Sunday, 26 January 2014
A couple of weeks ago, yours truly had to head up to the west toos get some business done and dusted, which ultimately meant Is ended up staying with some of the relatives. Galway be a nice bit of gaf to be honest en aw, even if its city centre of pure Irishiness is being replaced by grotesque concrete, glass eyed slabs of sin. Dinnae be de most aesthetically pleasing thing in the world like, alas.
So anyways, I got myself talking and chitchatting away to a pair of lassies from my cousin's work. Kip of a bar with de weird shite on the walls like but not the worst. Waiting around for drinks (tip: order the fucken whiskey) and wolfing down a packet of salty peanuts in the process, I got me arse sat down to the lassie cousin's friends. That be when the darkness set in ken, swooping in like a proud, braindead aquila. Fuck ken. I have seen the dead. Sure, a lad and lassie likes to bring up their favorite horror movies and whatnot, Walking Dead, 28 Days of the Triffids, all of that. But the dead be not trapped in the face of a cunt with bad breath and a predilection for nibbling on your ear. Nah, that be the lassie, the one skating on that thin ice, upon which, the fresh, black, bottomless pool of uggos lies beneath. All these lassies, my cousin, began chitchatting away to me, chatting to each other. Perhaps it just be me, but with younger lassies to older lassies with a weaker social unit, the conversation shifts from family, friends, men, sluts, friends, sluts blah blah blah to the disgusting modern trope of "finding yourself" and "learning how to take photos at an oblique angle and stick em up on facebook for all the merry cunts and cuntesses too see". All of it be empty. In the confines of that cold dublin pub, the disinterested, dead eyes of the mid thirties lassies offer no words/no thoughts. It's what terrifies me actually, to end up in an office space environment with this kind of luck, but rather, not being a man, but just talking about David Moy's spectacular, and pretty fucking gay if I do say so myself, fall from grace.
So one of the lassies gets talking to me. She's in her late thirties. She's ugly man, but it's not that kind of ugly ugly kind of way, rather, its that kind of life gets a rubber stamp and sticks it on your face. Conversation gets weird, shes reading this fruity shit from some deconstructionist cunt with a pornstar (lassie) mustache, her kindle, and the minutiae of day to day existence. So more chitchat. Somehow the conversation stumbles on shite on boyfriends and shit. It is quite sad really, to see rationalization hamsters fucked right up on quaaludes man but this girl goes on a tirade of tirades. No more men for her, she says, no siree. I ask why? She says at the end of it all, that she doesn't want to get involved with men because these days they have issues, problems, are nothing more than boys with toys. It's interesting to see such a post line up with Krauser's recent one on the solo celibacy club. It was sad, ugly, to see a lassie protect her ego to such a degree that she would desire to avoid being in a potentially loving, fulfilling relationship with some lad who might be able to help her out en aw.
One of the things over the past year, talking to lassies more and more, is that when it comes to many a lassie, there seems to be a disconnection between the emotional part of the brain and the rational part of the brain. When manospambots talk about the lassie losing her looks after thirty, a lassie does simply not process it in the same way. Being emotionally driven like that, a landscape of hills and mountains, means yous are not going to step back and look at love in a logical manner. It was driven into the woman's head by the grandmother, by the Jane Austen novel, all that time ago, but now, women, the lassie, just like men, are devoid of mentor's, true feminine women, who have aged gracefully, been great mothers and loving wives. And that can be worse. A 40 year old man can get his shit together. If he's a midwit, he can pretty much do any study with some level of competence, he can escape, well hopefully.
It's pretty evil actually, to see these lassies drift along like this in a sea of shit. But you know, working tedious as shit jobs with cadbury's cream eggs for ovaries, that is what the convergence to infinity, progressiveness, Aquinas on the hill and all of that material ehehehe, is all about. There's no substitution out there for feeling events, feeling moments in your life ken. Feminism has always been an evil, sad, sick, twisting, writing horrible thing doused in petrol to myself, but too see a family member of yours waiting to be another sacrifice in line with "the evil patriarchy",a cunt or cuntess really has to wonder.
So what else could I say? I was standing outside for a smoke, when she joined me again afterwords. To be honest lads, I'm a bit burned out right now due to doing poorly in some exams, just hoping for that push to make it through, which I pray will happen, hope to pass and all that. So I wasn't in a particularly great mood to be honest, but that be where things got shitty and raw. She was fairly sauced before, and after that 10.17 double Jamesons, she starts opening up to me more and more.
"Do you have any plans for the future?" I ask.
I think she misinterpeted my question as being one of them big emotional questions about the life universe and everything ken, the one's people hurt to ask, regret after too much drinking. So she gave me a strange answer, really strange ken:
"Do ye, do ye think I be beautiful Francis?"
Whatever else was I going to say to my unhappy friend?