Writing With Impetus, Before It’s Too Late

Well who’d have thought, I’m actually writing.

Sorry for the delay and even greater apologies for the delay ending and writing resuming.

I know I don’t write articles for everyone’s tastes – that’s why (as well as a distinct lack of writing talent), they’re not overly-well received.

For example, I was walking down the street the other day (it doesn’t matter which street or which day because this is fiction) and I noticed I wasn’t a millionaire.

How embarrassing.

And to think; I was really in the mood for a Rolex…

Still, no pounds equals one impetus. Lack of millions of pounds gives one glorious idea, to become a millionaire.

Not even a millionaire – that comes across as ideal hostage material – but instead ‘comfortable’. Such as having a house and no concerns about it.

I would like a house, all mine, my walls and my windows, preferably my own ceiling, I don’t give a fuck who the potted plants belong to, so long as I get my necessary verticals and horizontals.

And I’ve a good job, with a good wife enjoying a good pregnancy, a good future filled with good prospects, and a good urge to write, as well as a good thesaurus filled with good synonyms and I can apply anytime I like (but I’m comfortable now and the book is just out of bother’s reach).

So, aside from the typical life of typical pleasantries, I might just indulge in this writing habit I’ve tried my best to give-up and start actually writing.

So, now, I’m actually writing.

I tried writing as a practise for this yesterday.

I thought I’d try writing about my hair.

It went so well I burnt the first draft, not realising I only had one good (thesaurus still out of reach) draft in me and I’d put too much effort into burning my laptop to sit down with remaining stoker (pen) and surviving kindling (note-pad) to let loose another masterpiece in one evening.

Thus we’re here, writing about writing and progressing just as I’d hoped.

I’d like to write for my supper, though I think writing for my breakfast would be greater inspiration.

Sure, at supper time one has a day’s worth of worth to pen down with a fire-stoker, but in the morning you’ve got a wonderfully blank piece of paper to ruin perfectly with just the kind of prose that can set a day right. This is a metaphor.

What a metaphor!

However, I’ve missed breakfast and have moved onto a mid-evening port, in the glow of a newly borrowed laptop and the warmth of a reason to write.


Or rather being a home-owner/house-holder/property-possessor/abode-abider.

Since I’ve moved onto alliteration, I might burn this laptop too, but I don’t think my pen could last to stoke another fire.

Still, this is breakfast writing, and perhaps since this is now a great (wife passed me thesaurus) post-port time in the evening, I can write about that which has happened across the planet as of late.

I was reading the other morning that we’re all fucked.

Whilst I enjoyed Al Gore’s somewhat more bar-chart method of translating the complex data, I do prefer an image of inferno and the prose that practically smell with the sheer excitement of the author.

Sensationalist writing is like fascism. It gets things done when they’re ready to be done.

If I hadn’t been in the mood to like-totally freak out, then it wouldn’t have been successfully sensationalism. If 1930’s Germany hadn’t been in the mood for a snappier uniform and literally snappier mode of marching, they wouldn’t have done what 1930’s Germany did (lose).

With another reference to writing about writing, we have now arrived at the point at which the author has drawn parallels to the Nazis, with very little reason to. And whilst that’s fine in these-and-thus days, if you’d have tried that in 1930’s Germany, you’d have been writing as a contemporary.

I’ve realised I’m feeling silly, and here we thus-hence-and-therefore are (this thesaurus might now be deemed too-near. That’s writing, I’m “deeming” things).

Besides, upon the news of the planet being universally fucked, I’m more inclined to take things a tad more jovially.

For this reason, I’m mixing tales of hair, being a millionaire, Nazis, and Al Gore.

BBC News has a ‘Top Ten Most Read’ section, and the number one point for a recent single day was the end of the world being very much so ‘nigh’. The following day, perhaps even the afternoon of the day prior, the nation’s focus was on Taylor Swift at long last revealing how she feels about US politics.

I don’t want to say that how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US is not important. But the lack of verbalised opinion in regard to the viewpoint of “FUCK how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US” gives rise to the righteousness of the previous day’s number one story.

We’re fucked, and the following day we were slightly more fucked, and slightly more deserving.

With a baby on the way, I’ve impetus to de-fuck the world, but Taylor Swift doesn’t listen to me and she’s the one with millions of many things.

I’ve very few things totalling in the millions.

I’ve millions of atoms of course, but I tend not to count them (it’d take ages).

I do have a son on the way though. And whilst he’s not a million things either, he is one thing that could be more than a million things and it up to people like me (the fellow that caused him into being about, along with his culpable mother) to take action.

Unfortunately for my son, the particular action I’ll be taking is writing about my hair.

Who knows? It might pay for a house for him to grow up into a fucked-up world.

I’ll keep typing, tomorrow.

It’s good to be back

All the best,


I’m Gunna Need All Your Money.

When I’m older, I’d like to be…34.

Being thirty four will probably do me well. That’s all I’ll need, I suspect…not that I’m suspicious of that age.

Well, maybe I am. It might be helpful to be suspicious of an age. I’ve heard what they say about people over thirty. And apparently the people over thirty haven’t because they still haven’t stopped.

Thirty should be middle-aged, but it’s got this ‘youth’ association about it, like scratchy little beards, or full-bodied acne.

However, 34 does have connotations of wealth, and that’s something I could really make some use of.

I am what money is for. Money is the latest ticket, surpassing the good looks and talent that had dominated the ‘dicking-the-landscape’ industry for the past few millennia.

If I had some of those paper numbers, I’d be able to slap whatever I felt like.

You could buy a field- who wouldn’t want to do that? Fields are where the best things happen, and where anything can happen. Like some further, more in-depth, slapping.

A field full of 34 year olds could really set the ocean alight. Set it alight with those paper numbers they carry around (I’m referring to currency, because I want to). Even the ugly ones that can’t throw.

And aside from that, 34 looks brilliant numerically, whereas the word-version appears a little long-winded. ‘Thirty-four’ is a dull read. ’34’ positively excites me, not like a woman, but at least like a number should do with such connotations.

Still, ‘chin (the fuck) up’, such as it is.

You see, I’m soon to be 24 (now see how lovely twenty-four looks compared to those digits over there…twenty-four was born for letters) and that really hurts for someone who’s been eight for the past sixteen years. (’16’ years? ‘Sixteen’ years? Definitely ‘sixteen’ years).

Aside from this I have issues for tissues with my forearms. Skinny bastards they certainly are, although EVERY SINGLE TIME that I’ve punched someone in the face it has worked entirely. The forearm issue only seems to revolve around sailor-like activities (aside from punching) such as lugging rope or hoisting…whatever you please- you’re a sailor, and therefore you hoist.

34 year olds have superior forearms to me, and that’s why I tend to either elbow or wrist them. And wristing someone in the neck is really fucking uncomfortable for everyone involved, so I must have a point to make…I can only assume.

Assuming is easy so I’m going to do some of it.

I’m am also going to assume that 34 year olds have got some reason to be held in suspicion, just look at their forearms. How did that happen unless they’ve gained a decade more than me in the area of hoisting? And then why would they hoist? Sailors? Are all sailors 34?

Does it matter? Yes? Ok then, fine. Let it matter.

But in the meantime I’m going to need all your money, because you’re 34 and I’m not and you might as well assume that I have several other reasons- I’ll be assuming the same. This is teamwork.

You see, this whole monetary issue really is expensive on the inner-lining of the soul. So kill it.

Kill it and relax for a while there really isn’t much else to do once you’ve killed money. Apart from holding fruit in higher esteem. Fruit deserves it. And so do I. So give me all your money.

Maybe I should lift…