Drunken Soul

Walking along, on and on. Tottering on the razor’s edge, staggering, step after wavering step, falling down, down… no matter, you’re not going to give up now. Not ever. It’s your particular way to stagger. You’ll stand the pain, if you should fall on the razor’s edge. You’ll get cut, like a hundred times before, but wotthehell.
Cut to the bone, but you have to stand up. You have to show the world you can take the pain. Indomitable will, and so on. You talk to your drunken soul: you goin’ to give up now, you lazy little cunt? Down to the last minute, down to the last second, down to the bitter fucking end: keep your head up. Walk proud.

Mom and Dad

It’s like when you’re suddenly on TV: Hi mom! No, but it isn’t, it’s just a fucking blog, and who knows if mom is reading it? A shadow of doubt there, thank God. As Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain said, “it is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.” So maybe I am lucky, and, although I haven’t kept my trap shut as Samuel recommended, at least mother, perhaps, hasn’t read all the foolish things I’ve written here and still has doubts as to whether I am a fool or not.
Yeah, so I am listening to Taxman from the Beatles, which doesn’t fit in the least, but oh well. Sometimes the music is on a completely different tangent to the thoughts. Or whatever. Not just sometimes.
And dad? He knows I am a fool, and he’s proud of me anyway. Good dad, honest dad. Back in the day, when I was a baker, my first profession, he said: that’s a good, honorable profession! I’m proud of you, my son! And he meant it, and I am very, very thankful for that. I suppose there are many dads who are real bitches, but my dad is one of those rare cases who doesn’t give a fuck what I do for a living: it’s alright. When he reads this, he’ll say: my son is an author, that’s an honorable profession! Ha. Haha. Muahahaha…! *gasp*
Listening to Zhopa, from Leningrad.