It’s still a little tough to think about it, and I dunno why I give a fuck anyway because I stopped giving a damn about this game, since like, high school, or probably the time when it really did hurt, the time I accidentally made my left arm a support stick when I tripped which left a bony protrusion in my wrist up to this day, or the fact that I stopped giving a damn about boring PBA games which I religiously followed, or that I haven’t really given a damn about NBA in the first place because I think it should be named Global BA or African-American BA, but damn, that loss hurt. It hurt because they were so close. It’s tough to think because though (from my point of view) the greens were relatively ahead in most of the three quarters, the opponent was just an inch away from them. 83-79. It's a kind of loss that makes me think of these stupid conspiracy theories, eherm, ticket sales, eherm, usual b-ball entertainment. With the last two points from freethrows from someone who hasn’t really been on the floor for like five times throughout the finals, but is reportedly good at freethrows, plus he’s Slovenian. The Celtics really played a good game, it was a good game for them overall. Even though the boorish Lakers fans overpowering the
Think. Think more. Think again. It was supposed to be a filler for lack of attention-grabbing titles or creative chutzpah, but then it's almost funny, kinda like a parody of the affirmation that we're human beings. Well, this is life. As I know it. What I think is what you get.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Okay, fine.
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
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