I’ve been thinking of going to a social anxiety meet-up group. I’ve been thinking of going for over a year now. The problem is, every time I get an invite via email,I’m too anxious to even open it and take a look.
And so, here we are.
The problem with cubicle locks is that there is often no cubicle lock. The remnants are present, but you can’t lock them. The only good thing about a broken cubicle lock is how it improves arm strength, for you got to keep that door shut, you got to keep the next man out.
And when that broken cubicle lock rustles, you’ll be squeezing more than just your muscles.
It cost 40p for the privilege.
My blog writing these days is basically a four-panel comic without the comic. So here goes:
Everything is absolutely terrible.
Actually, I need to put my troubles into perspective.
Hmm, well… yeah, I guess things aren’t absolutely terrible.
It’s worse.
The sun is too bright and I can hardly type. I’m squinting whilst complaining, and even though I could go over and close the blinds, I’m also conscious of keeping my electric bill down.
The sun is a natural LED, let it in. Who cares if I can’t make magic come out of my fingers and onto the page? The cost of living crisis is here, no longer near, and I need to absorb every last drop I can get. Standing charges are how much?
It’s never a nice experience to find bits of food stuck in your teeth. Trying to unhinge it with your nails never seems to work, especially if you bite them like me. Having a toothpick on hand is best, but sometimes a good tonguing for an hour to two will do the job.
But one hot top tip, don’t use paper. Receipts, Mcdonald’s Monopoly stickers, cardboard coffee stamp cards. Just don’t do it. Trust me.
For the last ten days, it’s been death on repeat. I wake up each morning and the same person has died once again, the billboards tell me so. It’s on the news too, yet no one is asking why?
How many days does it really take to die?
And I’ve yet to see anyone cry, at least not after day three.
The first thing I saw when viewing Overground Underground was the strawberry-scented bear from Toy Story 3 staring at me, eye to eye. He’s gone now, I can’t find him on the site anywhere, but what better representation of Overground and Underground than with the sweet but cruel big bad from everyone’s favourite toy series.
These days you get the above, and the above wash machines are what all the poetry, fiction, non-fiction, interviews, art, and the like are thrown into, swirled around and then dumped onto the blog pages. There are a lot of words that maybe don’t belong together, but there they are, and here I am, I got my little merchandise piece included, which can be read right here, based on the ‘Can You Live Entirely of Neon Genesis Evangelion Merchandise?’ video on YouTube. Can you? I think so.
Overground or underground, this is a nice place to be.
Been a little sad recently seeing a few lit mag faves close down, but this site is still standing, so please take a look, over or under, I’ll find you somewhere in the middle.
I saw a guy in the steam room reading Jack Kerouac.
I saw a dozen in a bar reading Jack Kerouac.
I saw another on my balcony reading Jack Kerouac.
And I don’t think even Kerouac would be impressed.
Eating spicy food in public, pepper level one, chicken katsu curry, give it to me. I like the zing, even at the mildest flavour, but still, out come the tissues, because I’m crying. Red-eye blubbing, sniffing up snot, the works. And the strangers sitting next to me? They don’t stick around for dessert.
Because it’s only mochi.
Nothing much changed the next day after the event.
You know, that event. The big one.
There was a new billboard outside.
And I felt a little groggy.
But no one cried.
I tried.
Channel Static 