Tick bloody tock, mutha f*ckas!

Time marches, time marches.

Tempus fugit, my fat white arse. It doesn't fucking fly. It's more dogged and militaristic than that. Fucker stomps, in a relentless rhythm, with its pals Fate and Regret, till you're dead.

I'll have an order of angst with a side of melancholy to go, please.




Oh, fuck it. I'm not fooling anyone. I'm actually in a great mood. The sun is out, the hangover is gone, I am back at work and feeling very productive and keen. There's money in the bank, the fridge is packed with food and booze, the laundry is done, the house is clean, and my new jeans have arrived so UPS hasn't screwed me this time.

I just wrote that other shit because I think it's funny.