Crappy crap crap shit shit. Just as my eyes close in happy anticipation of sleep in front of the new episode of House on the laptop, my brain jerks into a semi-alive state with the alarming thought No Blog, No Blog, No Blog. Which reminds me of a terribly misleading warning sign I saw on a building site from the bus today: No Hard Hat, No Boots, No Job. It really did look like a sign instructing the builders to remove their safety gear. Way too many words for a coherent functional safety sign. Who can I contact to complain to? There must be a number somewhere. I’m sure signs like this are supposed to be visual: no one can be arsed reading signs, as proven by the amount of people I have watched over the last two days becoming desperately confused as the attempt to open a locked door with a large sign on it reading please use other door. Just a long line of people making the same childish mistake. I do it all the time, and so do you. “The door reads push, but what do we do,” am I doing a Seinfeld bit now? I’m really not sure, “yes that’s right; we pull. Why do we do this? We’re pulling, and the door is just standing there looking at us saying ‘hey buddy, I don’t swing that way’.”
Anyway, so I just woke up with a massive groan as I realised I have to do this bloody blog again. Every day; what is the point when every day it just needs doing again, and the day after that and the day after that. It’s like washing and eating and opening my eyes in the morning, a stretch up a morning yawning, every bloody day. But now I’m working and the minimum wage has risen by about 12p (that’s around $24.06US for any American readers, and 47 to the power of 10 Vietnamese dong for any other foreigns) I can afford to take on staff. First aboard is my new blog writer. Eventually I will have a team of writers all working together to create a well-calculated public persona, who can script my every word in the safety of the boardroom, and prevent me from any faux pas which might alienate me from the disparate, slightly mental internet people (of whom I am clearly one) that make up my imaginary audience. I’ll also provide sandwiches for my employees. But no compliments. Just sandwiches.
And then I can just wander about looking at the clouds counting my money and pointing out other peoples mistakes. Which to be honest might be what I would be best at; food critic, travel critic, music critic. Looking at other peoples life’s work and saying yeah that’s shit, you fucking suck buddy. See this thing you poured you love and passion and energy and life into? It’s a pile of shit. That’s the kind of thing I’d be good at. I sense I may now be slipping into bottom rate Bill Hicks parody, sucking on Satan’s cock. Critics. Contributing nothing and moaning. I could do that. Fuck it, anyone could do that.
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