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[30 Oct 2004|01:03pm] |
I have been changing my bedclothes, and watching "The Return of the King", near weeping with laughter at the dreadful things I was thinking. Then welling up with the sheer battering of joyous endings and orchestral grandieur.
I had four hundered and ninety four words this morning, of a one thousand word essay. I dragged my bundle of shoddy works down the stairs and prepared some lunch, two rolls filled with charred meat of various descriptions, yeast and meat delights.
Groan.
And now I am back to studying. After a burst of activity, much like a writer when a flash of inspiration hits......wait! That'd be me!
So, the total now stands at seven hundered and eighty six words. That's in about five minutes.
Not bad....it's all rambling of course, but the require amount will be fuilfilled, and hopefully leave me time to finish finding something more about the feminism side of things, so I won't merely burble like a dying man when coming to the speech.
Biting the tongue.
That's not too easy. When faced with an idiot, the common compulsion I now have is to retort, and with the brain I have (supposedly), this can often get me into trouble. Much because the idiots I sometimes launch verbal tirades towards cannot fumble together enough cells to analyse what I am saying to them, and therefore would rightly assume that it must be something bad.
Last night was nearly one such moment.
I was sitting at the bar, happily necking a Guiness and enjoying the luxury of a weekend of sans washing up action, when there was a small shadow tapping at the corner of my eye.
It was Milly, the sweet black tiny pub cat of the Bell, scared tiny face constantly nervous in the face of normality; her early lot was awful, she was kicked and abused (though both would much mean the similar thing), had filthy burning cigarrettes stubbed out on her fur, and was generally treated like shit.
Finch is a well fed, priapic cunt with a wife he treats like a child, and friends who are as mentally redundant as he, and they'll sit on stools yakking about things that would be offensive if only they weren't so fucking laughably constructed in the mouthes of these pillocks.
Finch was sitting with his token wife, and token friend enjoying himself bumbling through another racist joke or three, whilst I, quite distant now from these imbeciles, looked at Milly's plight. She was at the Public Bar door, cutely staring through the window, on two legs. This I found really rather sweet and amusing, so I decided to open the door to let the poor cat in.
I gently swung the wooden fram open, kneeling down to pet the tiny thing. She veered back, as always scared without reason, but with bad memories of other places and other doors, and hesitated despite the safety of this place. With the peace offered by myself, she was ready to enter, when like a club through flowers, this peace was shattered.
"Either let the thing in or kick it, one of the two....it's freezin' in here," barked Finch, with all the grace of a drunken orc. I creased my brow with disgust at this intrusion, bit my tongue, and not wishing to say what was on my mind, which was likely this: "Yes, it wouldn't do to have a sweet endearing creature in the bar, would it PAUL? You shambling imbecile lager swigging astro sized CUNT", I quietly went back to my seat.
It is hard for me. I want people like this to know what is wrong with them. But i value my own safety. If I spat the daggers that grew in my brain, my health would be forfeit.
Fuck you, Finch. You destroy the beauty and grace of life. You're a grey mass, like your scumbag mates.
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