Wish-tatus

I have finally come face-to face, full circle, with my non-effasive mortality. I have also noticed, of late, how much 'pseudo-intellectual' repartee bores me, give me perverse wit and zany neurosis any day! Bloody hell, how i shall ever aspire to writing columns, while simultaneously nurturing such an active abhorrence for all things "sane", is beyond me. There goes my dream of one fine day litterati 'ish'tatus.

Another acute observation to have hit me of late is the fact that being viewed as "pretty" pisses the hell out of me. No seriously! I think its the greatest insult for someone to assume im worth their time and attention because of a 70 rs tube of lip gloss and the inane colours that I splash myself, for MY benefit ( I SWEAR, mine mine mine). Yet perversely my passive-agressive self continues to take great pleasure in dressing 'down' to my insane mismatched lack of fashion sensibilities. Another farewell hiatus to my dream of one fine day glitterati 'ish"tatus.

Another brick in the wall continues to be my struggle with faith. This one is a real bummer folks, no seriously... I can regress people, I can do weird things with stones and cards and pendulums, I can see weird stuff and beautiful stuff. But I cant figure out what I see, or where it comes from. Oh yes, i KNOW it all comes from The Man (hmm... on second thought the creator of THE Man, wait that was the first thought, but Orwell just screwed with my brains), but which version, which edition. Apparently my status as 'flitterati' is wholesome and intact.
Hoop La

Pray tell, voices in my head...my dilemma is this

hypocicatio 'de Conde pondeu

Give me my page, dear Dear Wormwood...
for I live among the world of Men.