Never Gonna Give You Up

Right, I’m taking a break this week. Quite frankly, I just can’t be fucked. Not that I think there’ll be any great cries of disappointment at the lack of rambling, tangential vitriol, but even were that not the case, the shit that I’d give would be, at most, tiny – nothing huge and smelly, but there nonetheless – you know, one of those little nuggets that disappears every time you flush, only to be merrily bobbing away next time you lift the lid.

I try you know, to be a good little blogger, by which I refer to the quantitative, not qualitative content of this here little node of disdain. But sometimes the rewards and the requisite effort just don’t balance. It’s like sharing the see-saw with Fatty Boomsticks because he’s the only other kid in the park. You so desperately wanted to play, and now, up in the air, you’re completely at his mercy, and being the subject of constant ridicule, he’s become a vindictive little prick. He leaves you high and dry, sitting resolutely at the far end of the see-saw, his glutinous mass holding tight to the ground, while you sit and lament the fact your farsighted parents refused to let you get your haircut like MacGyver, thereby damning you to endless afternoons at the top end of a plank of wood while all the cool kids gorge themselves on sugar and listen to Rick Astley at whosever’s birthday party it is that week.

Apparently there’s a lot more of you having a squiz round here these days, which you’d think would be a marvellous little ego fondle wouldn’t you? I mean just last week, I had a whole thirty seven people look at my blog. Jesus Christ I think, I’m on the verge of being invited onto Letterman… only then I happen to glance at the average length of time that anyone is prepared to devote to perusing my scribbling – under a minute and a half. Short lived glory. Like that giddy moment of elation when Fatty digs his toes into the soil, ready to thrust himself skyward and, overjoyed, you prepare to leap free of your be-planked prison. Then you realise (in that split-second time sink that is the saviour of humanity, unfortunately preventing any number of fucking idiots, at the last possible moment, from doing something fatally stupid) that if you attempt to bail on the see-saw, Fatty’s weight is going to drive your end into the underside of your chin so fast and hard that you probably end up without a tongue – and where will you be then, when the cool kids finally invite you to the party and it’s your turn at spin-the-bottle? So instead you cling on for dear life, and before you know it, you’ve bounced hard off the ground, Fatty, like a gleeful comet has shot earthward again, and you find yourself imprisoned once more at the top end of a big fucking stick.

Actually, I quite like sitting on high, clinging to a bit of wood. I’m just tired. I do this because it’s fun, not because I think anyone else gives a shit. And really, it’s a lot less confronting – not to mention cheaper – than a therapist.

I’m tired. Did I say that already? I’m not surprised. Drinking and smoking has stopped – for now, we’ll see how long it lasts. Probably until Friday at about 4.35pm – and I have been cleared to start the real abuse of my body again. The training schedule, with its attendant diet of healthy things and limited indulgence, has begun again. Relieved of my steady supply of sugar, my brain is operating at far below optimum capacity, and I am behind on work that in the scheme of things is far more important than this nonsense…

So on that note, screw you guys, I’m going home…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on December 7th, 2011.

2 Responses to “Never Gonna Give You Up”

  1. You make me laugh.

  2. Oh, and, you know, the whole short average time thing. Well, have you considered that the more loyal readers you acquire old son, the more there will be that check in to see if there is something new. And on the occasions there isn’t, we’ll they piss off quick smart.

    Just a thought. Keep up the excellent rantage, ’cause a I said, it makes me laugh. And think. Bastard.

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