Birthdays Are For Cunts
Well, after spending last year thinking I was 2x*, I actually am now 2x. And I couldn't care less. Measuring time is a load of bollocks and watching a number click up by one has never been a hobby of mine**.
A second can seem to take an eternity to tick by (and that's a long fucking time if you bother to look it up). Don't believe me? Jump off a fucking building and see. An hour can pass in an instant. Take a nap and tell me otherwise. So fuck birthdays and fuck pretending to give a shit about them, they are for cunts.
However I did do a little checkup on how those seconds are taking their toll on me. All things considered, I'm doing pretty well for someone who has a £20 bet with SB that I won't make it past 30:
Interesting that it's always my right side that gets raped, something to do with being left handed I guess. Or having deeply repressed homo tendencies whilst simultaneously wanting to nail my mum, or some shit like that, probably.
PS If you don't hear from me ever again, it's because I died at the wheel of the Ferrari 355 I'm going to be driving tomorrow. I have a mild sense of foreboding about the whole thing, given my past record of behaving like a complete lunatic in fast cars. I made a guy who owned a Porsche cry once. Which serves him right for buying kraut shite, really.
* This is not a Roman numeral joke, Ok?
** It is for the same reason that same reason that I believe New Year's Eve to be for cunts, as well as a guaranteed shitty night for drinking.
*** Yes, I own a mirror to notice this. Fuck you.
A second can seem to take an eternity to tick by (and that's a long fucking time if you bother to look it up). Don't believe me? Jump off a fucking building and see. An hour can pass in an instant. Take a nap and tell me otherwise. So fuck birthdays and fuck pretending to give a shit about them, they are for cunts.
However I did do a little checkup on how those seconds are taking their toll on me. All things considered, I'm doing pretty well for someone who has a £20 bet with SB that I won't make it past 30:
- Right wrist that can't lift any real weight after drunken accident.
- Right arm that can't reach behind back after drunken accident.
- Right little toe broken and not quite healed properly.
- Right hip and knee cunted after years of being fallen on, causing "retard's limp" throughout winter..
- 3 "laughter" lines under each eye from years of undersleeping/overdrinking***.
- Chipped left canine after...fuck only knows what.
- 2 Permanent scars on left arm from cigarette burns.
Interesting that it's always my right side that gets raped, something to do with being left handed I guess. Or having deeply repressed homo tendencies whilst simultaneously wanting to nail my mum, or some shit like that, probably.
PS If you don't hear from me ever again, it's because I died at the wheel of the Ferrari 355 I'm going to be driving tomorrow. I have a mild sense of foreboding about the whole thing, given my past record of behaving like a complete lunatic in fast cars. I made a guy who owned a Porsche cry once. Which serves him right for buying kraut shite, really.
* This is not a Roman numeral joke, Ok?
** It is for the same reason that same reason that I believe New Year's Eve to be for cunts, as well as a guaranteed shitty night for drinking.
*** Yes, I own a mirror to notice this. Fuck you.
posted by Peter O'Phile at
10:38 am
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