I’m sitting in the back corner of a small cafe, a cappuccino at hand and a copy of Asimov’s ‘I, Robot’. And I’m smiling. I don’t why, but I am. And a strange, almost foreign sense of happiness is imbuing me. People are coming and going, sipping their tea and delicately devouring their desserts, whilst others wander with majesty through the adjoined bookshop not three feet from where I sit. Not one of these souls has noticed the young man hiding in the corner, a smile on his face and a chipper in his step. Not one of them dares to bother me, and for that, I am truly thankful.

And this is what it’s all for, I guess. All those days of wishing and longing, regretting and loathing, all that time spent in despair and melancholy, serves to augment the splendour of this moment.

For in this moment, nothing can get me. Nothing can perturb me. I’m liberated from the enduring destruction that plagues the world and my mind, free to enjoy and bask in one of the simple pleasures of my life.

I guess what I’m getting at, is that life is a cunt ninety-nine per cent of the time. But these rare moments of happiness make it all worthwhile. It is certain that you will spend days, months, perhaps even years in the depths of anguish. But know that a day will arrive, perhaps a day just like any other, where that strange and almost foreign sense of happiness will announce itself upon you. You might not expect it, heck, you might not even want it, but when you experience it, you will remember that the universe is a gorgeous realm of endless possibility and one that is all the better for bearing your presence.

hugs through screen


Lo and behold! I have returned from my extended absence. I apologise, but I’ve been rather busy traversing the rolling hillsides of distant lands and cultures, fraternising with creatures both big and small, and basking in the glorious majesty that is my existence. Naht. Perhaps I’ve been doing such things in my head, but the reality of my world has been a much starker and more sombre affair.


I’ve thought about returning to this blog a number of times. I can recall at least three occasions where I’ve begun to compose a piece, only to stop and scrap everything before the third sentence has been completed. Why? Well, to put it candidly, I think I’m full of shit.  When I look back through the history of this blog, I’m astounded at the amount of posts that I’ve shared and how frequently I was writing. And it’s not as though I’ve exhausted my supply of stories and ideas – indeed, the well has been overflowing for some time – but, as I said before, I find little worth in my words. Moreover, who reads this stuff? Well, you, obviously. But that’s one, solitary person. What’s the point? What’s the point in devoting the time and the effort, labouring to ensure every paragraph, sentence and word is apt, for such little reward?


I know, I’m too impatient and cynical. Before writing that sentence, I perused the previous paragraph with the intention of amending and perfecting it. And then, almost instantaneously, my thoughts turned to futility and I considered scrapping the piece altogether. But where’s the progress in that? I mean, I can go two ways from here: I can quit and return to browsing YouTube and Reddit into the early hours of the morning, or I could head to bed knowing that I accomplished something – however insignificant it may be. Wow – just like that, I’m feeling a little more optimistic about things. Funny how a depressed mind functions, isn’t it?


Of course, this post isn’t anything special, but it’s a start. It’s incoherent, unsophisticated and tedious, but it’s raw. It’s something. And something is better than nothing, right? I guess the important thing to remember is that, at the crux of it all, I’m writing for me. I have nought to prove to anyone save myself. Baby steps, brother, baby steps.

Professor Yellowsand

I tell ya, when Margie first told me about the idea of working on an Aardvark farm, not even the sprightliest of slapsticks could’ve exhibited the extent to which my elation endured. Though I was foreign to the nature of these particular farms – I didn’t even think such a thing could exist! – I somehow felt that this was my purpose in life; to reside on a ranch and tend to an animal whose diet consisted solely of ants and termites. For never had I owned a calling with such vehemence, never had a profession truly impressed upon me such marvel and attraction; I felt it my duty to sign up and begin at once.

I remember vividly my first day where I had to interject a verbal scuffle between Roseline and Jimdonkey, and in doing so, I accidentally snapped off one of Jimdonkey’s toes. For a while he pranced about in mild discomfort, and I sat horizontally atop of Roseline with a glass of Absinthe, marvelling at how such a creature could ever look so graceful given the circumstances. But, oh, the horror at seeing ol’ Jim trip and stumble, landing on a syringe from a 70’s nightclub called The Hairy Bosom. Undoubtedly, he was now infected with chicken pox, and I could do no more than be a horizontal spectator, witnessing his untimely demise in a most horizontal manner.

