Hello, I have one more post planned, rather a lovely one courtesy of a great friend of mine and then I'm going to do something different with this blog. If it works out (which means, if I don't get too lazy to try it) great, if not, I'll think of something else.
I'm sorry to those people whose emails I'm late with posting, but to some degree, your concerns do get raised in by my posts or other people's comments. You're most certainly able to raise anything you like in comments, but I'll be brutally honest, I don't read the really long ones, I look at them and think, "yawn yawn, get your own fucking blog"
I have a head cold, I have to pick up my cocksucker of an uncle who's dog has recently died. She was a lovely dog, but sadly, her death has become the emotional and psychological battlefield of repressed Freudian rage at my Cunta's house, so I have the cocksucker Uncle coming to stay. He won't stay long, he'll pretend to be all " boo hoo" for a few hours, then get a bit bored with his little attention seeking act and get me to drive to him to a friend's place so they can all go out and peddle their fat ugly whore arses around town. Fucking sleazebags.
Why do I have to drive him? Cos the fat cunt is too fucking lazy to get his licence. He's like a Woody Allen character, just a neurotic bag of repressed mother rage. He hates her with a passion even though at his age, (50) she does everything for him, the guy has been infantalized beyond cure, so now he's dependent on her for everything; but he, I suspect simmers with hatred because all the impulses natural to an adult have been repressed by her overbearing mothering. I've told him he is left with one of two choices: 1. get his Oedipus complex out of his system (I won't elaborate further) 2. go down the Norman Bates pathway to satisfaction and lifelong infamy. He told me to get fucked. The truth hurts I guess.
Hey would someone like to do a #pawcircle for my Uncle Cocksucker's dead dog? She really was a nice dog, I really liked her, she lived a long, happy life, but her death has become a tool for human ego wanking and self pitying drivel, perfect for a #pawcircle or a *nosetap*
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Addendum. Yes, I know, I must be a heartless, cynical, unlovable and unloving cunt to say such things, right? So fucking what? It's not like I killed the dog, I only loathe the "Look at me everybody, I care!" bullshit. Trust me, that's all that fuels this irrational codswallop. Does anyone sane really, really fucking think that typing the words #pawcircle does anything except make them look like fucking retards?
I'm going to respectfully concede what I stated here earlier, that I'm a heartless cunt. (I say this for your satisfaction, not mine) and that my words cause ever such deep boo hoo outrage (yeah right, another hollow concession on my part). I'm therefore going to ignore this psychotic quackery from here on.
In fact, I'm so bored with this nonsense, that I'm going to reconfigure this blog and my account to more accurately reflect my interests, God help the Tender Footed types. I'm not really 'Anipal' material anyway, so it's best if I leave 'Anipal' commentary to those who are more reasonably (another concession) disposed to 'Anipalism'. I'm way too much of a cynical areshole (my final and only accurate concession) for this kind of thing. So for all thoughts on this, I'm going to hand you over to the Great Morbid Guru of Death. Long may he reign as Dead Dog King of the Underworld. God help you. Amen.
Until you hang upon such a cross, you won't know a thing about laughter or loss...and you don't believe me now, but you will...you will, you wil you will you will...you will, you will - Titus Andronicus
