Friday, January 02, 2009

Moo-year

Feck yeah. Who would've thought, of all people, I'd outlast the tambays and tricycle drivers in our area for what will seem to be an annual new year boozefest and shameless videoke numbers. Gosh, I feel like I'm slowly becoming a voracious social drinker, if there ever is such a term. I mean some people drink daily -- a bottle of beer or two -- which is healthy I guess, and some drink perhaps every week when they go parties or bars and be tipsy and all that, but I drink only on occasion and gulp down a fucking barrel of various liquor. Is there some kind of a social alcoholism disorder shit? It makes me think of the "I have a drinking problem?" scene of the great John Malkovich in Burn After Reading. But what the hell, it was a great welcome. People went out and trooped to the streets, made noises, tricycle drivers, bicyclists, and drunkards dragging pieces of torn GI sheets, kids running amok while coins are being thrown in every direction. I am actually sensing a great vibe but much of it is uncertainty and anxiety, again, which is I think pretty normal. Shit, I really should start enjoying my friggin life, I need to plan some major changes, like really. Whatever the fuck that is.

One stupid question though, can the ox be considered a variation of a cow? And I guess yeah, Happy New Year to you, too.

2 comments:

lucas said...

an ox is basically just a cow...i guess the horn makes the difference :)

Visual Velocity said...

Hehe, good job for out-drinking the drunkards in your area. That will teach them not to mess with you when it comes to social drinking.

RE: your query, I'm not too sure if the ox is a variation of the cow.

Happy New Year! :-)

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