The Angel and I can’t agree whether my dislike of the people of a (small) country amounts to rascism. He says it does, I say it doesn’t. I don’t like them, true – mainly because their faces are inscrutinable and when they smile I think it fake. But I don’t look down on them or wish them eradicated. So, I hope, that means I am not a racist. Just full of shit with regards to ………. people. Pleading mitigating circumstances: I myself don’t like my dislike. If I could un-dislike I would in a jiffy – and with relief.
One of my worst case scenarios I conjure up in idle moments when no other catastrophe to befall me comes to mind that the Angel will fall in love with a member of said country. I can see it now. I know I will be a good loving sweet mother-in-law to any of my son’s choices but please please please do spare me to test my mettle in the face of a strong and generalized dislike. Having said that: As far as I am concerned the Angel could marry an ugly snarly monster from an as yet unknown planet with charms not obvious to me and I’d trust his judgment. I just hope that his children will – both facially and temperamentally – be their father’s likeness.
And this was meant to be a most pleasant post about cats. Yes, that easily one thought of mine dislocates another.
Have not so much discovered as confirmed worst suspicion: There is a crap point in one’s life. Namely when you know – and you may deny it till you turn purple – the future is out of reach. Remember that time when it all stretched out ahead of you – everything was possible? You were invincible? Had all the time in the world to follow those butterflies of dreams down the meadow? And then, one day you not so much wake up as shake your head at your folly. I cannot believe it. The only reason I didn’t say ‘I can’t fucking believe it’ because I know some of my readers are of a delicate disposition. And who wants to piss off those who stand by you?
I should have seen it coming. But I never do. Why didn’t I become a fire fighter? That sort of last minute damage limitation seemingly fitting my temperament.
Those of you older to know better please try and tell me something useful, not the well worn. I fight my way through an avalanche of worn cliches every day. And am sick of them. Sick, sick, sick. Those of you younger than me – by a small margin – do not be disheartened. Life is great. And then it’s nearly over. Not that it matters. If there is one comfort about being dead it’s that nothing matters any longer. Trust me. Thrive all you like. It doesn’t matter – in the long run. Mind you if, as I did yesterday, do in your back by doing the most idiotic, the one so stupid I have no sympathy for the likes of me, it makes you evaluate all that’s gone before.
I am in an odd situation. And a little frightened.
Someone close to me has taken to whoring. For the wrong reasons. No shit.
On the whole I admire whores. Why? Because you must be in one desperate hell of a hell to let someone you have no connection with, no desire for, to touch you. That’s where it pays to be a man: You can avail yourself of any artifice and orifice of an unknown – and it will NOT impact on the love for the “real” woman in your life, the mother of your children. It’s one of the Creator’s big jokes. One most women (on the whole) don’t understand but should make every effort to do so.
Where was I: Admiring whores. I don’t admire the one mentioned in my first line. As I don’t admire arch manipulators. People who lie all over the place – lying not for others’ benefit but for their own ends. In fact I despise her. Not for the whoring. But for the trail of misery and slime she leaves in the wake of her never satisfied vanity, her constant need to be validated as the best. Give it another few months/a year and she’ll crash land badly. The test of her real mettle will be whether she’ll accept any parachute offered to her.