And so, this particular season ends in the same way as all before it. I’m awake, still drinking, and every other human being in the room is passed out, having consumed a twelfth of the naked alcohol I have. This is GD boring. Symbelin can’t hang. Edereth drops faster than panties in a tequila party. The rest: it pains me to even discuss them.
So, bored, I begin to discuss my nocturnal thoughts with the crew assembled. Not that you’ve actually assembled, as you sit in diverse locations pounding away on computers while blithering ignorantly. You blitherers you. Anyway.
I guess a bit of introspection is called for. What have I accomplished this year? I killed a hundred ounces of Guiness in one night. Biblical. I smoked one metric ass lad of cigarettes while denying I was, in fact, a smoker. Worthy of RJ Reynolds themselves. See, the way I see it, anything done while everyone else is passed out doesn’t count. It’s like calories snatched from the plates of others. They don’t contribute to your own fat index. Bio people, can I get a witness? I suppose could start tea bagging fools, but for personal reasons I consider that obnoxious. Bu I’m bored, so I’ll reveal them.
GAY!
So.
There was a movie on YouTube a while ago. Something about people who have the power to party long after others have passed out. I wonder if that affected my subconscious, driving me on to new lengths while my innocent mind considers only the possibility of another drink? Or is it just plain and simple insomnia? In the end, does it matter?
Hume would say no. Kant, perhaps. Freud, definitely. Me, I don’t care. In the end, bitches can’t drink.
With nothing to show for my efforts, I would normally resign myself to amusing dialogue liberally interspressed with links to humorous pictures, rabbits in akward poses and Daniela Uhlig, my girlfriend. But my computer, an my sources for such, is still gone, beyond the pall of access. I’m out of sharpies too, the horror.
But let’s change the topic. Let’s talk about weavils. Gifted with a hilarious name, they get no respect. Who sits around composing weavil jokes? No one. Flava Flav gets roasted. The jokes are vicious, not funny. James Stewart makes more money than I shall ever have, and without the task of making coherent sense.
And so alone I sit. I came and farted, but meant to shit. The stink is but a piece of it. For quiet things remain a bit.
I’m going to go shame somebody. Peace out, ya’ll.
