Death

For sure, death is shit for anyone who wants to live. But even they won't know anything about it. As you get older life gets tiring; landlords endlessly pestering you for money, council tax twats taking you to court in your absence for not paying money for some shit ideas they've had, ok, rubbish collection is pretty cool but that shouldn't cost a lot. Debt agencies endlessly pestering you over services some cunt claims they provided.

And let's face it, after about 40, unless you're a completely gullible twat You go through the same thing you went through as a child over the Father Christmas lie; nothing we do has meaning. For sure I'm not a cunt and will always go to the aid of an old lady or anyone weaker than me to help in a practical way. Now as my joints start aching and the tablets the doctors have me on to contain, to imprison my sliding and warping perception of reality that they deem true, see me putting on weight. It's a genuine dilemma; would I rather be a loony or be a fat, sexless, agreeable piece of furniture.

I look forward to death. I fear painful dying. I've seen cancer kill and I don't want that. I've a couple of grams of top grade heroin put aside and a set of work's ready to take myself out when it gets too painful, too dull or just when I can't be arsed with it anymore.

This is not to say I don't marvel at the incomprehensibly beautiful moment of life in all its glory. Each day I meditate on the sheer unlikelihood of being one of the possibilities that could have been. Being is so fantastic. Let's just enjoy till the lights go out and we return to the nothingness from which we came.

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