'Where is my mind?...No, seriously'

I literally cannot think of a specific topic to write about. What with my current exhausted state, combined with emotional upheaval at home and being interrupted every 2 minutes by ‘work’, it’s hard to focus and maintain one clear thought or idea. My mind is one long, tired sigh right now. Hmmmmm. (a written sigh, what you think?)
So, I’ll just type away and let whatever pops into my head become immortalised in written form (that is until this blog is deleted along with stockpiles of other supposedly ‘immortal’ works the world over; servers are not the same as scrolls). I’m like one of the infinite numbers of monkeys pulled out of their vivisection day-job to sit at a type-writer and pound the keys in earnest, pausing only to throw their own excrement at fellow primates then eat a banana without washing their hands.
This could be viewed as a very stretched metaphor for every office job there is. And before you take offense, that’s not just a dig at office workers and comparing them to chimps…but we are really, let’s face it. Hundreds, thousands, trillions of us all typing and clicking away; working hard on one tiny part of a far grander scheme. Like with each completed word on every typewriter, striving to make up a great novel by sheer will…or something.
Hmmm…OK, that wee metaphor collapsed like an emphysemic landlady climbing the stairs in winter. I’m not very good at writing am I? Never mind, plenty more fish in the sea. Grass is always greener on the other side. What doesn’t kill you just hurts like an acid–tipped dentist’s drill and makes you wish you were dead.
One annoying phrase that really pisses me off is ‘every cloud has a silver lining’; that bizarre notion that every shitty, soul-raping event in life has something good to offer too. It’s like being stabbed in the gut by a psychotic clown on Christmas morning in front of your whole family. The clown’s laughing and grinding his black, rotting teeth while your loved ones scream and reach out to your prostrate, bleeding body. But as your life ebbs away (pulse slowing, eye lids getting heavy) you suddenly realise; hey, now I can use that organ donor card! Years of that tatty slip of plastic just sitting in my wallet unused have come to an end; I’m going to die, but I’ll save someone else’s life with my organs (except for my bleeding liver of course). Take that Bono! Sod ya Geldof! I’m going to actively save fellow human beings by dieing and really giving something back…I AM JESUS! I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE L…..At which point you die, basking in the warm glow of that ‘silver lining’.
Except that wouldn’t happen. Your brutal death would not be any less awful knowing that your bits of muscle and plasma were going to a stranger who for all you know could be the killer clown’s best mate or uncle. Same as when you find a ticket on your windscreen from the patrolling traffic Nazis, you don’t stop and think ‘Well, at least I’ll be helping traffic warden junior pay for his braces’. Sometimes shit happens; and it’s nothing but shit.
On the subject of organ donation, I agree with something David Mitchell once said on ‘Mock the Week’; that when you die, your body should revert to the State to have the organs harvested. The problem of a shortage of donor organs would be solved right away and it might help us curb the ridiculous notion that what happens to your body after you aren’t using it anymore is important. If these organs weren’t harvested, they’d just rot in the ground or be turned to ash in an oven. I’ve always said I’d want to be cremated because I don’t like the idea of my remains being slowly eaten by worms. But when I think about it, I’d like my body to be harvested for all that can be useful then immediately burnt to cinders, all within hours of my death (because if there’s one thing I dislike more than being eaten by worms, it’s having my corpse fiddled with by medical students. I mean…where were they while I was alive? It’s just rude to only find me sexually appealing when I’m dead!). Your loved ones can still have the ritual of a funeral / remembrance service if they want, just no need to have your body there as far as I can see; it’s not like you’re gonna be propped up to make a speech at the end.
And now a brief interval, I’m gonna be rambling on for a bit longer so stop here and go and make a coffee…I’ll just kill time ‘til you’re done.
Go on!
GO!
Yes, I’m ordering you, assumed reader, to fuck off and have a drink…there’s too much pressure to perform right now…just want to have a few minutes peace, OK?...Why are you still reading??? I know some of you have got up for a drink or to slap your children, but the rest are still reading or have come back from said drink / slap and are reading back over what they’ve missed. FINE! You’ve wasted your chance to take an actual break from reading this drivel, be it on your own head. Word-reading shower of bastards…
Anywho, right now my mouth tastes like what I imagine the inside of a camel’s arse is like. Or a policeman’s used underwear. Or a shy turtle’s neckerchief. Basically, it doesn’t taste too good right now. I put this down to having a few cups of what our work’s free vending machine describes as ‘coffee’ and a couple of hand rolled cancer sticks which, as well as making my mouth rank, have also started to tinge my index finger with a yellowy glow; like I’ve had said finger up a tramps nose for 12 hours.
All this doesn’t bother me too much because I love coffee and cigarettes. They are cool, they are hip and I am a better person for having them in my life, so there! I know they’re just killing me, I know they stink and I know they can keep me up til 2 am shaking like a Polaroid picture, but I do not care. I am tired of the tobacco police, the secondary smoke brigade, the “don’t you realise what you’re doing to your body?” mob, the twats. I don’t care if you don’t like the smell; stand somewhere else. I don’t like your taste in shirts but I don’t insist you strip off there and then and go shopping. And yes, I know an ugly shirt and cigarette smoke are not in the same league, but the point is, I don’t care about your lungs. If it’s a choice between the head-fuck of withdrawal or slightly irritating a stranger…*mimes lighting up and blowing out smoke with glee*.
Hehehe, I’m such a bastard sometimes, but who isn’t? We all tut and roll our eyes the second someone’s phone goes off in a lift and they answer it loudly. We all look over at that person and try and will the phone to melt in their hand mid-sentence; reducing the offending dialing fingers to bloody, plastic–coated stumps. We all give a heavy sigh when a family is seated behind us on a bus and the pissy toddler starts kicking our seat and whining at full volume. We turn and glance at the mother, saying with our eyes ‘Sorry, but would you mind slashing that kid’s throat? Twatting him with a brick, maybe? Thanks’. If the roles were reversed, we’d all react the same way; ‘Fuck off, I’m just taking a phone call’ or ‘Fuck off, he’s a child!’ We’re all stressed and wrapped up in our own lives and problems (as it should be really, can’t care and worry about everyone else all the time). We all think we’re the only ones being inconvenienced during the morning commute, we’re the only ones that are tired or frustrated or constipated. We’re all in exactly the same boat most of the time, but we’ve got our heads over the side so much we can’t see that…
Ouch! Another bad metaphor dies without dignity.
Sod it, I’m off. Laterzzzz.