I have no idea what to write about today for my ‘creative’ post. I found a picture I like on someone else’s blog though:
It kind of reminds me of U2.
And that reminds me of Finnigan.
And that reminds me of U2 again.
And that reminds me of Finnigan…
And that is clearly going nowhere.
The NYWM post suggested listening to Miles Davis, but I cannot think of anything more dull than the song they suggested. I like jazz, but, oh, this was boring. Actually, you know, I take that back, I don’t know that I do like jazz. I like some jazz, but, I think I like the idea of jazz more than I like actual jazz and oh… look where I’m going again.
They also suggested a very cool stop-animation film, which was about making spaghetti, but the spaghetti was pick-up-sticks, and the sauce was red silk, seasoned with dice and post-it notes and cut-up one dollar bills, and I’m sure I’m not making any sense, you should really just watch it, as its pretty cool.
But, I don’t know what to do with that, aside from write a story about a rag-doll making spaghetti.
Ok, screw it. I’ve chosen one of the tabs that’s open on my internet browser and I’m going to write about that.
‘I bought some strawberries from a man in overalls and wellington boots today. I’m a sucker for a road-side stand and a hand-written sign. When I handed over the money, his hands were still covered in dirt, which I took to mean that my strawberries were especially authentic ones. Like they’d actually really truly been grown in really true dirt, as opposed to just being cooked up in some laboratory or made out of plastic, which the strawberries in supermarkets sometimes look like. There’s a point, I think, when a strawberry ceases to be appealingly big and juicy looking and just starts to give the impression of a mutant object from outer space, and that point is reached when the strawberry is bigger than the palm of your hand. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them though. I don’t normally buy strawberries. I don’t actually like them.
I’m such a fool. They’re sitting on the front seat of my car now, staring at me, judging me, as I drive to work. ‘What kind of an idiot buys strawberries when they don’t even like strawberries? What are you going to do with us now, bozo? Throw us on the compost? What a waste of money. Should have just thrown the money on the compost. Would have taken up less time. Idiot.’
Huh. The strawberries have the voice of my mother.
‘We don’t have a voice, you twat, its all in your over-active imagination, or are you having one of your funny turns again? You’ve been doing drugs again, haven’t you, you pathetic junkie? Do you really think you should be driving whilst your stoned? I mean, think of the people in the other cars, they might be worthwhile human beings, like your sister and your brother, you wouldn’t want to kill them, I mean, never mind about you, you’re just a no-hoper 35 year old who works in a dying CD store, but they, they might be about to cure cancer.’
‘I’m not a junkie, it was only that one time with the pot after Johnny’s 18th birthday party and I barely even inhaled…’
‘Be better for you if you were a junkie. Then you’d have an excuse for being pathetic.’
I should throw the strawberries out the window.
‘Don’t you dare.’
Jesus. Its going to be one of those days.’
I was going to write more, but I don’t think I can be bothered. That seems to be an end to the story. Its kind of crap, I guess, but, oh well, its done, I suppose. That’s not a great attitude to have, is it? Oh well, again.