Feathered friends

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I’m just typing this for the sake of typing. Spent the morning reading Jack Kerouac, listening to Charlie Parker, Metallica, Primal Scream, and reading the depressing news that is ever-Trump. He’s a verruca on the sole of every foot.

It’s raining today, and colder. The birds have started shitting in the meal worm feeder I’ve stuck on my window near my desk. There goes a Robin, darts in, evil glance at me, eats, turns, watches for predators, shits, leaves. Pretty much sums up life at the moment.

I’m waiting for my girlfriend – we’re going to a tiny cinema up the hill tonight to watch the new Trainspotting movie. I am tempted to overdo my meds; seemed the right thing, on the face of it. But on reflection it’s  a crappy hipster thing to do: just trying to tie myself to the last movie by virtue of getting fucked up. I’m balder, fatter, more tired, and haven’t learned a fucking thing in those twenty (20?) years. We’re going with two of her friends – one of whom is a schoolteacher, the other an insurance salesman. They are pretty decent humans. I must remember that nobody wants to hear about the time I spent a week in a Belgian forest with Tyson Fury and his extensive family. Or that I met serial Killers in jail. Or that sometimes I wish I was dead. It’s been a strange life. Too much to explain, even if I wanted to. Laugh in all the right places, that’s the key. Then spend the rest of the time trying not to disassociate, or feel bad for being alive.

Right, that’s enough. I’m beginning to wonder what the point of this blog is? I know it’s self-indulgent, but does it serve another purpose? Is it the last will and testament of a fucked-up old man? A manual of how not to do things? Is it a diary, or a train-of-thought diatribe consigned to the ether, with no readers, for no good reason?

BAM – the fucking Robin slams into the feeder, evil intent, trying to frighten me – it succeeded. My fingers reached for a brass candlestick on my desk. The birds are relentless today. Anything could appear next, harassing me, laughing at me sitting here at my old desk in the cold in an old jumper, scowling at the screen. My fingers are freezing. I am out of ideas. Will this ever end?


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