You should have kept your smile.
Because smiling works.
Or else have yourself a prized grimace that denotes to all around you that you’ve completed harder word-searches than them, and they don’t stand a chance.
How you conduct your facial features as you mingle amongst the rest of the species can be the determiner of your destiny.
Being the greatest human to ever live, I smile.
Why shouldn’t I?
My smile is arresting and my grin is criminal.
My laugh is disarming. I buckle out a “ha-ha” as though it were a mix of Muttley’s wheeze and a Welsh choral singer’s bellow.
And it’s also very at you.
‘You’ being everyone in the vicinity.
People hear my laugh and they whip around as though there’s an avalanche of tumbling Santa Clauses’ ho-ho-ing its way towards them, only to see me enjoying a joke I just told.
However, laughing is also a highly pleasurable way of winning an argument.
It’s a matter of insistence.
Such as the time you might invade a UKIP event and ha-ha your way through the diatribe of people desperate to prove they’re not racist. If you were a racist; which party would you vote for?
I’m not a racist, but if I were; I’d vote UKIP.
But there’s one thing more that I find intolerable of UKIP, and naturally it would be me to see this for what it is.
Nigel Farage has stolen the colour purple from us.
Once, purple was a rarity in the urban world. Whereas in some aspects of nature there would be a slash of purple here and there, in the cities there was almost none, aside from the investments made by the wealthy who could afford dye.
Investing in purple.
I’d like to invest in purple, but it seems hard to do that without funding UKIP and I’m just not racist enough for that (although I am slightly racist….I hate Eskimos. Fuck ‘em. What did they ever do for me?).
If my smile, such as what crops up when I’m sure Eskimos aren’t nearby, had a colour then I’d presume it to be purple, but it’s not. It’s a tender yet rugged shade of ‘Handsome’.
The colour ‘Handsome’ is like chocolate, only more muscular. With totally manly nipples. Slightly abnormal, but still more manly than your father and that’s why you’re with me babe. Superior nipples and I’m handsome with a slight anti-Eskimo twist.
Plus I’m the greatest human to ever live.
My smile is like a flower that can bear-hug you so hard that you enjoy the cuddle it becomes.
My smile can, and I’m not sure exactly how (it’s natural science – I don’t need to know. Birds don’t know how they soar and a tumble weed doesn’t know how it tumbles. Just let it be), but my smile can make you fuck off. Just a little of a turn to the left, I think, tilting upwards slightly, let loose a smile and boom; you’ve fucked off.
I would undoubtedly announce on, perhaps, some sort of blogging website that the lower half of my head is the preferential half for when you fancy a conversation.
Whilst my brow is flexible and communicative; it’s easier to have a chat with the lower half of my head.
And other things besides…
I really enjoy cunnilingus. Not enjoying the act perpetrated unto myself as I really don’t have enough vaginas for that (not even one) but I love dolling it out beneath the skirt of the other half of the species.
Why? Because I like being good at something that other guys aren’t.
Laughing and cunnilingus go hand in hand in terms of a mutual act. Lip to lip.
The clitoris is substantially tingled by the vibrations of a giggling.
Perhaps not side-splitting, but certainly split-siding.
That’s a vaginal joke, that’s why you get it.
And that was an insult-joke and I’m sorry about that.
And that wasn’t a joke. There’s nothing wrong with vaginas and there’s nothing wrong with me being sorry about that.
Damn, I’m a fine writer.
So I’ve got some writing chops, the things I can do with a pen and a keyboard would tickle you beyond the hacky constraints of a weak-wristed journeyman with a quill. And inky fingers.
You can’t have that done to you by a writer with inky fingers. Everyone’d know you’d been tickled.
I can make you tingle with a space bar and you don’t even want to be enlightened as to my history with other people and the insert key.
We got along.
I recall they enjoyed what I had; especially my musk.
Yes. I’ve got a musk.
You should see it. Because you can. It’s purple.
You can see it emanating from me as the sun goes down – like the Northern Lights; only tougher. Tougher in the same way that you can see a bull’s balls. Not an advantage overly; unless you wilt at that sort of thing. But wilting is something I hope for my enemies, particularly in public.
So – to the point – I smell like an overly-purple Northern Lights with testicles on the outside.
My laugh, however, that’s not a thing to be given a name. Just let it be.
My laugh isn’t to be controlled as it is a wild thing let loose only by me, baby. The potency of my laugh can make you swoon in the same manner that my musk’s balls can make you wilt.
That’s how I know you’re enjoying it.
But I’ve got to stay in check with my physical appearance, even I can’t rely solely on musk, smiles, laughter and an incredible lower-face.
So I had a wet shave in a Turkish barbers.
I sat in the chair and awaited the compliments about how their nuclear-age razor equipment wasn’t up to the job of slicing my bristles. My mane. My organic chin-duvet.
I waited, and then they wrapped a towel doused in boiling water over my entire head with just enough gap to allow my nose to poke out.
“Damn” I thought, “I’ve got a cold nose”.
I like things a’boiling.
Once shaved I discovered I had a dimple in my chin. “Tremendous” thought I, “Now everyone will be able to know I’m an All-American Good Guy type. From Kent. England.
Now I can go into space, chin-dimple first.
You guy’s realise we’re in space?
I feel a need to acquire some sort of ticket. I’m set though, I own an acre of the moon. And I am going to plough it, along with my space alien girlfriend.
My Earthly semen cures her space-libido. Always momentarily.
And I only ejaculate when directed by my government.
I think there’s only one more thing I want you to know…
I only masturbate when I have to.
Maybe I’m straying into topics meant for next time on Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
So I’ll leave it at this; throughout all the above, amidst the true and the exaggerated (somewhat)…I smiled.
The endorphins were released and I was happy.
