Not one fucking thing.

being the passenger while the driver drives like a maniac is not fun.

Because death is pretty cool

when you control how close you get to it.

My friend was late to pick me up. We only saw six robots not working on the way home.

There was  a sign posted by the municipality on our gate saying that the power would be out from 10 to 5 on Friday. My friend asked what the sign said. “It says our gate will be unlocked Friday so come on in anytime between 10 and 5,” I said.

This morning on the way to work a guy in a BMW gave a bum R10. His sign had glitter on it and said: “Destitute. Shelter R10.” I wonder how many shelters he’ll be able to stay in tonight. The guy in the Aston Martin kept his windows up.

At night we sit on the porch and talk about a lot of things that don’t matter. Sometimes we talk about things that do. Once, a friend told me something that was pretty deep. I don’t remember what it was but it made me feel like I knew an important secret. I like feeling like that.

PCCCHHHOOOOOWWW

like

that.

sexpenis

magnificent.

I did feel kind of bad for the eight street people trying to sleep on the Lawyer’s patio though. But they seemed to be as entertained as I was, so I wasn’t too bothered. Plus they defecate there and the smells waft up to my room on the shit wind.

I wanted to go back to sleep but the Indian girl punched the blue dress girl in the face so I stayed at my window to watch. They probably were friends right up until then. My girlfriend said, “this is better than Isidingo”.

I don’t know. I don’t watch soapies.

In the morning when the old white man in the bathrobe threw a bottle from his balcony at the black street kids we woke up again. I figured his aim was probably terrible because he was old so I wasn’t worried. My girlfriend said, “I’m going to have a word with that asshole.”

After breakfast we went down and rang his flat from the gate. His wife said he wasn’t there and then went on talking like eighty year olds do and I got bored but stayed because she mentioned a guy died and I got interested again. She said, “we’ve been here since 1983 [...] this neighborhood has really gone down [...] a man died there on the street. The police had to stand around for 3 hours before someone came to take the body.”

I didn’t really see the point of what she was talking about because it had nothing to do with throwing glass bottles at street kids but then she said they were stuffing cardboard into the drain and wouldn’t stop when they were asked to.

We both felt kind of deflated because we thought we were going to get to be righteous but instead just understood where the old people were coming from. I guess when you’re tired and older than forever you’re allowed to be irrational.

When I think about it, even though I’m tired too most days, the singing guy is actually kind of nice. I really wish he would come back.

It goes like this:

(In the voice of Patrick Stewart, Robert De Niro or Joe Pesci. Your call.)

To believe, or not to believe: That’s the million dollar question:
Is it a better idea to just take
All the shit life throws at you,
Or to strap yourself against a hailstorm of bullshit,
And by saying ‘Fuck That Noise!’ end it?
But then there’s death: the big sleep;
Fucking done; a sleep of sweet release from
Scandalous bitches and every other goddamn pain
That beats on our weak-ass flesh, Man that’s an end
You could wish for religiously.
Yea, good old death, the big sleep;
But maybe not that big: say you start dreamin’: Fuck, now that’s a problem;
Man because whatever those dreams are in that ‘ol death-sleep
That comes after we’ve shucked and jived right outta this petty fuckin’ hustle n’ bustle,
They’re the shit that make you stop and think: And it’s that thinkin’
That fucks shit up in your long-ass life;
I mean, who the fuck would just accept the beatings of time,
The boss’s ass-holery, the contempt of rich fucks,
The bitches that step on your heart, the cops that do fuck all,
The politician’s bullshit and all the other shit
that goes along with dealing with fuckwits,
When a guy could just stab
A bitch? Seriously, who the fuck would put up with that shit,
Working their fingers to the bone no less,
Unless some huge fucking fear of what happens when you die -
That final frontier where once you go
You never come back – was confusing all willpower
And making us just accept the horse shit that we have in life
Instead of flying out into new and unknown circumstance?
That, my friends, is why we are all pussies because of our consciences;
Because conscience is what takes our natural drive for resolution
And royally fucks it up with thinking,
And then all the epic shit that was gonna happen,
through thought the driving forces are all deflated,
And nothing fucking happens… -YOU BITCHES ARE SOFT!
Ophelia baby! Sweetheart, when you pray
you best remember all the gnarly shit I ever did.

There is also a guy who sits next to her that you don’t really notice because he spends most of his time under a tarp fiddling with his radio. He seems pretty cool.

I really wish they wouldn’t throw their garbage everywhere. I guess it’s fine though, because every few days a guy in a yellow vest wanders by picking up the litter.

The other day I bought some colored lady a bunch of vienna sausages. I was trying to decide between the thirty-five Rand bottle of Two Oceans Cabernet and a forty-five Rand bottle of Nederberg Merlot when she came up and apologized about her mangled face. “I just need some money to buy some cheese for my kids,” she said.

“Sure, grab it. I’ll buy it for you.” Then she brought me the sausages. One of the BMWs in the parking lot had a big scrape on the side when I left.

Sometimes late at night I pee in the pot plant on my balcony and wonder where all those little black kids come from on the weekends. They’re dressed pretty nice and some of them even wear their school shoes. Their English is terrible unless you’re about to give them something, then it’s all subject verb noun.

Maybe one day we’ll all get AIDS and die. Until then, I’m just gonna get drunk.

I lied. only 4 of those are real. Five if you count Breasticle because that one is the banana sandwich.

1) I am not masturbating nearly enough.

46) I am in no way attracted to your mom, Craig.