Here We Are

Well, here we are. Drunk, and alone. Typical situation. So… what shall the topic of conversation be on this fine evening? Drunken loneliness? Lonely drunks? Skunks? Punks? No? You may be thinking: he is alone, poor fucker, and there can be, in light of this fact, no conversation. Wrong. You simply have no fucking idea how many incredible conversations one can have with one’s own little self. Sometimes those are the best conversations of all. No distractions. No silly comments from well-meaning idiots who haven’t the slightest idea. No interruptions, waugh, that is the best! No one to tell me I am wrong! Whoop!
How did I get here? Well, let’s go back in time… two people fuck, a child is born, is christened Mr. Hellstrøm, grows through trials and tribulations to be a middle aged cynical asshole… voilá! Simple as that.
Time isn’t after our asses. Time doesn’t care. The days go by, and it is up to us to fill them with meaning, or with Dada, or with beauty, or with hell.
No matter what you do
The heavens are blue
The rest of your life lies before you

Great Fun of the Ironic Kind

Curse it all. Shup-shup-a-dup-daya. I’m in an ironic mood, but there is no one here to play it off on. All alone. Only me to victimize with irony, and frankly I’m not in the mood to be on the receiving end, at least not from me. I have no desire to get stuck on the end of my own blunt tongue.
That is one of the major disadvantages of having no companion. A woman would be convenient just now, but for God’s sake a woman who can take it. Not a sensitive little thing who doesn’t understand and is hurt… a woman who can hit back, verbally, without being insulted and without being insulting. I’d love to bandy words with a smart woman just now.
So, what’s left? You, the hypothetical reader. But I can’t, for the life of me, bandy words with you. You are simply too fucking remote. Besides which I can’t see your eyes, I can’t hear you, I can’t smell you. There is no true conversation without these things. Chatting is a joke, I mean chatting in the sense of typewriting a conversation with someone you can’t see on the computer. Emotes are just an even worse joke, a screen, a further wheel within the wheel of inscrutability. 😉
Of course, a conversation like that also offers singular ironical opportunities…