For many months had these grimy needles been appearing sporadically in the fields, and I assumed the culprit to be that of Professor Yellowsand who lived next door. He was a cordial chap, yet slightly unsound mentally – he was dismissed from his job at Yale for decapitating the head of a student and placing it in the dormitory of a blind fella to see how long it would take before he noticed the foul odour – all this, of course, in the name of science. Anyhow, he’d recently been conducting experiments concerning time portals. He was somewhat of a MacGyver, for with a mere set of bath salts, hole punchers and barcodes from discarded water bottles, he allowed himself to pickpocket an inconspicuous object from the past and propel it into the contemporary world. The only trouble, however, was that he could not choose the destination. So, whenever you see an errant shoe in the street, a strip of sandpaper in the washing machine, a polystyrene jug on the third windowsill to the left of the White House front door, or any other miscellaneous object in an arbitrary dwelling, you can blame Professor Whitesand…wait…or was it Yellowsand?…no, no, Professor Whitesand.


It’s 4pm. I’m walking down the street, but I don’t know why. I’m ambling down the right hand side of the footpath, one step after the other, but I honestly haven’t the slightest impression of why I am walking here or where I am going. Peculiar, don’t you agree? I mean, why this street and not the one adjacent to it? Why the right hand side of this path and not the left? Why not the other footpath across the road? Why in this direction? Why not the other? Is it by chance that I found myself on this particular path, or has some divine entity previously determined that I should be here? At this moment, I stop and gaze around. There’s a small child holding an elephant-shaped balloon, standing on the other side of the street. In the front yard to my left, there is a tree which, I suspect, has been pruned within the last three days. Up above, an aeroplane is soaring east. Under foot, a snail has been slain by the weight of my shoe. And all I can do is wonder why.

I live inside my head too much and I fooking hate it. GODDAMN IT BRAIN, JUST LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!!!!!!!! I wish I had the audacity of the protagonist from Pi to just drill a hole into my head and liberate myself from the torment of incessant thought. But alas…

More Rambling

Oh fuck it all to hell. Ya know? You see, this morning I woke up with the grandest of plans and moods. I hopped in to work to collect my weekly pay when Alessandro decides to have a heart attack – right in the middle of the fucking restaurant. Naturally, everyone inside the room flocks to him, attending to his needs, seeing if he’s breathing or if he needs CPR etc, and here I am standing at the counter like a fucking chump. I mean, hello? Can anyone get a little bit of service around here? My god, all I’ve come to do is pick up my money – which, if I might add, I worked damn well hard for –  and now I’ve got to wait because my fuckstick of a co-worker has decided to prematurely halt his existence. The nerve of some people. I’ve always liked Alessandro, but his selfishness is abhorrent. Never does he have any time for anyone but himself. It’s all about him. Me, me, me, ME. Well, I’d had enough of his egotism, so I grabbed a fork from a nearby table and plunged it through his eyeball. I could feel the sponginess of the organ resist before yielding, and a slight squelch pervaded the ears of everyone around me as the trident fork pierced his pupil, burrowing into God knows where. And that was that. Alessandro was dead. I could see he was still squirming a little, but I suppose that was due to the fact that I’d just thrusted an eating utensil through his eye, and most likely into his brain.

Now, to collect my paycheck. I stood up and peered around, somewhat oblivious to the looks of horror directed at me. I saw my boss and approached him, smiling politely as if the last thirty seconds was nothing more than a daydream. Wait, did I actually just do that? I paused for a moment and looked around. I was greeted with looks of malevolence and fear, anger and melancholy, but most of all confusion. I peered to the ground where Alessandro lay, still twitching and impaled somewhat. I turned and looked at my boss who appeared flummoxed. Nobody was moving. Had time just stood still? I opened my fly and started to piss in this old geezer’s mouth, but she didn’t seem to notice. My god, it’s true!! Time is standing still! I’ve found the secret to everlasting life!! Nd all I had to do was kill my co-worker!!