It’s one of those days where no wayward bus relieves me of the dubious pleasure of being. I’m not gone, damn it all. I keep going on, no matter what I will do to make it short. I guess it’s all half-assed. In the end, I want to live. In spite of all the suffering, the loneliness, the stupid misunderstandings… I want more. If it wasn’t all like something out of a fucking dime-novel, I could, perhaps, reconcile myself with it. But no.
Murder me. Save me the trouble of killing myself slowly with toil and trouble, please. The murder of Mr. Hellstrøm, in one act, a two minute play (shouldn’t take much longer than that to bleed to death, if you do it properly). Unfortunately, it is not to be; the play must be long, interminably long, and for the most part boring as hell, full of clichés and silly misunderstandings. Even the highlights are not convincing. Bad acting. Mosquito bites. Burnt fingers, cuts from shaving, too much rum. Slow mutilation as age takes its toll and nothing remains but stale farts and the wish for more of the same. Garlic doesn’t stink, but this stinks like garlic. And then, at long last, the funeral, young people feeling out of place… and they are.
Horseshoes and Handgranades from Green Day.