I’ve had a fair few hot meals and I’ve had a fair few collisions with brick walls.
All there was left to do following both of these activities (because I do spend my time doing these sorts of things) was to be complimented on how I went about them.
And I am complimented about them.
I am complimented a lot.
I fucking adore compliments.
I’ve been told I’m a natural at receiving them.
False modesty should dwindle down in the English South Downs and die like a dog in the sun-like warmth emanating from the confident folk of Brighton town; self-assured in their assertions and plentiful in immoderate compliments to their kin.
As I spoke of earlier, I’ve ravaged some hot meals and brick walls in my meandering stroll across the surface of where we are and here are some of the crackers which really got my chin up and penis likewise.
“But you look like a muscular piano!”
I mention this as a primary for the list as it speaks eternal fact.
I do look like only a master craftsman could create me whilst also appearing as though I’m as natural as a waterfall in the nude.
I am aware that I look just swell with a dinner-gowned femme-most-fatale lying across my broad LID as though all she wants to do is clamber inside but it was my idea first and so I’m going in.
Finally, it is true…sweet woman.
There is a shade to my hair which suggests that I can produce the most transcendent odes to love and joy the species can conjure, but for some reason, some handsome reason, I’m going to have to do it with my shirt torn across the chest to a degree that women from all eras of time, from Cavewoman to Victorian, peasant to hipster, all wilt at the sight of me and focus on the way I heave a concerto out into the public domain.
Sure, I heave concertos and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not certain as to where I’m heaving it from, nor am I aware as to why heaving it is necessary at all…but I know for sure it gets me compliments.
I look like a muscular piano and I’m damn proud of that.
“Sam. Your hair looks like George Orwell!”
Thank you again for bringing it up as you did.
My main issue with this compliment is that people might assume it’s just an attempt by those admirers of mine to fling some political concrete into the waviness of my shy but not-without-confidence hair.
And there’s no need for that.
My hair is a revelation to our current dystopian society in that it rings true all the way from the scalp to the not-too-distant future; don’t eat each other.
I have a feeling that this needs to be made clear and of course I am inspired by my hair to do so.
People know this about me as much as they know this about themselves; they are inspired by my barnet and the prose it seems to produce…somehow.
Perched atop my head there is a hair-do of substantial flourish; there is no chance that this hair is going to die by any manner other than by waterfall (however naturally nude) or God.
Tweed suits my hair, as does strong tobacco and English furniture. Indeed – all suits my hair, aside from waterfalls and God as they will be the undoing of it and make it a prerequisite for things going south sourly.
I just wish they wouldn’t get involved, but they are insistent.
That’s not the Jehovah God by the way, I’m talking of course about Poseidon – undoubtedly the wettest God ever devised.
This is why he gets together with a waterfall to undo my hair’s natural Orwellian nature; because when one wet thing meets another they generally equate to an unwelcome dryness unbecoming of a young contrarian such as I. Not that I’d agree with such a statement.
The encounters I’ve had with waterfalls and wet Gods have driven my locks to scribble, most devoutly, visions of a mean future without hope of my hair staying un-frizzed by the lashings of moisture unwelcome.
Why must they have so much to do with hidden chests and booty? Why must the fairest of maidens, all welcomingly wet to the ideal moistness of female, be so nearby to them?
I find this all most uncomplimentary, but at least people say my hair looks like George Orwell.
“For someone who’s not a father – I sure want a masculine fuck from you.”
I fuck like my cum is the cure.
And apparently the locals of my locale are hyper aware of this, resulting in a hell of a long night and a multiple increase of things done down by the fire.
I like the fire – it dries my hair out. Plus my sleek pubic region.
My pubic hair is the only hair which doesn’t look like George Orwell – it gives no heed of a brave warm stare into the cold and brutal future.
Indeed, I believe it was Orwell who spoke: “Now you look here, future. If you try to ban my orgasm…I’m going to enjoy it.”
And he was right. So correct my hair could have said it.
Not my pubic hair however – as I’ve said.
Should my pubic hair speak; it’d likely just compliment me and tell me a tale about “Oh the things I’ve seen,” in which crabs are a mortal enemy.
Maybe it’s the way I wear my jumper and get out of chairs with a slight grunt these days that makes the rest of the species wish to go about procreating with the father-figure I am.
Perhaps it’s the manner in which I exude a natural air of “THIS IS MY FUCKING TREE WITH MY FUCKING PEACHES IN IT! SO TAKE YOUR WATERFALL AND TRIDENT AND GET A LIFE, NERD!” which makes the girls (Oh the girls) land on me, as well as, regrettably, the heftier half of the species.
I find myself climbed by the females of local.
They play with my hair and learn harsh lessons from it, whilst also gliding their hands over my muscular-piano-like frame and whispering sweet everythings in my ear.
I’ve perpetually preferred sweet everythings to their counterparts as I like to feel a little more constructive in my flirtations…not that I flirt anymore.
Flirting is for the brave…and I am not brave.
I am merely victorious. That’s all.
I enter bars with my shoes nowhere to be seen and nothing but a lance over my shoulder and a flute in my breast pocket.
Women love a breast pocket in use. And a lance heavily shouldered.
I then take a knee and roar at the sky something seemingly transient yet unyielding and eternally virtuous like: “AAAARRRRGGGHHH” or perhaps even: “EVERYONE – YOU’RE ALL LOOKING SWELL THIS EVENING” before collapsing with such romanticism that a man could never lift me owing to my weighty legs (“It’s as though his bones are made of gold!”) whilst a woman would most certainly rouse me by a sheer touching of my cheek.
