Why is it inevitably so much easier to blog about something when you feel like you have something to complain about, when as equally inevitably, you don't.

Oh well just for the therapeutic hell of it, In tribute to my over feed blue peter past, here's one I made earlier...

I resent being treated like a fucking puppy.

Fuck you and fuck anyone else that doesn't want to stay in the art gallery because its arty and pretentious (...hints in the name honey). You know what? News-flash. So are you Dick, now go cry to Jayne.

If you're not going to practice common courtesy then why the hell should I?

Give me one good reason to restrain myself, filter out my personality and water it down and fuck, you know what? I probably will. 

Because I'm dumb like that. Pig shit. You know the sort? We all know you do.

Life will play out it's games and I'm playing out my scene like I want because this is my spotlight. My one and terminal monologue (internal or otherwise) and if you've got a better idea? Frankly i'd love to hear it.

I want to surround myself with like minded people and psycho babble in a dark room to make people like you disappear.

CUT.

ME.

OFF.

Because the punch line is; when it all boils down to it, we're both just doing the same thing and it kills either of us to admit it.

The jokes on you kid.