The day starts with pouncing practice as the new kitten ‘Scampy’ stalks my waking wiggling feet
under the duvet..nice to have helped the youth develop before you’ve even left the bed..er..
That’s the kind of sentence that can bring the thought police to the door.

The theme here is precious time.
It’s a heart attack theme
a washed up old fart theme
A quick step with the reaper is enough to remind us ‘this is it’
we better get on with it, be funnier, finish stuff, confess, I dunno.

I share my bands masterpiece (The Firedogs philistines better than Blurk)
‘Tick fucking tock innit’ again on Face bonk..no one says much only a thousand and fifty seven views.
Bastards.

Yesterdays unique and fabulous creations all went round the u bend with the other shit.

“How are you coping with things Mr. Jackson?”
asks doctor patronicus In the heart attack check up sketch.
“By drawing cartoons of myself in a blue onesy and claiming I’m one of the greatest artists ever on social media, I answer.
He stares a while in my poker face, still writing..
Eventually we both glance down wondering what he wrote.

I like the easy funny writers, the nearer comics ones..I’ve got nothing to prove by struggling through some convoluted doorstop of doom to impress my imaginary friend. fuck that.

Milligan, Vonnegut, Pratchett, Townsend and Hornby are the kings..funny clever and nearly as lazy as me..I’m a better cartoonist of course.
Just Saying.

Life is fucking sarcastically ironic really, Me and three talented mates pour a lifetimes experience and quite a lot of effort and skill into a musical opus (The firedogs LP philistines better than Oldplay)
and all we get is a five star Mirror review and eleven and a half sales.
I knock off an electro track with Asian female singing and sequencers throbbing semi automatically and before I know it I’m an award winning soundtrack bloke.
So it goes.

I find this scrawled on an envelope by the bed. The writing is a blind child version of my already partially sighted infant script.
“Now I’m slowing and shrinking I’m at odds with the rest of the universe, which is, they say, speeding up and inflating, or fucking showing off as I call it.
I’m super reluctant to live in this grotesque insane circus shit show they call consensual reality
I withhold my consent, preferring to live in Middle ear, or Risk world as they are nearly called.

If my parents had encouraged me properly I could have made Leonardo look like a shady chancer who doodled a bit, still, the pubs were open.
Did I mention I’m one of the greatest artists who ever lived?

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