Chafe.

You will have noticed a marked increase in bloggery from this quarter in recent weeks. This is partly to do with the fact that I don't have to fight Lurid Archive for the internet at the moment, but mostly it's because I'm having trouble writing the stuff that I want to be writing. (Yes, this is me with writer's block. Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

Aaaaanyway. I know what all you little fishies really come here for. You want to see the Fattest Woman On Earth, and her Dog-Faced Son. You want to see the Living Skeleton. You want to sit and watch the Amazing Geek eat a live chicken. You don't come for the inbetween days, you come for those too much info posts, doncha? And if you don't, well-- Browser. Back button. Fly, my pretties, fly!

So it happens that today is a hormonal kind of day, and I find that I am in full-on Ginger Snaps mode. An extraordinary, aimless rage consumes me, little tentacles of energy snapping out and snagging on things: my own flaws, all your screw-ups, life stuff, the horror of the world. Memories and newsfeeds. The images flash past my mind too fast to hang onto.

Rghghghghhgh.

I'm sick of sane people. I'm sure I've mentioned this, but it bears repeatin' now: sane people suck. If you don't have at least a few little warps in your record then I have no time for you, for you are a dead thing that walks among the living and your soul is like unto those gritty bits in an economy beefburger. How the hell can you live in this world and not be crazy? Just a tiny weeny bit crazy? What is wrong with you people? Escapism I get-- I totally get-- but don't live your life pretending there's nothing to escape from. You insulate yourselves, numb yourselves to everything that might chafe at your conscience, rationalise every action you take until your passage through life is so slick that you might as well be Vaselined all over. But you miss that friction, don't you? You miss having something to gmaw on. So you pick fights. You scavenge, you scratch around, you nose and snuffle and dig until you find someone with a raw patch on them, someone a touch less mean than you, someone who either can't or won't fight back. You find the chink in the armour and then you de-gut them. Can't find a real person? Fine! There's always a straw-man caricature you can kick around, a made-up bugaboo to get between your teeth and worry at. But don't let anyone criticise you!, oh dear me no. Don't let anyone suggest that there might be the teeniest little flaw in your approach. Don't let anyone suggest that the only pain you are capable of comprehending is your own. If anyone gets on your case, then anything goes. No holds barred. Be imaginative! You can always find a way to be the hero, to rework and rewrite the story until you're a brave little David to a big bad Goliath. Deny, demand, rationalize.

No, actually: I was wrong. We're all mad. It's just that the majority of people are mad in a certain, very specific way, and since everyone around them is mad in the same way, they assume that must be sanity and get very very cross with anyone whose madness doesn't mesh nicely with their own.

Stupid Homo Sapiens Sapiens. I'm defecting. I'm joining the People's Republic of Coffee-tables. With my brains and their built-in magazine racks, we shall rule the WOOOORRRRLLLDDD!

Your time is done, primates.