depressed man. Or otherwise put; Dumb = Happy. Now I’m not saying dumb as in that "Special needs" kid you once saw on the bus. Just blatantly and merrily ignorant.

Happy people are inevitably people who don’t ponder much, or if they do ponder it is almost always about irrelevant things that mass media has forced down their mind throat, if there were such a thing. What to wear, do these jeans make me look fat, are ‘token teen dream hunk’ and ‘token girl next door’ going to make up in season 328. Irrelevant thought spewed forth by irrelevant minds.

The worst thing of course is that thinkers would rather be out with other thinkers chatting away till the morning comes, I know I would love to. Unfortunately you go out and all you run into are the others. People all just out to have a good time, slam back 10 shots in 20 minutes and let the non thinking good times roll. I can unfortunately not complain about that, hell I’ve knocked back 10shot many a time and let the stupid commence. I love it. Very non-depressing stuff.

The problem I have is how do you find these likeminded people? In a club? Hell no. On the street? I sure some of the homeless have deep thoughts. In church? No those people lost their ability to think freely years ago.

The problem lies here then, all thinkers find the mankind rather depressing so they tend to stay indoors, unless like me they now and then shut of their brains, by either ignoring it or drowning those annoying little brain cells with Jager.

So when do you stop pondering and feel merry, stop pondering and laugh at that sitcom, stop pondering and get that full night of sleep?

Well damn it, I refuse. I would rather be ridiculously unhappy and retain the ability to think, retain the ability to battle towards enlightenment, and retain my excuse to binge drink on occasion.

To merrily and ignorantly go through life seems like a horrible cop out. So if becoming depressed over all the wrong in the world is my reward for fighting the cognitive fight, so be it. At the risk of sounding like an Emo; I refuse to be happy...and stupid.

But come think of it, that kid on the bus always had a smile on his face.

My balls...? Ask your mother.

It has recently come to my attention that I have lost my god damn mind. I’m not quite sure when this happened, but I believe it started when I was about 5, and is progressively getting worse as I get less young. I am having serious self doubt issues concerning the course of my life, wasn’t i suppose to be a secret agent by now? Or at least a fire man? When did I decide it was ok to be mediocre? Probably while I wasn’t looking. Sneaky old me.
Well now that I am stuck here doing what I’m doing and dad didn’t raze no quitters, I will inevitably follow through with this sham that is a “career” in the “exiting” field of marketing. When I inevitably know I am destined for far greater things than feeding the greed of a consumer society.
I decided to write for a living because I believed that writers hold up a mirror to society and project pure truth back at it, even if the truth is a generic human one and it is buried under a mountain of fiction. Now I’m selling blatant lies covered by a thin layer of consumer benefits.
Spectacular fail. Young Saint would kick me in the nuts and slap me around all the while screaming “Is that the best you can do?!” So it has been decided that I am to write things that reflect society, or at least my version of it. SO prepare to be dazzled by my awe inspiring FTWness. I just need to find my balls and reattach them...I think I left them at your mom’s house...

A drunk hedgehog on water mattress

A terrible tragedy has befallen man today; I have started a blog. And though I hate the entire idea behind someone drivelling all their insignificant little character-traits and their utterly meaningless trials and tribulations on the internet for all to see. I do now realise that there was something I overlooked...

So you want to be a writer? I of course replied, “Hells Ye!” I now realise I have doomed myself to be one of those writers who thinks about writing and then doesn’t, who come up with an idea for a novel and then miraculously never gets past the first 10 or so pages.

Yet I have resigned to sticking to this decision come hell, high water or the scorn of a woman. Writing a novel without some other form of financial support seems foolish so I took it upon myself to sell out it the most flamboyant way possible and became a copywriter. So I could peddle the wares of some corporate America South African wannabes. All the while resenting the fact that I had to indeed do some commercially viable work and not just relax, something I have become exceedingly good at.

The revelation I had was that I myself was an ignorant snob. You see I had to redefine myself from arrogant chauvinist (which in retrospect is pretty ignorant in itself) and realise I was not a unique snowflake and that this whole internet self publication/exhibitionism was just an outlet and that I was obviously not above it.(above the internet?!)

So this is my quest, to write, just write...no seriously just write. Yes I agree it is not the grandest of quest, and certainly not the epic in any shape or form but it is however necessary. Since I do not intend to be a copywriter my entire life... No I intend to be a normal run of the mill master of my own literary universe.

So the trails and misguided ranting of my quest towards achievement of literary potential will be slapped on this space, for all who cares to read it. I will brave the sordid internet (which is statistically 80% pornography anyway) like a deer in the headlights of self-doubt. Like a fossilised raptor with a slight calcium deficiency, Like a drunk hedgehog on a water mattress.