Tuesday, February 20, 2007

waiting

This part of my life is called waiting. Waiting for my rocket to come. What to do with the bloody rocket? I really don’t know. Maybe it’ll just go down like some meteorite and fuckin’ blow me to pieces. Or maybe I can ride with it. Induce myself to sleep in a capsule and hibernate to eight years or something while it catapults me into space. I will wake up in Jupiter or perhaps Saturn if the possibilities of Arthur C. Clarke’s A Space Odyssey would allow.

Whatever. I so want to skip this phase. I want to mess the course of time and fuck the rest.

No comments:

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting