December 2nd, 2003

Cowboy

(no subject)

And of course I would forget that after 30 days of non registration windows XP ceases to work properly at all and crashes at the slightest provocation. Go me, I am clevur.
Cowboy

This used to be a terrible subject line

The world is being particularly bovine today, morons surging to the doors of packed busses while ignoring the near empty one a few yards away. One particularly fine specimen strolled across the road while traffic got backed up waiting for her to get all the way over.

For all my resolutions about walking to and fro from work it's been too damned cold and wet lately. Throw in my serious need for new shoes and you have a good combination of excuses to keep taking the bus.

During some of the more comfortable journeys, once I have forced my way towards the back of the bus, past the mooooooorons who stand in the aisles, chewing their cud, once I find a seat I sometimes think about the people in, for example, the car beside the bus and I realise that in the car are two people with lives just as boring as mine and everyone else's, that there are millions of people in Ireland alone doing exactly the same thing I do every day.

And then invariably I start having a panic attack, I get myself back inside my head and start convincing myself again that I'm special somehow. Not some delicate beautiful snowflake, just superior to the other millions in some tiny way and sometimes I think that the knowledge that I'm nothing special is what makes me different.
Cowboy

(no subject)

Well boys and girls, tomorrow is the annual irish budget. Also known as "bend over day" and "Pulsating barbed strap on of doom day". Expect tomorrow's posts to contain more anger than usual.
Cowboy

(no subject)

There's a nasty bit of me that, when I read the comments to mistersleepless' posts thinks "Why all the needless embellishments to the post? Just say that it rocked and leave it there, there's no need to go on about your terrible despair or that his latest page of fiction pulled you back from the brink of despair and suicide because if you really WERE about to end it all you can be assured that some interesting prose was not going to make life worth living - you overly dramatic fuckers. Moreover it doesn't matter how many times you post about your infantile attempts at writing, you are not going to become his bosom buddy because of a few bytes of shite".

Then I think "meh, live and let live - you're no Shakespear yourself".

Of course, I scream the same thing at the TV when I see the kiddies clammering to get an autograph by some talent school reject with hormone problems.