- In which Ken Livingstone gets rabies, my life grinds to a halt and I am awarded clarity.
Alright, before I begin: Ken Livingstone, dude, three things:
1) You pissed a lot of people off because there have been great efforts made to denounce homosexuality as an issue in politics, the fact you’ve managed to make it one again with one sentence is inexcusable.
2) “Riddled” was a very, very poor choice of words – we aren’t vermin, Kenny boy.
3) Perhaps more focus should be shone on the Tory Party’s polices, or perhaps the fact their leader is moon-faced robot, rather than the sexual orientation of its members.
Good. Glad that’s out. Phew, I can sleep again.
Of late my daily morning routine has been tragically and considerably underwhelming. Awaken from the land of slumber, do something that resembles exercise (I call it quasi-exercise), indulge myself with boiled eggs and wholemeal bread, perform an ancient ritual that makes hot water fall magically from the ceiling, get all soapy with lynx and beat off hoards of woman with a large stick (not that one, pervert), end ritual, scutter towards the internet machine, proceed to be even more underwhelmed by the brutal murder of the English language that takes place right in front of my peepers each day on Twitter and Facebook – eventually you become desensitised to this slaughtering and begin to think we should just gather all copies of the Dictionary in the land, pile them high and set them ablaze.
Once I’m done clambering over the broken grammar that litters my news feed, I tend to spend up to a couple of hours simply trolling various social networking sites in the vain hope I’ll find a comment/post/picture that will alleviate my crippling boredom. My life has fast become a dull flame of desire; I yearn for numerous things, but can’t seem to conjure up enough energy to go out and get them. I long for water, but the kitchen tap is stiff; I grieve for butter on my toast, but the knife is harsh and cold against my fragile skin. What a conundrum – guess I’ll dehydrate and wither and die then. However, there is reason for this behavior.
My entire life was well and truly turned upside down several weeks ago, when an earth-shattering blow was delivered to my already fragile, somewhat chaotic, world. The City of Me was plagued by a wicked storm of mendacious tales. It howled and tore through the streets like a rioting mob, gathering up more and more force as it thundered from end to end, leaving nothing in its wake except the shattered shards of hope scattered across the cold, cracked ground - and any attempt to mend these frail-yet-razor-sharp pieces would only end in multiple lacerations, leading to substantial blood loss, ultimately resulting in me bleeding out and lying broken, blood splattered and hopeless on cold, betrayal-sodden floor. Just to put things in some kind of perspective.
So, I guess it’s time to clear the debris.
The reason this blog has come into play, other than having itchy fingers, is because I wish to express the grave disappointment-soon-to-be-loathing I’m currently harbouring towards about 80% of the people I used to know. I shall convey these feelings in the most simplistic way possible. Thanks for leaving me in cold, guys. When friends are in trouble, in need, you’re meant to band together and offer your support - not help fuel a witch hunt. You’re not meant to treat someone’s suffering or life as idol gossip or a cowardly, pathetic excuse to cut them out. You may think this ‘dig’ is a tad juvenile, but I honestly believe it’s justified. It wasn’t for a few select people, I can safely safe I wouldn’t have gotten by.
When you’re bombarded with doubt and betrayal like that, it feels like a knife through the chest. I'll get through this, I don't need you. At the end of the day though, it’s a lucky break for me – best rid of folk like that, eh? Good, glad I got that out in the open.
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