a olhar prós comboios

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends.

Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourselves.

Choose your future. Choose life . . .
But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life: I chose something else.



The downside of coming off junk was I knew I would need to mix with my friends again in a state of full consciousness. It was awful.

They reminded me so much of myself, I could hardly bear to look at them.



People think it’s all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it.

Otherwise we wouldn’t do it. After all, we’re not fucking stupid. At least, we’re not that fucking stupid.



Basically, we live a short disappointing life; and then we die.
We fill up our lives with shite, things like careers and relationships to delude ourselves that it isn’t all totally pointless.



So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I’m a bad person.
But that’s gonna change. I’m going to change. I’m gonna be just like you.

The job, the family, the fucking big television… the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener… good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance…mortgage,
washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas… getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.



lust for life

quarenta e sete e um


Naquele dia a morte instalou-o
confortavelmente no céu. Lá se foi
com seus modos humanos, seus caprichos
e um notório acanhamento em público
(há-de a princípio faltar-lhe à-vontade entre os anjos).


Acho mais graça às redes pessoais que às redes sociais.
Estou nas redes sociais para não ser um primata.
Mas estou com a falta de à-vontade natural nos primatas.



As unhas e os pés têm muito que se diga, e tenho ideia de já ter dito uma coisa ou outra.

Também sei gerir o bias de suprimir o que não se gosta ou discorda.

Mas há limites, um artigo que começa com:
Desta vez não fui ver as unhas sujas do pés do …

Fosga-se, tá bem que as unhas eram do Eros de Caravaggi, mas mesmo assim.

Começar pelas unhas dos pés e que estão sujas, não há condições.

Caraças, antes de vires com cenas kinky, aquece-me um bocadinho.