It's amazing how things never seem to turn out they way you want them to, and thank the trinity of Hendrix, Morrison and Thomson that it never does.
Would you appreciate things if they always happened the way you want them to? Probably, but for how long? How long until you get bored and need to get out, drink yourself into such a state that you'll try to fuck whatever seems slightly interested in you, wake up in a park underneath a newspaper with cigarette burns on your genitals and the feeling that you ate last years newspaper that's spent it's last days soaking up cat piss in a litter box?
I think that's what's happening now. I've been too good and focused lately. I'm getting to bed a hour past midnight the latest. I brush my teeth, study more or less in at right times.
The worst thing I've done lately? Watching Californication. I kid you not. I have a man-crush on David Duchonvy though, so I have to.
Or maybe it's not as much a man-crush as a form of twisted substitute of a father figure. Or at least a part of one I created from various males I encountered while growing up.
Yes, I grew up with a single mom. No, I am not gay. Thanks for asking, Dr Freud.
And I'm not even joking. Freud thought growing up with only one parent could make you gay. I think growing up can make you gay, period.
Sure, I might not be as controversial as Freud, but I'm bound to be right in more cases.
But it's not fair against Freud to go on about this either. I live in Sweden. I occasionally see serious relational drama's with old womans breasts while eating a bowl of porridge for breakfast.
I'm not really in the mood at the moment, but around here somewhere is where I should write "And I don't even have a tv!"
Oh yes, I just made a granny fucker joke. Guilty, your honor. Send me to the chair. Lethal injection. Gas me and make soup out of me for rich Coca Cola executives to wash the blood of their hands with.
Fanta was made to be sold in Nazi Germany after all. Ok, so maybe the part I heard about it being created because Coke was to American wasn't true, but it was made to be sold to the Nazis.
Ok, so is that enough mental images for you? Have you imagined the being I've created as a father subtitue while growing up? Teachers, ufo huntig FBI Agents, Belgarath the Sorcerer, and so on. It's a wonder I'm not actually more fucked up than I am.
Who knows. Mom claims I had a change of personality after my last concussion, so maybe.
At least I didn't get a iron rod propelled trough my skull by dynamite while digging a railroad. Happened to a guy a few hundred years ago. Apparently he switched from a really nice guy into a drunken bastard.
Not that you need a iron rod trough your brain to have that happen to you.
I suppose that's just how life is. Sometimes things are interesing, you have to adapt and overcome obstalces, other times an iron rod smashes your granny fucking brains in and you become a Nazi alchoholic.
As long as things keep being weird and you can make it even weirder when you feel the need for the surreal, I must proclaim that it is good. What else'd be the point?

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