Over the last few days I've done some serious blogs. So, to lighten the mood, some "comedy".
Middle lane drivers eh? Grrr (shakes fist). Women parking? Grrrr (fist is tired from the previous shaking so I merely imply a shake. Like an old man at a urinal. Buh-dum ch)! My mother in law is so fat she was the before picture on the Subway commercial (I genuinely just made that up!). It's funny because i haven't got a mother in law.
It is from true pain and suffering that we derive our beauty. History bears this out. I'm obviously not referring to the above nonsense but lets see how this comes out. The obvious place to start is Wlfred Owen, Siegfried Sasson and the other great war poets. Classical music also supports this - the great works of Smetana (Ma Vlast), Weber and Wagner have all come from times of strife in their homelands whereas others use personal grief to help express themselves. Van Gogh is well know to have suffered, and, more contemporarily, we have the genius of Winehouse, Kobain, George Best and Zippy (who, as we all know, spunked a fortune on hookers and killed himself by having a particularly hot wash and forgetting to go in the tumble drier).
We all choose our place of solace. I find mine in a certain part of my head. A place where I can hide from the scary unicorns and piercing rainbows.Somewhere I am free to consider the possibility of bad grammar, dirty looks and anal fisting. Without the pain we cannot have the respite. Without the tears we cannot have our eyes opened again. Without the respite we cannot have the beauty. You will agree with this as soon as you stop reading and you think "thank fuck that's over".
One day all of our worlds will end and it is with hope that the world is a little better for me having left it.
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