Many moons and not more than eight suns ago, an old witch told me that I was angry with the world. For the most part, I pretend not to be. I keep my arable pasture face on, though deep down I’m a spewing turbulent spinning ball of hot lava, desperately trying not to explode. According to a book I’m reading, that’s part of being British. Which is obviously non-sense, as I’ve never met a single person who has ever told me, “I’m British.”
To be fair, the book author covers this in the introduction, but who reads introductions apart from lazy book reviewers and retired people. Jesus.
And that’s the point. I don’t want to be fair. What’s the point of having a soliloquistic bile valve in the shape of a blog if you’re going to be fair? Seriously people, I’ve had enough.
And that goes for you too, you pathetic unoriginal marketing scum who keep trotting out the same tired ideas to your dough-brained clients. And blow me down with a thesaurus if you don’t keep getting paid for this dirge. I open up the expensive-print, shiny ass branding book for some hip urban bullspaz, (and any professional who self-describes as hip deserves exactly the lame page-filling marketing support that they’re clearly getting), and am thoroughly disappointed to see the “dictionary definition” page.
pas·sage /ˈpæsɪdʒ/ [pas-ij] noun, verb, -saged, -sag·ing.
Seriously, who is impressed by this? Someone who had seen the word and forgotten where the syllables were? Someone who didn’t know what the words in the title meant? It’s pathetic. It’s over-used. It’s page filler. I guess one of your advertisers backed out, and you decided to get the marketing person’s cousin’s friend’s college intern pal that they met at chess club to rush something together at the last minute. Tossers.
And then there’s the pollen, which left me sweating and hallucinating in bed for the last three days and nights. Prevented from drilling out my own sinuses and taking a bread knife to my tonsils by the inability to hold down a coherent thought for more than 25 seconds due to a slowly boiling brain. Trees? Tossers. All that has kept me going through the writhing and strange dreams has been the steadily building mass of white hot liquid anger. Reading “The Hell of it All” hasn’t helped.