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Sometimes life just gives you the finger. And not in the sexual way either.

I walk home from the library. It's a pretty long walk but I'm in the mood for it. Then it starts raining. Then the heavens open and I wonder whether water physics has gone a bit mental and wondered if it's supposed to go over or under sea level. Then my phone runs out of battery, robbing me of the ability to call a lift. Several runny-drippy-shouty minutes later I squelch through the front door of my house, and quietly fume to myself for a few minutes. The rain stops. I drop my bag, curse, and go and have a big drink of water from the tap because nothing tastes sweeter than irony.
 . . . 
At the point of writing typing this paragraph, I'm drunk. Thank god for spellcheck. Not too drunk to not remember this though, which makes all the difference. Just at the stage of drunk which enables the stage of saying stupid stuff while the mind is still screaming in the background "why the fuck did you say that?!>?". Why don't I go out to night clubs more often? For a variety of reasons. 
The music is deliberatley too loud to prevent conversation, hence more drinking and more spending monies. The bottles all have that weird spout thing on the end to give the inpression of more drink being poured, hence more drinking and more spending monies. And the women aren't generally attracted to the glasses-type. Whatever. It makes me wonder the effects and general point of alcohol.
Why doo we need this chemical to adjust our point of inhibition? Wudn't the world be a better place if we cud all say what we meaned at all times???
Actually no, scratch that idea. That would be the instant degradation of the human race. We have secrets for a reason. It's a small blessing alcohol allows us to divulge them and yet allow us to keep them. :P
 . . . 
Shit. Did I actually write that? Ah well. Drunken blogging. Yet another thing I have now done. It shall hereafter be referred to as drogging. (dogging? blinking? alcologging?)
 . . . 
I reckon I have now heard of the saddest thing in the world: Single player drinking games. And yes, they exist. How miserable must you be not only to be drinking by yourself until some blood starts to get into your alcohol streams, but to play a game while you do so? That just seems so depressing to my slightly world-weary mind (and the blog title even has the word "cynicism" in it for crissake!) that I can't even begin to gauge it. It's like Robert Mugabe thought he was doing pretty well on the "crazy leader scale of 1 to Hitler" until he opened a book and found out about this guy called Kim Jong Il. I may be cynical, but I'm not so frickin depressed that even a bottle of alcohol won't talk to me when I get hammered, so I'd need to invent a game that gives me that illusion.
Ugh. Not a nice idea. Here, look at this and try and cheer up.
 . . . 
I'm currently watching an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie with the sound off while the Benny Hill theme music plays. It's called Commando. It is. Fucking. Hilarious. The plaot is, as it looks to me, is that Arnie is the worlds most retarded superhero (complete with inability to run and habit of running towards gunfire), who's only power is to make everything he gives a stern, squinting look at immediately turn into a high explosive. This includes walls, people, and petunias.


Magatha-May said...

you are a hilarious drunken blogger

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