where's your head at?

I’m a vegetarian… I’m not, er… ‘hardcore,’ y’know, in that I eat a lot of meat—but that’s only because I like the taste! So, morally, I win, as far as I’m concerned.

Or when people break up, they always use a bunch of lines on each other, you know, terrible rubbish lies, like ‘It’s not you, it’s me, it’s me.’ It’s NEVER you, it’s always them! You should level with these people! Tell them! ‘You know that strange sound you used to hear when you were going to sleep? That was me CHEWING the bed, out of sheer boredom! OOOOHH, How I HATE you, I hate you so much it gives me energy! I have to get up early in the morning to hate you because there isn’t time enough in the day. Please, GO AWAY!’ Or that other BULLSHIT: ‘I need more space!’ People never quantify exactly how much space they really need… do they? But strangely enough, it always seems to be the exact same height, depth and breadth as you.

So, yes… death. When you’re young, you think about it… Well, you don’t really think about it, you know—you have the intelligence of raspberry jam—you don’t think about anything. But it’s there, as a mode of force—making you do things. Go and get a job. Go and find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toaster. Go to work. Get on the bus. Look at your boss. Say, ‘fuck.’ Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, ‘WHY? Why did this happen?’ Go to bed. Lie awake! At night! Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on—your clothes—whatever they’re called. Go out the door, into work—same thing! Same people—again. It is real—it’s happening to you. Go home again! Sit. Radio. Dinner—mmm. GARDENING GARDENING GARDENING death.