When I think about writing these days, I feel a bit sick. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s my version of writers block, maybe it’s because the last thing I wrote was about my dad, maybe it’s because I was out drinking last night. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.
Well I do obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing through the nausea.
So what to write about… hmmm… well the sun is shining and it’s a new year. I feel worried and afraid of what the future holds but also confident that it will be pretty good. Well vaguely confident.
I know, how about a joke… Two chickens walk into a bar and the barman says “FUCK OFF! NO FUCKING CHICKENS ALLOWED! THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M FUCKING TELLING YOU!”
And the chickens said “What do we care? We’re chickens and therefore lack the ability to lift and drink from glasses so cannot join in the general merriment of your establishment anyway”
The barman was in a rage by then so he was like “THAT’S FUCKING IT! CHICKEN PIES FOR LUNCH” and he grabbed his cleaver and went after them.
The chickens just sat there and said “You will not have chicken pies for lunch as it is already dinner time”
But he killed them anyway.
Moral of the story: If you’re a chicken, don’t talk back to the man with the cleaver. Or perhaps it should be if you find talking chickens in your pub, don’t kill them as they are motherfucking rare.
Either way I don’t feel so nauseous anymore. Woo!
