Stuff
is happening. I hate it when stuff happens; it means I have to do
stuff. I may lambast boredom at some available opportunities, but
to be perfectly honest (hahahahahahahahahahaha etc.) I love it.
Boredom is who I am, it's who I aspire to be. Without boredom,
I'd be no better than an inexplicable stain on my glasses.
Without boredom, I'd be frayed. When stuff rears its ugly head, I
either do stuff or I don't do stuff; it's that simple. Less
simple is the major mental battle in deciding whether to do the
stuff or not. I'll stay awake at night worrying about whether do
to stuff or not, and then spend all day tired and asleep. Stuff
is pure evil; there is no other way to put it, except for stuff
sucks.
I
love stuff. It pulls me out of my everyday, bored, mire. I
haven't done stuff in ages. It'd be nice to do stuff again. I'd
do stuff with my friend Debbie, but she's bald and she's doing
Dallas right now. There's nothing like sitting on a train,
heading towards stuff, whether staring out of the window in
nauseous anticipation, or trying to read and make eye contact
with someone over to the right. It's even better if you need to
change trains to get to do stuff: you get to sit on a platform
with that famed 'I'm doing stuff' look that only a spot dug out
by the root has. Of course there's lies to cope with when sitting
at a station en route to stuff, but they're too obvious and
mundane for me to list for you. I've got stuff to do; I can't
waste time here with you.
But
do I really want to do stuff? It means stopping what passes for
my life temporarily to do stuff. Stuff sucks. Oh sure, I'll enjoy
it when I get there, but I also enjoy being here. Stuff is the
stuff that dreams are made of, but it still sucks. Stuff scares
me; what else will drag me down so much, and yet bring me up so
high a moment later? Would that I were a piece of driftwood who
could just drift all day and not do stuff until burnt by some
beachbum or family with a barbecue. Driftwood never has to do
stuff, and I do. It's not fair. I'm gonna burn some driftwood to
satiate my splinter-lust.
Oooh
I could really go a barbecue right now. I'm fucking starving. Can
you imagine the smoke oozing through my lungs? Touching those
weird little bits whose name escapes me that haven't been touched
since the last barbecue. Do barbecues count as stuff? Cos I could
really go a barbecue right now. Just make a big fire somewhere
and chuck on potatoes, meat of some sort, a fuckload of
non-potatoey vegetables, and whatever else I've missed out, in
all combinations of chopped-ness and mixosity. I wouldn't even
have to eat it if that would quantify it as stuff, I could just
cook it, and smell it, then throw it away in front of homeless
people. But I'd need an answer soon: does barbecuing count as
stuff?
I nearly thought
I'd have to do stuff yesterday when my win386.swp file grew to
250mb. I dunno whether it was a virus or not, but it's stopped
now after running a virus scanner. So that, I guess, is an
example of when doing a little bit of stuff will stave of having
to do a lot of stuff. Or to put it another way, I've got a
stitch. Which still doesn't stop stuff from sucking, rearing its
ugly head, being a wonderful thing to look forward to, or
whatever other complimentary thing I said about stuff. If only I
had a toin I could coss, or a greased, lithe Philipino youth.
Oops. Did I really say that? Shit. Umm.. sorry folks, must dash
off and question my sexuality.