Same Shit, Different Day…

The world turned again last night. I turned with it. It wasn’t as a lycanthrope or anything quite so bad, I was just attached to the planet on which I was born by that crazy little thing called gravity.

Upon waking (normally at least twice during the night and once for good in the morning), I took to the stairs, descended them, made cups of tea, spoke to my now awake wife, browsed the various pieces of news that had been deemed of importance by those in charge of the news agendas, checked who was (n’t) reading my blog, then turned to that old standard that is Facebook.

Strangely, there are things that can still be panned from the slowly flowing stream of digital dross.

A favourite guilty pleasure of ours is to read the oft’ published micro thoughts of a woman who used to be a much closer friend. She is a divorcee who plunders the singles sites for possible pleasure, pain, or prey. Then she announces her night’s work to all that have the stomach to read it.

She is a lonely person who thinks that frequent injections of male parts will somehow make her happier. Her relationships last between three hours (including meal and drinks) to several months; at which point all hell will break loose with open accusations of betrayal, being a poor partner in bed, having a secret desire for ladyboys, or just being a lying, cheating, uncaring sack of faeces.  Last night she announced that her most recent date was so successful that she was home by ten, presumably at night and presumably on her own.

So with that pleasure to one side, I moved on to the unavoidable nonsense that is generated by my membership of a couple of writers’ groups.

I know why I joined these groups.

I know that my intentions were sound. I know that I wanted to team up with other decent writers and share ideas and contacts and a little bit of know-how. What I didn’t know was how much shit could be generated in a single sitting by some of my fellow writers. Or, to put it more bluntly, how many ordinary people wish to call themselves writers as quality assurance stamp even though they spend much of their time posting insanely about having sex with somebody else’s partner, whether or not anyone out there has ever lived through a nuclear holocaust (as I am currently writing a novel on this), suggestions for a character’s middle name, or simply suggestions of how to overcome writer’s block when only one chapter, or paragraph, into the process.

Or just posting shit like this:

Why would anyone seriously wish to name a burger FFS?

Between our male hungry friend and being asked to name a bloody burger,

I choose…LIFE as those T shirts said back in the day.