And that was because I kept my smile, and I recommend you unleash yours.
Unto others and for yourself; smile.
And I should know.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
I have a problem. That problem is my personal development on Earth.
Just Earth- everywhere else I’m doing very well and thank you.
But here, the sphere with me on, we will be putting up with 401k’s and such, largely owing to a lack of alternative.
401k’s are a thing of the past. So is lacking an alternative.
Spears are the future.
I could leave it there, but fortunately I’m not paid for this writing, so I will be continuing anyway. Because it feels good.
It feels good?
Mission accomplished. Happy sensation. Tingling toes and I’m grinning. Very well done me.
401k’s are for other people. They bother me because they bother everyone. Bother.
It seems to be the simple introduction of vitally-inconsequential numbers and letters that really can unnerve a man’s day. Like having a ‘V’ and an ’18’ gang-shit you. Fuck V, and fuck 18 too. They’ve never done me a favour or turned up on time.
I don’t see why these letters should be introduced to the nice ladies and gentlemen. What did we do wrong- why thrust letters and numbers at us until we oblige? I’m not here to oblige. I’m here for the rabbit meat.
This is where the spears come in, though usually through one side of a rabbit and then out the other. I believe having a spear is like having a roof- intrinsic to getting by and slapping nature once or twice before succumbing to being sand.
We will all become sand, so in the meanwhile, don’t let anyone write their name in you, especially if they want to do it with piss. If they approach with piss, try to haggle them down to cutlery or something.
Don’t even fucking talk to me about pensions (I prefer to talk about unnecessary swearing In the middle of every fucking single sentence). They are a very bad idea.
A pension will resign you to sitting-down and the rise of the dilapidated brain, shortly followed by the gone-to-pot face and the pretty-much-a-write-off bowels.
Retire ye not thou pious pretender.
To do so is to throw your hands into the air and say “I’m out”, leaving the rest of the world to deal with your leavings, you cruel fool. We are all suffering various stages of childhood, retirement simply gives you a chance to blame children.
However, I can sympathise (if you’ll allow me).
Pensions are a throwback to when they were necessary. Ideally, we should be ready for old-age, and as such- we should be prepared for death by making it much more likely and much more watchable. No, you haven’t earned a retirement, as to do that is to condemn the young to blame and you haven’t earned that right.
Allow me to explain both these points a little further.
Pensions were necessary in a time when old age for some childless proletariat-types resulted in destitution and tragedy.
Now, if you get old- you can physically keep working for longer, you can be aware that retirement equates to a more unpleasantly- comfy death and your government should provide. Of course, this is not the case for all- but many. But enjoy what you do above all.
We must keep working till we die, ideally, or you will never be happy.
We must change our occupations, or we will never have been happy by the time we are most similar to a door-nail.
It’s not a retirement that is so attractive, rather- it is whatever you want to retire from that is the problem. How many musicians, actors, comedians, writers and artists retire? Now compare that to the number of civil-servants that retire, or cab-drivers, or policemen. These are troubled jobs, depression leads to reasons to be depressed about depression, and that is why so many people want out.
You might be a professional tree-climber.
And this profession permits you to do what you love most- be high atop something and be miles away from the floor. An admirable occupation- much more admirable than that occupation of Poland you’ve been planning. Do you want to stop this so that you can really focus on that sitting-down you’ve been promising to commit yourself to for the next 25 years?
People who throw spears for a living don’t ever want to stop. Think about it. You throw the spear and either you’re successful (and you eat whatever’s on the other end of it) or you’re not- in which case you get the amazing opportunity to throw a spear at something again.
“Maintain your sharp-items” is the only real piece of graffiti I have executed, and is one of the most meaningful things I have ever done to a wall (not that all those games of kick-ball meant nothing).
If it’s yours- keep it sharp because a 401k isn’t going to keep the hordes off your porch.
I don’t know when, or why, but I’m presuming that hordes will be a fairly constant annoyance in our lives at some point. Like running out of toilet paper. Perhaps once every 7 months- you’ll run out of toilet paper, or a horde will turn up- grumbling about 401k’s and why their spears are useful in situations like this. Hordes adore spears. You’ll need one too.
I’m already here- what else really needs to be done? The main race was taking place throughout my pa’s genitals, and on into my mother’s genitals, and finally resting on the sofa with a lot to do with my own genitals. And with any luck; getting to know someone else’s.
I’m here- what the fuck. Permit me that at least. Ultimately I shall die, so don’t push pretention and paperwork my way- I’m trying to climb this tree. Whilst typing.
What someone does with their life should be about what they want, even if they wish to retire (in which case prepare to be frowned-the-fuck-upon). However, I feel that given a chance, people will take up professionally hunting fruit and veg as a living, perhaps advancing into spearing fauna at some point- when moving targets are achievable and we get bored of stabbing cabbage.
This is the one ultimate point.
We all get bored. We will all get bored
The curious are victorious- to be dead a long time and wary of this. We should send them all a hamper for doing so well. I’m sure they already have enough medals.
The successful in life are the curious ones. Their curiosity might bring them to the success of enjoyment, of the alternative success of failure- through which experience will be gained and possibly another of those medals. Your failure makes your success more likely.
No matter what we do, curiosity, with a little courage thrown in, wins the daily day and is the reason we have bread, the reason we have bungee-jumping, the reason we have contraceptives, and the reason why I chose to get up each morning.
My personal development has little to do with numbers and letters. But I’m a curious one and I tend to say ‘yes’ 90% of the time and I smile a lot. I win- I’m going to live well and keep doing what I’m doing. I don’t need a form for that.
I don’t have a pension plan, so for those that invest their lives in enforcing their reasons to have one: beware me. I’m going spear shopping. And that’s just swell.