Chronic delirium

It doesn’t matter anymore. Ambiguity is my January friend.

Where are you rabbit, pack your bags and “hopp, hopp!” I’ve had enough of the tiger year. Stripy cats smell like gutter, more in need of anger management than me. Fucking conceited creatures.

Even though I don’t drink alcohol, I think I suffer from chronic delirium; unable to think and speak clearly, all I can do is write with my peculiar and clumsy style that embraces German, British and American English. Confusion is real.

If a crowd of people felt the same energy- while you are in the middle, causing an unnatural flow- you’d know you’re the only sane living creature among them. The rest doesn’t matter. Think about yourself for a change. The confusion you feel is normal. You are not the problem; it’s the people. I don’t believe in anything they call “universal.” People won’t ever feel the same thing.

If each person on this earth could think for themselves, the term “universal” wouldn’t exist. I wonder what if spoken or written language didn’t exist to connect us all. Would we all draw pictures together and fuck before we go to sleep? What would happen with all those emotions we need to express?

What would shape us? Picking flowers or breaking glass? How will we know what means what?

Being human is wonderful as long as you disagree with everything, especially with things you’re not. Moliere values honesty just as much, but he says that honesty needs to be delivered with tact. I suppose this means that you should respect your fellow people.

It sounds like bible-talk. Don’t get me wrong; I respect people who clean toilets, and I pay them. However, I hate to pay them when they’re rude. On the other hand, some can put up a sincere smile on their faces and say, “Thank you.” What are you thanking me for! I hate your job, and by the way, I wet the floor because I wasn’t aiming right. (I squat; I don’t sit on public toilets.)

How can it be put into words when a little gnome is running circles around your head? I think he’s trying to create a vortex, but he’s too weak; he will puke. He is cute, though, only too unfit to make me go crazy.

That train in my dream came back for me even though I had missed it. I don’t know who the driver was. But it’s not often that I feel thankful in my dreams, especially for a train driver. The bus driver stops for you now and then, but has it ever happened anywhere that an engine driver stops and comes back for you? I was close to despair during the first half of that dream, and I was full of hope in the second part. When I woke up, I was thinking of flying turtles.

I have changed my other blog’s title to ‘The march of the suicide pigs.’ Seriously, it’s about time to view things from a different angle. Why would a pig fall from a roof, Mr. Greene, if not wanting to commit suicide? You’ll never know whether an animal is aware of its destiny. Not when you believe in karma.

I refuse; I refuse to feel anything at all. Feelings–my heart tends to flirt with the blood in my veins. Sometimes it pumps so much blood that I begin to blush in my face, and at the same time, I feel ants tickle me inside my stomach. How can an automaton feel such a sensation?

Maybe it’s time to reboot my low-functioning inner system before I crash or freeze. I’m not made for this.

What fool am I anyway to allow my curiosity seep through like that?

Wasn’t Ellen a complete idiot in that video? She’s still looking for her orgasm, which I hid well in her favourite Depeche Mode song. I’m such a sadist sometimes.

How can I hide someone’s orgasm? This is one of the few things that an incompetent writer can do.

My life number is 9; I’m a niner. In my opinion, all Niners have to make use of the number 9. You can move mountains with this number if you want. It’s the highest of all digits. You can even cross oceans with this number and break all boundaries if you have the guts.

I owe this number a lot. It will forever be a part of me. It’s now 22:59 – how wonderful is this?

Sleep and giggle. Find the orgasm in the right song.

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