Tatters and Rags 4

I don’t have excuses. Frankly I just stayed away. ‘Cause I was pretending to be too busy.
People do that sometimes, you know.

Shitty shitty
luck is the topic of the evening.

Even though Word insists I 'delete repeated word' (yes: I type my blog posts on Word first, then copy and paste them onto the new post thingy –you can’t judge), I think the reptition does not stem from redundancy - but from necessity.

Because I’ve got shitty luck galore. Yes, that much. You’d think the universe would be more caring and share my shitty shitty luck with more people so that there’s balance.

I laugh as I even type that out. It’s quite blasphemous, the idea that the universe cares.

But then one day, I bump right into someone with shittier lucky than mine, and I can’t very well complain. Reason doesn’t let me.
Reason understands chance. It does. It purrs at the numbers, and the rarity of combinations. Faith though, dispels notions of luck – they don’t add up in faith ... counting units? No, they all scream 'destiny'.

Personally, I’d like to think luck is every human’s friction with earth. Luck is the reaction to everyone’s choice making and being.

So I’ve made a lot of crappy choice – I tsk myself, really.

Or maybe, the Earth doesn't rub right with my being? :O. Now that is total ruin.

A Container's Liquid.

"Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning." - Author Unknown.

I came along and decided to try...


Love is a liquid.
And you find it a container.
You’ll probably like it.
And you’ll probably not.
Maybe you’ll find another.
And maybe you won’t.
Perhaps you’ll wait a little.
Perhaps you’ll wait not at all.

Love is many things, nothing and some other things.
Yet most of all, it’s a search for a container.
Not the perfect one.
Not the best one.
But one that you like enough.
One that you trust enough.
How much is enough?
I don’t know.
Perchance one day you’ll tell me.
Or one day I’ll tell you.
Either way, it’s a container we seek to find.
And find we may never.
But seek we shall, at some point, in some time.

What’s in a container, you ask?
A liquid, I reply.

Tatters and Rags # 3.

I am very happy to announce that I have found the template of my dreams. *Strokes screen*. Ah, it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Isn’t it so lovely?

God bless the little genius that made it. May God give you wings too, so you can fly, ‘cause you’re awesome like that.

Hmm, so I really have nothing to talk about. Well, not nothing, but ideas are just fleeting, and it takes too much effort to piece them together.

*10 minutes later*.

Oh yes. I have found a rant: ‘Altruism’.

I want to find the guy that invented that word, and give him a sticker. Or beat him with a cane.

I can’t decide which at the moment, because he could either be the most sarcastic guy on the planet for always having the last laugh at such mockery of the human race, or he could be a serious dolt, with wannabe Gandhi genes. I really can’t decide which.

For the sake of flying unicorns in the planet next to ours, altruists do not exist. They simply can’t. It defies all that is distinctly characteristic of human nature. No one is selfless. No one. Unless you’re dead, in which case – you’re literally selfless.

Otherwise, there is no such a thing as a selfless human; it’s an oxymoron of the highest grade.

Humans are all selfish.

Alongside ‘human’, you’d expect the word ‘self-centeredness’ to appear – and it comes as no shock, to me at least.

Yes, we donate to the poor. But that’s driven by a need to obtain self-satisfaction, self- righteousness. It’s these accumulated drops of egoism that dilute the moronic concept of ‘altruism’. But they’re just drops you say – relative, it’s all altruism. It’s not. These drops define the nature of the act. That it is just as much for you – better yet, more for you, than it is for the poor man you donate to.

So you see, there is always a motive: it’s called self-benefit. Even if the self-benefit is something as ‘pure’ as ‘feeling good’. It’s still for you.

So I say we make a petition, and cross the word ‘altruism’ off from the dictionary, and cane the baboon that put it there. No sticker for him at all. Heh.

In and out of the blue, that’s all I’ll ever be to you.

So I've been on hiatus for like...a while.

But hey, it's my blog, so I can do whatever I want. Hmph.

Yeah, that's right. *sticks tongue out*. It's my stuff.

Anyway, so with the passing of that childish moment, I shall continue.


Its musical beats traveled ever so harmoniously together. A synchronized dance, really - never once did the beat falter, never once did the tune drop.

An invisible composer, one would think.

But the notion is then denied, as the perfection of its song registers.

It surrounds its victim; like a siren, ensnares, and latches on

But the melody is ever so soft, the tune ever so mystic.

It sings of wants not given into, records not yet played, and deeds not to be made.

It whispers of hope.

A crescendo.

It drums with the beat of a tomorrow - your tomorrow; my tomorrow; their tomorrow.

A tomorrow so artfully designed, in the separate clandestine layer of yearning of the billions.

A layer so thoroughly fortified. Yet its loudness, ever overwhelming, mocks those feeble safeguards.

Its loudness breaks the chains, crushes the locks, and rumples the ‘Do No Enter’ signs.

The music engulfing, takes over.

It laughs at how easy it is, to overpower; at how easy it is to unravel the holding back.

A decrescendo.

A lulling caress.

An invisible enticement calling out every so softly, and yet so lucidly.

Still, it holds on ‘till there’s nothing but the refrain; that jeering chorus, a constant reminder of the capitulation: ‘In and

out of the blue, that’s all I’ll ever be to you.’

But you knew that. Yet you gave in anyway, because you learned a long time ago, that there’s no escape. For it always takes over - always wins.

Tatters and Rags #2

Justin Beiber.

Justin who?

Justin Beiber?


Justin Beiber!



You mean the baby-faced mama’s blonde boy that came out of his own ass and wasn’t breastfed long enough?

JUSTIN BEIBER: What the shit is this?

JUSTIN BEIBER: A fatal Global issue.

JUSTIN BEIBER: The near end of the world.


Justin Beiber, I dismiss you.