A day spent getting angry at everything and nothing specific at the same time.
Work and death and Wimbledon, coffee and choking and seeing a fat child eating furtively on the street. Marty fucking Morrissey and humidity and no jacks roll, sweat and neighbours and nothing on the television and the fact that my short term memory has gone, shot to shit. I've started walking into too many rooms forgetting my reason for being there. I don't like the feeling. A torpor.
It's the black dog and it too will pass but for the moment I'm glad I have no company, save for this brilliant verbose bastard on the television, incarnating the horrible side of myself that dares not venture out.
Dylan Moran and his treatment of the word 'awesome,' bilious, articulate and the only thing to make me laugh all day.
He's walking along with his children, frustrated at their misuse of the English language.
Him: "Can we just have some quiet time? Here's some crisps."
Them: "CRISPS! AWESOME!"
Him: "They're not AWESOME, they're CRUNCHY. If I opened them and haggard shafts of light and cherubs and music came out, they'd be awesome, alright? Mountains and rivers and the fact that I'm still breathing are AWESOME."
Someone had to say it.