Drunken Writing, like drunken boxing only with words.

Like last time these words are written with some amount of alcohol fueling them, and sadly I must say that even though my alcohol consumption tends to be parted by weeks, my hang of writing while tends to follow these events with gleefull delight. I have not painted tonight however, much because I have not enough hairs to do so. I wish to take a part of my hair and make a makeshift brush for the next part, but I'll have to shed some more first. Not cutting, nonono. THAT is insane thinking my friend. But then again I dunno what's up around me, at all. 

Today I painted,

I am indeed smashed today, yes this is a truth. But I painted. Why? When my mind is such a blur? Why, when is it ever a better time to paint my friend? When can the colors be more vivid and the mind more open? Whenever maybe, but that again is relative and highly up for questioning. All I can say is that I drank, I saw and I painted. Now I wanna shoot zombies while the grounding for mah painting sets..... sadly a task that takes hours. But I have hours and stuffs. So all is well in this town, yesssiree. That I noticed are three s's, probably one too much and hardly correctly writtated. Nossirreeeee. Yup. But since all I want is some egg and stuff it's all fine. Randomness is really about time, and I all hope you have readed what I have written here, cuz your soul sorta needs it. And somewhy you know I's right? Right? Oh man, Flava To The Bone is randomely singing about the rain.....mmmm rain..... I need some rain I think. Can you bring me the rain? If so I WILL love you, forever. For a reason.

Don't dream it, be it

"Give yourself over to absolute pleasure 
Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh 
Erotic nightmares beyond any measure 
and sensual daydreams to treasure forever 
Can't you just see it?
woah-oh-ohhhh...

don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it
don't dream it, be it"

                                                                                                                                                           

Have you ever sat down to specify what your dream is? If so, have you ever just told the world to fuck itself and pursued it? I thought not, cuz who ever has the guts to do that? That fucks up everything don't it? And that's probably why it's still a dream. But what if? What if all the dream needed was for you to be it? All that was left was that little push? Many a man has pondered upon this topic many a times, and more often than not the thematic has become mostly polluted by love, sex, relationships and whatnot. Polluted of course in the sense that all the other dreams have been pushed back, obscured or forgotten. But now is the time for all dreams, no matter the form, function or intention; it doesn't matter. Tell yourself your dream and be it. "Don't dream it, be it"

Opinions

Opinions are funny things. There are currently thousands, if not millions, of people who's pissed off because they dissagree with whom gets awarded the nobel peace price. Here is where I start to think, who decides who gets to win this famed price? The answer is sadly: 5 politicians. So my conclusion on this is that a buttload of people are really moved by the fact that 5 people have an opinion that doesn't match theirs. And yet I am the crazy one for not giving a shit about these 5 peoples' opinions. Funny world this.

Ramblings of a drunk wanderer

This is going to be a slight repetition of the "Fuck All" blog as that is the red line in my life more and more often, sadly. I find myself in a mood that can be described as nothing less than downright pissed of. Why? Because of this web of lies people seem to find mandatory for more or less everything and everyone. It pisses me off every time I have to find out, usually by myself, that I've been screwed over in one sense or another. Sure I am somewhat gullible; deriving from some sort of mad sense that there must be good poeple left in this world, but why must it always be exploited? Why can I not find the one who sees my gullibility as one of the few last stands of honesty and good nature in this here world and cherish me for it rather than punish? Can there not be relief for the tired wanderer who just want to rest? Or is this world barren for one like myself; able and willing to share my soul as it is, flawed and inperfect, naughty and full of life, wild and yet so tame? And what is the very most sad thing about this blog? That my conclusion is that I should stop writing stuff when I have drunk Whisky... So there you have it.

Mobsters and cheap Whisky

I haven't written since my seeming attack on the world. I'm not going to comment on my current situation now, just affirm that I am alive. But with a bottle of cheap whisky in one hand and Bruno Coulais on the stereo it is a curious mood in this room, not completely bothered to be described by words anyways. I want to wear a suit and sunglasses, have a typical black suitcase in one hand and a cigar in the other, with my beard closely trimmed. For some reason. And I want to carry a gun, not for the wish to ever use it, not even for the comfort of the added protection. For what I care it doesn't have to be loaded even. I just want to wear a hip-holster with a gun in it. And I want to have a flask with the cheap whisky on the inner pocket of my suit-jacket, taking regular sips from it. And that's about it. I wanna look like a mobster right now, like a true Corleone or something along those lines. But I don't want the themesong from Godfather, nah, I want the remix of Purcell's "Funeral march for the death of Queen Mary II" from A Clockwork Orange to be playing from an undecidable source behind me. But I don't want a cane, or makeup, or white. Just the song. I dunno why this is, it might just be the weird mood that is my room today.

myargh

Cuz the times, they are a-changin' Indeed they are. I knew something bad would have to happen to weigh up for the two months of seeming happiness, but I never imagined exactly HOW bad it would be. Makes me really wonder who the fuck I pissed off up there. I'm gradually becoming one of the drunks my gran had to care for at work. Bitter at the world, check, a loser in the game of love, check, fond of whisky, check. What a match I am, yay.

FUCK you, FUCK me, FUCK all.