Dear Reader;
I hope you're well, and if you are, I wish I could share that feeling of wellness with you. This week has been, to put it mildly, a shit fest. Don't get me wrong, some very nice things happened too. But I'd have to say, on the whole, it was exhausting and odious.
The worst of it was, it all went wrong due to my own half-wittedness. On more than several occasions I unintentionally caused hurt by blundering about with my usual insensitive bullshit, (I have no tact!) whenever I tried to be nice it all went pear shaped, in the end I just retreated into my mushy marshmellow, but even that evoked ill feeling, some tweeps became a little testy because they thought I was avoiding them.
However, it gets worse. I have another account I tweet from. ParanoidAdroid. I use this account when I want to talk to someone privately, could be to discuss new adventures in self medication, politics, religion or just filthy smut. Essentially, stuff that's not fit for the timeline. Anyway, I'd signed out of Sir Fudge Esq and into ParanoidAdroid. BUT, for some reason, Twitter synced the two accounts (I've since learned that I need to close firefox first).
Oh woe...The upshot was, I thought I was nice and cosy with a close friend smoking weed and bragging about being high as a fucking kite, head like a ferris wheel in slow motion, making all kinds of risque remarks, along with usual expletives, and it was being broadcast to the fucking timeline! @#!$$!!^%$!! Aaaaaghghggh, cringe. To make matters worse, I was so stoned, I sent what was intended as a DM to the timeline as well. Pure genius!
Oh, God, for my sins thou hast made me a blithering idiot...
The only saving grace was that we hadn't moved on to the really foul smut talk. You know before I was on prozac, I was completely insane, but very switched on to everything. Now I'm calmer, but stupider, I used to be so obsessive about making things work properly, now it's like, ah, so fucking what, who cares, someone will sort it for me... I seem to be experiencing a kind of degenerative psychological regression, but...ah,... so fucking what... who cares...someone will sort it for me...somehow...
And how to top all this off? I'm supposed to ring the Cunta Kinta tonight. Two hours of her screaming into my fucking ears till they bleed. Screaming about what? About every non white who ever walked the earth. About communists, about the bloody weather, about capitalists, about druggies, (!) about our dear Vati who drank himself to death, about Americans, about the English, (in short, all non Germans, but the Italians are ok, apparently she met one she liked!) about the bourgeoisie, about the European Union, about Slavic people, Russians especially, about the blade of grass that's higher than the others, about the uncle who didn't wear a tie to the dinner table and didn't eat all his food and slopped a spot on his shirt (he's 50 for Christ's sake!) etc about me not having graduated yet....all of this is the stuff of high voltage simmering rage for her...and reason for me to heavily self medicate about fifteen minutes before I ring....
Ah well, something to look forward to... once I'm high, it's certain to be a meeting of great minds...
Wishing you a Cunta free weekend, (pray for me tonight)
Cheers, Grumps and Love, From your friend,
Sir Fudge Esq.
