Wednesday 23:17 p.m.
I must apologise to the Alien Creatures from Outer Space, the Masai Warriors and the perverts who come to this bloggy for my complete lack of abstemiousness and resultant legless bloggage over the past wee while.
I thought she was French, but she spoke more than two words to me tonight when I was out buying the extra, stupid two beers at Peckhams. We have smiled at each other and nodded over the last few months. Maybe after a while, we could have held hands.
She said: You are addicted to German beers. I realised she was Polish, of course. I said: What is the solution to this? Should I stop drinking German beers?
I should ask her to marry me. I should go there for a while and sit and drink coffee, and not drink beer. I could read the book about flying by Antoine the Frog Flying Genius Writer who got shot down by the Germans, and I could say: Hey, Missus, not only am I completely skint, and a failure at all things practical such as having any money, but I am also A LIVING SAINT who does not have to drink beer all the time. Look at me!
What do you have to do to become a living saint, Jack? Hmmm? Meditate like hell; don't do any stupid things like drink beer practically every night, and be really, really happy all the time ....mainly helped along by ra bliss and ra ecstasy and all.
My chum Poisonous might be indifferent to happiness. Disregarding thoughts is the main thing. Not believing in anything you think.
Poisonous is meticulously sewed up. We walked passed the damsel coming back to Stockbridge on the way from the Modern Art Gallery; she was sitting on a bench like a French person. We nodded hullo. The Poisonous asked if I knew her or was I just randomly saying hullo to gurls. I told him that men didn't like the care in the community clothes I was wearing, but women couldn't resist them.
Lazarus, the Coptic monk, who lives in the St Antony caves knows it's lonesome at first. The Domestic Bliss comes back tomorrow. That should straighten me up. Shame that I'm not a bit better at this!
Thursday 7:08 a.m.
I had six German beers last night, but here I am at seven in the morning feeling really alright. Slightly fashed and bashed, but no real hangover. Hmmm? My leg is nearly cured. I could go running at night soon and lie in the bath instead of hitting the plastic for beers. I don't want to cut up my credit card again. Even in this degenerate age, the buddha says you can become cool. Have to give up the beers. Have to give up the beers. Have to ...well, I won't have any tonight anyway!
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4 comments:
Obviously you have punished the leg into health. Result!
Ion: I reckon it might be okay by Monday. Everyone tells me to go to the doctor, but that's what got me into trouble to start with! When you hear about all the illness crap other folk have to put up with, well .... Hotboy
Quite right to avoid the doctors. I went this week to get a wart burnt off, and came away with a virus from the waiting room.
Did the lassie fall for your greatcoat?
Albert? Is that you? Affectionate loving kindness is the best I could do. The old greatcoat is stylish compared to what I usually wear these days. I mean, as long as your bits are covered up! Hotboy
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