I only really wake up these days if a maiden caresses my cheek – all other forms of rising are without any fair form of competition. Nothing compares with a nice bit of cheek caressing first thing, before my coffee and target practise in the owlery (they don’t expect a thing).
My coffee is ground by knuckle by the way. I beat the shit out of what I eat. I also only eat the male of the species; even the coffee bean, as a matter of sheer masculinity.
And the women love that.
All I know is that owing to a combination of my Orwellian hair and muscular piano-like build; I get complimented.
And I love compliments.
That’s why I’ve just paid myself plenty.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you. What a compliment.
I was trying to find out what else I could do with my hamstrings.
Perhaps a bow and arrow?
I’ve got the bone and sinew (whatever that might be) and aside from that I think all you really need are…arrows. I don’t know how to make a bow and arrow, but I do know how to make a mess and I assume that in making a bow out of your own body is going to have some sort of mess made in the process. So I can at least know it looks like I know what I’m doing.
Note here that I’m not trying to encourage some sort of Hannibal Lector- Buffalo Bill- let’s grab a shovel- situation. But…it’s my bones and sinew; I’ll do what I want with it. Plus I’m thinking of getting into archery.
There’s roughly eight pence worth of gold in the average adult human body- that could be the first prize in the archery contest, and I’m only going to be using my legs out of passion, rather than the logistics of competing, so it’s not like my hamstrings are essential.
I also feel that the human brain could be used as some sort of cushion.
So could the human arse.
Combine the two and you have a seat which is made from brains and buttocks. No need to joke about it being a clever-arse or anything, because this is serious. And only slightly funny.
This whole topic stems from a personally held belief that holding a donor card doesn’t just apply to when you’re dead. It applies to helping out as best you can…aesthetically.
If you don’t need it- donate it to those that do. Like noses. If you’re not a chef, fireman, or parent…you don’t need it. I could have that nose of yours…but then I don’t really need it either, but I might give it to that man I saw once who had no nose.
How did he smell? He couldn’t- he had no nose you insensitive fucker! Think next time! And give him your nose- you’re not even a chef. Unless of course you are a chef…in which case…you’re a chef…keep your nose on.
If you’re worried about this inspiring someone to go outside and start acquiring pieces of their neighbours for the benefit of the rest of nation…don’t. It’s ok…it’s philosophy. It’s just philosophy.
Philosophy is not something to be applied- you’re thinking of that thing known as: ‘good advice’.
‘Good advice’ (as I believe it’s called) is something that can really get you along in life. Like being advised on the timeless lessons of ‘one’ and the subsequent result following the addition of other numbers, or the one about wearing a condom.
Wearing a condom and adding is not philosophy, it is the best advice for most people, unless you want to easily lose count of how many times you get the clap.
Philosophy is about a subject to think about. Indeed, philosophy itself is something to think about- you can tell by the way that it is something we are currently thinking about. Ergo (Oh yes- ergo)…it’s philosophy.
Of course, you can think about the entire components of ‘good advice’- therefore making it philosophy. But people tend to develop their own philosophy as they make their way through life, which tends not to help. If you go purely by this, rather than by the ‘good advice’ that will come at you through life, then you will have a tendency to not develop as fully as you might. ‘Good advice’, works, as it comes from those who also have adopted ‘good advice’ from others. It is learned lessons that breakthrough when people are open to listening, for their own good.
Aside from this we have the extremely useful human body part which is- hair.
‘Hair The Applicable’ would be its adventurer’s name, should hair ever decide to leave the walled city (and head/barbershop) to see the world and seek it’s fortune.
Hair can be made into rope, string, cloth, and when matted and stiffened it can be made into anything- like a car door frame or a toy horsey. A fairly shit car door frame and toy horsey, but still good to a degree that they can be referred to as such.
Mainly though it is used as stuffing, as the best thing tend to be.
What other things are used as stuffing? How about stuffing, Sherlock? Checkmate. Everyone’s favourite turkey interior.
Not to suggest that stuffing is a human body part. But most of us is…stuffing…just with a few more applications. Take the intestines as a mighty example. They perform an important function in that they aid digestion and transportation of waste, but mainly it’s important because if it wasn’t there then we’d all be a little more hollow and at the moment this is a negative.
You know what our species is like. If we find a hollow, we have to fill it…you’ve heard what some people will put up their butts (and good for them), imagine what people will put into their lower-belly cavity. Until that area can be appropriately used as a storage/containment area for things aside from intestines…I’m afraid we’re going to have to move on.
What would you keep there? It’d likely have to be ‘intestine-y’. Basically my Punch and Judy sausages (I’m a natural puppeteer- Philadelphia Airport security certainly thought so).
I wonder if we sewed an extra hand to the wrist of a willing deaf-person; would they become 50% more articulate. They’d probably just become verbose, shouting/thrusting at me in sign language: “Fucking stupid idea”, as I guiltily put down my needle and thread.
I’m glad hair doesn’t bleed when you cut it- it’d just make your barber’s wetter in red.
The main circumstance that I’m trying to put across here is that we should share more often, especially since body parts are harder to come by when you’re not involved in the battle of the Somme (plenty of body parts, plenty of call for them).
You’re going to die, and when you do so, you might like to know slightly beforehand that your hair will fill the beds of a humanitarian aid camp, or that your left eyeball might see again in the socket of a child who gets to ride a bike like all the other kids now. Your hand would be an awesome thing to leave behind, although maybe we should leave that for now as the robotic technology is pretty impressive.
Although I would have to say that whereas robotic hands are cool, it would be much cooler to say the following:
“Hey. I see you looking at my hand. You like it? It’s his”
Once more…this is a hell of a conversation starter.