I’m Not Even Procrastinating

I watched a meeting today in which Real Madrid footballer Ronaldo and UFC fighter Conor McGregor meet and discuss how hard they have to work to be what they are; pinnacle people.

Men of the kind of wealth which makes you immortal, athletic monsters with hearts of purest gold, confidence and determination to be the perpetual “better man”.

I was pleased not to have been invited.

They would have stood there with their six packs, bank balances, glories and futures, whilst I would have sat there in a t-shirt that states: “I sometimes writes blogs”.

The kind of guys who recline by leaning into their rock-hard starched back muscles which never unstiffen owing to sheer will. Cooling their feet in bank balances.

They have fans. I’m entirely on my own.

I slobbed yesterday.

I’ve survived my slobbing period and have slobbed much fiercer than I did yesterday. However that was back in teenage days, in which I committed to appropriate slobbing just in an attempt to have some ounce of fat on my bones.

Appropriate slobbing.

I woke early, made my wife a packed lunch and walked her to the train station for work, kissed her a farewell and ran home to make a day’s worth of the day. Oh boy, I was going to be so proactive I might just tick it off permanently.

I then proceeded to eat chocolate and ice cream, potato chips and wine, fast food remnants and the daylight – all devoured into nothingness. I sent the occasional email and told my wife I was working in an effort to excuse myself owing from being a real adult.

I excuse myself with the fantasy that I’ve worked hard and the universe will one day require outstanding one-in-a-million Candy Crush skills, the likes of which only I have seen.

Thank goodness I masturbated so much; it was up to me to slog it out alone there.

My occupation of chairs is a compliment to full utilisation of buttocks.

If it hadn’t been for my snacking, we’d all be a lot worse off. I leaving all the healthy grub for you folk; get broccoli.

At least heroin gets you out of the house.

I’d call this procrastinating; but I’ve found something else to do.

This is nothing; completely nothing yet never nothing completed. One cannot get ‘nothing’ ticked from the list.

So the best idea, as is usually discovered by the collectors of plastic bags, cats, and drool, is talking to oneself.

Bitch.

Bitching at myself to stand and walk.

Be in a situation that need not necessarily be good for the serenity but sure is a blessing on the stories you have to look back on.

Having stood and walked, I compliment the good grief out of myself and perhaps I suggest going outside.

That’s something.

It’s not nothing.

Perhaps I suggest I’m the greatest human to ever live, stick my tongue in my cheek and live like that’s the way I’m supposed to.

Excuse me, I’m going out.

Sam

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I Sleep-Off Syphilis. I Walk-Off Amputation

You’ve got to feel pity for crabs.

Naturally I’m referring to the wee-itty-bitty pubic habitants.

They’re on the way out – fucked to a degree even they’ve never seen before.

Fucked to irony.

A shame for sure, yet I spy and opportunity here; partly coming from being sparky in mind, largely due to feeling horny (whilst being hornly-felt; what a way to write!) and mostly owing to hunger.

Here we have a delicacy that only need be made delicate.

Some ballroom, some European Duke, some Governess spoiling us, a silver platter encumbered with the delights of the finest-bred higher-class prostitutes of Paris; specially bred crabs.

On a stick.

I could bring that about…it’s not as though I’m to be afflicted with the creepy little entrees.

I’m not the sort to have a hard time for medical reasons; that’s not very me.

My immune system is on the offensive and highly offensive.

It teases Gonoreah and bloodies the nose of bleeding noses.

I only bleed for the drama and the sexuality of the moment; matching my outfit and causing a stir when I enter ballrooms (one of my favourite things to enter; aside from women dazzled by my resistance to the entrees).

Bleeding only succeeds in certain areas.

Such as my chest; which can only bleed through three claws scratches, tentatively exposing what’s beneath my shirt.

An indistinct patch of blood on the bicep looks grand too, although only whilst fighting a revolutionary cause and waving a flag. The wound must also be tightly bound in a sexy rag gifted to me by some impassioned wench, who’s also holding my musket for me.

The old wounds were the best. An arrow gouge gets one into so many more clubs than one of these modern “car crash seat-belt whip” wimpy modes. How’s that meant to impress a bouncer; just because one is wearing a windshield?

Bleeding goes so well with black. And not everything does.

Whilst they say black goes with everything, this refers purely to colour. However, though the colour might well go and indeed bugger off with black, it doesn’t mean the substance the colour is of can accompany it also.

For example, as stated, red goes with black; blood goes with black.

Pale grey goes with black; vomit does not.

Vomit only goes well with buckets and humorous landings splats of your current scenario.

I saw Yellow Fever, which goes very poorly with black by the way, in the street a few days ago, or rather I saw its cowardly coloured back as it whizzed away to take out its frustrations on South East Asia.

My immune system does have a tendency to take no prisoners and gift no mercy.

Such as the time malaria got me.

It was a short and chilly summer that spring, with the birds singing sweetly beneath the water and the sun rising early after a brief lunchtime siesta. In other words; times were absurd; permit me a tad absurder.

What did you do to malaria Sam?

Why I’ll tell ya. I took that innocent young malaria strain into my broad and willowy arms and though it struggled immensely, we eventually reached an amicable forced marriage.

Followed by several beautiful and lethal offspring (I wasn’t on the pill), after which my malaria-bride made a break for it with dreams of being either a vet or a contagion. It was at this point I nobly threw acid in its face and told it to get to scrubbing whatever the fuck I told it to scrub.

You have to keep these diseases in their place, otherwise they’ll get all uppity and start demanding higher pay and penetrating your central nervous system.

I’m not at all certain as to why, but I’ve an urge to reassure you all that I do not consider women to be a negative thing, especially when compared to diseases or injuries.

I do however find funny things funny; equating with the previous.

I sleep-off syphilis.

I walk-off amputation.

I begrudge malaria receiving an education.

I am prepared to cater to the fancy ball with pubic crabs on sticks because I’m a fancy motherfucker with pubic ideas.

I am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Now go kick smallpox in the derrière.

Plus…GIRL POWER!

Sam