unsurprisingly i already had the "humanity can fucking die" tag
So last night I didn't sleep until I knocked myself with a sleeping pill and even then it took an abhorrently long time, when GUESS WHAT, I couldn't get out of bed again in the morning early enough to go to the gym (this is probably just as well as I am INCREDIBLY FUCKING SORE), and took myself off to, as mentioned on Tumblr, pay a man £200 (plus the deposit which was that again) to put me in a series of stress positions, inflict quite significant pain on the back of my knee and front of my shin in particular, and make me listen to the fucking Hodge twins and a video about a guy getting shot in the chest. And my internal organs tried to destroy me from within for no apparent reason and the only thing that would stop the pain was... alcohol! (A very small quantity, don't worry)
On the plus:
+ free chicken dinner
+ he's actually decent company
+ introduced him (and myself) to A Tribe Called Red (even if YouTube then decided that we also wanted to listen to other and ... not as electronica/sample-based ... First-Nations-hip-hop)
+ discovered that being shot in the chest with a shotgun and surviving leaves a man with a scar very similar to a mastectomy scar, in case i need other stories besides "shark bite", "heart surgery", and my favourite method of dealing with all intrusive inquiries, the "long hard stare and mind your own fucking business".
+ making Biko listen to "it came from the 80s: Dark Synthwave Mix" (which I have discovered is good to do art to and which he agrees) reminded him of the existence of Kung Fury, which is terrible but also hilarious
+ I finished reading Downriver and, having been Stockholmed into coping with Sinclair's prose style (it is... idiosyncratic), started Lights Out For The Territory, which is both easier to read (and less savage), and has also provided me with an absolute wealth of information about areas my bus route passes through and road names with which I am already very familiar (on Amhurst Road, people suspected of being members of the Angry Brigade holed up in the 80s. True story. The man who started what later became Cope Goliard press also lived there. True story). And Sinclair had the exact thought about Stoke Newington Police Station's architectural intent as I did, probably because it's ballachingly fucking obvious and obnoxiously simple.
+ I mean. A lot of tattoo also got done.
Then, after 9+ hours of blissful ignorance of the news, I came home and was greeted by "multiple people set on young man in Croydon [South London] after learning he is an asylum seeker", so thanks once again to the red tops for nurturing and validating these particular fucking demons in human form who've made my city one where it's TOTES OKAY to attack people for... not wanting to die. Maybe they could attack me. I definitely want to die.
[Semantically, the Cronx - as it insists on calling itself - isn't quite part of London, except parts of it claim to be. Anyway, it's a national joke, but it still has no business beating up asylum-seekers desperate enough to be in Croydon, and I hope their insides fucking rot]
And so far, I still not only cannot sleep but am not even PHYSICALLY tired, which at least kept me pinned to the bed while my brain just endlessly screeched on the last two nights. Sometimes bleating about The Bad Things and the total absence of future and hey did you know all your plans are bullshit and you should DIE DIE DIE NOW WHILE YOU CAN STILL DO IT WITH ANY KIND OF DIGNITY, sometimes literally just farting endless word noise at me like some kind of radio terrified of the off-switch. The relaxing music JUST ABOUT drowns out Jess's relentless snoring and can do NOTHING about my brain.
I mean, it slows down my heart-rate and helps my breathing but nothing short of a chemical sledgehammer will make my actual brain SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SLEEP.
I'm not blaming Brexit for this apart from the fact that this pretty much started When The Bad Thing.
On the plus:
+ free chicken dinner
+ he's actually decent company
+ introduced him (and myself) to A Tribe Called Red (even if YouTube then decided that we also wanted to listen to other and ... not as electronica/sample-based ... First-Nations-hip-hop)
+ discovered that being shot in the chest with a shotgun and surviving leaves a man with a scar very similar to a mastectomy scar, in case i need other stories besides "shark bite", "heart surgery", and my favourite method of dealing with all intrusive inquiries, the "long hard stare and mind your own fucking business".
+ making Biko listen to "it came from the 80s: Dark Synthwave Mix" (which I have discovered is good to do art to and which he agrees) reminded him of the existence of Kung Fury, which is terrible but also hilarious
+ I finished reading Downriver and, having been Stockholmed into coping with Sinclair's prose style (it is... idiosyncratic), started Lights Out For The Territory, which is both easier to read (and less savage), and has also provided me with an absolute wealth of information about areas my bus route passes through and road names with which I am already very familiar (on Amhurst Road, people suspected of being members of the Angry Brigade holed up in the 80s. True story. The man who started what later became Cope Goliard press also lived there. True story). And Sinclair had the exact thought about Stoke Newington Police Station's architectural intent as I did, probably because it's ballachingly fucking obvious and obnoxiously simple.
+ I mean. A lot of tattoo also got done.
Then, after 9+ hours of blissful ignorance of the news, I came home and was greeted by "multiple people set on young man in Croydon [South London] after learning he is an asylum seeker", so thanks once again to the red tops for nurturing and validating these particular fucking demons in human form who've made my city one where it's TOTES OKAY to attack people for... not wanting to die. Maybe they could attack me. I definitely want to die.
[Semantically, the Cronx - as it insists on calling itself - isn't quite part of London, except parts of it claim to be. Anyway, it's a national joke, but it still has no business beating up asylum-seekers desperate enough to be in Croydon, and I hope their insides fucking rot]
And so far, I still not only cannot sleep but am not even PHYSICALLY tired, which at least kept me pinned to the bed while my brain just endlessly screeched on the last two nights. Sometimes bleating about The Bad Things and the total absence of future and hey did you know all your plans are bullshit and you should DIE DIE DIE NOW WHILE YOU CAN STILL DO IT WITH ANY KIND OF DIGNITY, sometimes literally just farting endless word noise at me like some kind of radio terrified of the off-switch. The relaxing music JUST ABOUT drowns out Jess's relentless snoring and can do NOTHING about my brain.
I mean, it slows down my heart-rate and helps my breathing but nothing short of a chemical sledgehammer will make my actual brain SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SLEEP.
I'm not blaming Brexit for this apart from the fact that this pretty much started When The Bad Thing.