Shit. How many times have we done this, starting a blog and giving it up halfway, then resurrecting it again (is the grammar correct? "Resurrect" already has an element of "again" in it; so does the "resurrect...again" combination imply redundancy? I digress.) just to give up halfway and hide in a corner for two years before continuing the fucking (pardon moi unpolished French) blog again?!
It's a goddamned fucking vicious cycle, this blogging thing. It's like an addiction which feeds the individual, and when the poor sap finally divorces himself from the poison that is blogging, the villain gradually seduces the guy until finally...
...finally the guy restarts, resumes, resurrects...his blog.
Well, what the fuck, enjoy the ride while it's here, eh? So, what has been going on in this blogger's life since the last entry?
A lot, or a little, depending on your outlook of life. It swings both ways, very fucking subjective. Not my sexuality, you fucking twat! I meant the part about "a lot" or "a little" happened in my life since my last post.
I finally finished my tertiary education, earning a measly second class upper degree as opposed to first class honours ("honors" for all you Yanks). So I'm not too fucking depressed, I don't blame myself for the dismal educational performance. I just simply don't fucking care much anymore. As long as I get my fucking degree and get a job.
Well, I did complain a bit when the results came out, something to the extent of:
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? THE LECTURERS DUNNO HOW TO MARK AH? FUCKERS! MOTHERFUCKING LECTURERS READ SI PIN ONE AH? MY ANSWERS SO FUCKING TERRER OSO THEY GIVE MARKS LIKE ASSHOLE-SCRAPED SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK??????"
Ahhh, that was cathartic. In the metaphorical sense, of course. I didn't mean shitting or puking all over the place literally. What? You don't know what cathartic means? Dumbass.
And then I got myself a job. Damned stressful as hell, but if I start describing my work, they'll most probably fire me so I can't discuss my work in detail because I need the dough to survive and if they realise that I've been naughty by tell-y tell-y about my work (which is confidential, but then again, what line of work isn't?) in my blog-gy blog-gy, I'll get stomped-y stomped-y by their feet-y feet-y and I'll be out of a job-by job-by unless I can confuse them with long-y long-y sentences like this that make (mostly, anyway) no sense at all because then they'd get all confused and die like flies stuck to flypaper that attempt to free themselves from the sticky flypaper by heaving-ho, heaving-ho, their pathetic little legs until they either die of exhaustion of die because they've ripped their fucking legs apart and they're now bleeding to death, die, DIE, FUCKING GODDAMNED PISS OFF AND DROP FUCKING DEAD.
Cathartic. Like letting loose after months of constipation in an unending fountain of shit.
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1 comment:
u r indeed a constipated boy. cathartic. i rest my case
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