Well, goddam it, due to unforeseen logistical problems, I found myself taking the day off. Which was nice, after the weekend of hockey, late nights, excessive inebriation and being attacked by a good mate, who obviously has a strand of lunacy running through his genetic ladder. Having barely survived all that, it was a pleasure to be able to return to bed, fleeing the testicle freezing morning, and watch flipped out Jap movies. However, I failed to remember that Cris was supposed to be filling in some more of me tat tomorrow, a day which will now find me employed. Drattage! I want the fucker finished so that I can decide if I want it extended over the ankle and under the foot. It just started itching a little today, especially just below the knee. That Kamolisan cream (for sore nipples and baby’s bottom rash – and now for tats) is the shit. Better than prep H and Savlon. The scab is not hardening up and just brushes off – hopefully taking no more than just the overfill of ink under my dermis. Fuck this, why am I writing a diary. It’s because I just browsed through some other blogs and got carried away. Every blog I have ever read (except for Angelina’s thedetox, in the old days) has made me cringe. Well, perhaps not all of them and I haven’t ever bothered to read that many. Whatever Bruce mate! Anyway, fuck all this shit, I’m off.
The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own.
When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case.
Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everyb...
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