Snooze (fucked if you do...)

ShhhhhHHHKK. Quick release of a low pass filter. Fade-in day 239 of the party equilibrium. Groundhog day for the happy masses. The morning is bright, the morning’s shiny. And the dreary sky is seemingly finding it’s way directly into my nausea. The couch is too short and the beer was of the cheap variety. Oh yes, arty student parties. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. My frontal lobe is shrieking and throwing dishes at me. Sound of shattering china hits me right in the nerve centre. Enough to knock out a deaf elephant.

I’m surrounded by what appears to be a host of mutated foetal twins, joint at the hips and covered in canvas, as if to say: color us in, we’re still untouched. In reality, these are fully developed byproducts of human interaction. ORDERLY: “No way we can throw ‘em out with the badwater now, doc, they’re protected under the copyright of procreation”
DOC: “This is just exactly what is wrong with this country. We’re growing social abces like weeds on an unrestricted, fertile yard. Nobody cares to do anything about it. Round ‘em up and ship ‘em off I say. They’re only here so we have something to hate. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.



Meanwhile my phone is filling up on moral downfall and burning desire from another timezone. There’s about a 3 year timelag, but those inhabiting their own dreams seem like a most blissful species. They were discovered around 11 pm last night by a group of raving biologists who care for nothing but their next hit of Ayahuasca to put some coherence in their research statistics. Life science, people, live it or leave it. Do the human thing. Redefine the species in a sweaty state of excitement. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. Any given definition of the human condition is an escape from facing life in itself. The deal is: we spend our lives searching for an answer. We don’t find IT, but the wild guesses and rough estimates are what drives our existence. Even the most inspiring, clear-headed wisdom you happen to stumble upon while you’re getting your genitals hosed down is no reason for CASE CLOSED. No post-game rep, no final assessment. Just put your pen down and keep searching. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.

Meanwhile Karl Marx has come and gone, leaving polystyrene dandruff all over the place. Stench of stale beer on an empty stumach. Aromatherapy from hell. Captain Smalltalk is still down in the trenches, laughing maniacally as he shoots the breeze with a double-barrel sawed-off shotgun. It’s not standard issue, but then again, what is? Gotye is singing Somebody That I Used To Know with a slight lisp. There’s a cardboard box in the middle of the room. There’s a sighting of spotted banana with perfect curve. Mathmaticians stroke out with a smile in their eyes as they gaze upon her. 42 turns out to be the co-efficiënt of this one banana’s curve. Whether it’s worth gazing upon her has led to many debates in academic whorehouses and local Wholefoods stores. The University of Hangover has published an official press release containing the official, authorised consensus: “Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t,” But fearing the demise of all scientific institutions, they continue by adding: “The Board is fairly certain that it solves many a problem for mathmaticians. Life is hard on them as it is, so we fully support their newfound luxury to end it on a high note. But it’s still untested and we have no certainty as to the effects it has on commoners and Humanities students.”

I look around. No perfect curves here. Closes thing to it is the butt on the girl who's sleeping with upskirt and, apparently, no underwear. Great legs, great butt. Don't ask, don't tell. Let's never speak of it again. Sound of wind blowing. Distant rumble of cars. Slow flares of light, shot shivers out of focus, fade out. Snooze.