Two and a Half minutes you're never going to get back.

I felt like writing something today. But about what, I can’t tell you. I still can’t tell you, so I’m going to make it up as I go along.

What is it that people want to read about? Other people’s thoughts and opinions on the world? Really? Can’t you think for yourself.  It’s funny how many read the views of others and automatically adopt these self-righteous rants as insightful truths. To be honest, the crap I write about is just a way of organising the perennial pile up of mental murkiness that accumulates in the dusty corners of my mind. It serves no actual veritable purpose. I think the same can be said for many other literary bursts that clog up the internet. Ha, literary, really, I used that word like I have the right to.

I now find myself, still uncertain as to what this post is about, so I’m going to tell you what I think about the colour yellow. It’s insipid. It’s the kind of colour that you just can’t get right.  It’s either too bright, too dull, off looking, or provokes the lurking memory of nursery school when they forced you to eat spinach and take childish naps on puke brown pillows that smelt like feet. Yeah I went to a dodgy nursery school.  But enough about yellow, I want to talk about arm pit hair. It’s an on-going chore for the female species to have to groom the tiny hair that grows in the dark cave that is your arm pit. What an ugly word, arm pit! It’s like your mouth fills up with sweat just saying it.  Back to my point, I don’t have one.

Shall I move onto love? Readers always want to hear about love don’t they? Looking desperately for someone to dish out a generous helping of hope in this unfair world of tragedy and infidelity. Well, here’s my advice, stop reading shit on the internet about how Mr or Mrs Right is just around the corner. You are the problem! Stop feeling sorry for yourself and learn to practice a little bit of introspection. Love is abundant, but it starts with you, you sad, melancholy worm eating Muppet.

Work. Something we are told we have to do. If we don’t work, we can’t live. What a warped and twisted ideology that we have bestowed upon ourselves. Working is important, for the right reasons ofcourse. It instils a sense of discipline, achievement, ultimately perpetuating an esteemed self-worth.  Sadly this is not why we work. We no longer even work for money. Instead we work for greed. Think about it.

I’ve covered  yellow, armpits, love, and work, all in order of importance, which really only leaves one more thing to talk about.  Politics.  I love it! Don’t roll your eyes. It’s an on-going goose chase of power and ego. Its conspicuous nature embroils the public in a real live comedy action drama that you just can’t find in Hollywood.  To watch as the heads of this and the ministers of that battle it out for glory in the name of financial, economic and social "welfare" humours me. To struggle day after day to manage an unruly nation that has now far surpassed the days of ignorance and suppression.  Enter buttery salty popcorn here *

Right, I suppose I should get back to work since I really haven’t contributed anything of any intellectual substance to this post. I just wanted to write something without thinking, like most bloggers, who poison your mind with their so called worthy opinions.  I hope this inspires you to really think about what you want to read in future, whilst remembering your own opinions. But don’t think too hard, or else you’ll never visit my blog again.