Thursday, January 14, 2016

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

    Seven is supposed to be a lucky number — only it isn’t.

    A week into 2016, and your resolutions lie in tatters.

    The opening chapters of you novel remain unwritten, the buttocks of people you fancy bulge unbitten, and no tricksy stunts are forthcoming from your new kitten because you buried her by accident while constructing your ‘Past Is Over’ Tomb at the end of the garden.

    Worse still, Lemmy and David Bowie died — yet George Michael lives, and is probably behaving abominably right now in that cavalier way he has made his own.

    If you’re me, you’ll realise you began a blog post intended to drop on January 7th which escaped your attention till bloody now and had to wait until the fucking 14th to be propello-thrusted, thus making a mockery of everything you hold dear about punctuality, message, and probably mathematics.

    Is fourteen a lucky number?

    Who knows.

    Three and nine and seven usually make the list, with five seeming uncannily neutral whichever way you look at it.

    But fourteen?

    Are you serious?

    So that’s why your resolutions, your dreams, your life are all in tatters right now — why you’ve got to pull yourselves up by the bootstraps in preparation for Nanowrymo and Christmas.

    And C’mon — if George Michael cops it any time between now and then, are you ready for a week of wailing and spilling vile-tasting cocktails over your undergarments?

    Are you prepared?

    Michael’s ready for the exit, but you’re not ready for anything — and by you I mean me, because I could be you so very easily right now if you’re as stupid as I am.

    Uh huh.  So how long till March?

    Is it soon?

    Are we there yet?

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