Crunching mints and spitting the bits on a new carpet.

I have been spending pieces of my 'conscious existence' [really...aren't all estimations pretentious? Psycho-anything is certified moneybollocks] on the cyberinterweb, reading about things that did happen during the 1980 decade into the 1990 decade. One of those things, which in itself is proof that I care far more about personal politics [computer games] than any of that unreal celebrity power cack [all news is shite made for arsehole purposes] and also a direct portal to happy times in any time [meaning that my mental age is frozen at around twelve]. Perhaps I have developed into a keyboard aesthete, that would account for my fractured dress sense.

Without further self-everything marksmanship, this is the road to Theo's Grotto...

Do you not wish that you were as lucky as I am? Life is sky-size brilliant for giving me human life at a time when I can access this material. I wish that I was immortal, with infinite lives and a death option. I'd probably hang around the apocalypse ['our' fault - only united when we fuck up eh?] and piss on some dickheads then hold my breath and float, via space, to loads of other places and then die by swimming into the sun and speaking the death code. Remember that if everyone else in the world was dead, you would have no competition and you would be the best and the worst at everything. This is how I live my life, because nobody else is alive because another person's life is irrelevant. You only live yours, no matter what those dozy twats tell you at house parties. In fact, next time I am wrongfully jargoned by a spaced-up shithair I will do my best to cause a gentle mental collapse in them that results in several shrugs at the shrink house and one very long spell down the well.

Fuck all of those twits. They are almost as boring as that gallery was.