Lazy from C-Z

Fuck the Olympics! Driven out of home of this unusually funny circumstance, greed takes over and manifests itself early on. The revelry isn't even here until six months or so. Funny how individuals anticipate the eagerness of money in it. I so happen to live quite literally just across the stadium and now these said individuals (and agencies, for that matter) are pushing me away to make money off of it. I'll have none of this. I have little care for this event as I am not a man driven of other people's sheer hype nor does patriotism have anything to do with it. I was just fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to live somewhere very close to where the event takes place and where it also happens that my workplace is but a walking distance away from where I am (3 Mills Studios).  I pay 600£ a month. Too much for even I myself, alone, to pay. Now they're asking for a walloping price of 8,000£ for just two months due to this Olympic thing that I dare not bother. Ho...

They speak praises of your illness, the warning signs of decay overshadowing my carcinogens, a full frontal view of your wonderful countenance. Not I, where was I, there I was, clueless, known to self as the Unabomber, plotting nothing for our fateful beginning. Poverty is neither crime nor vice, an old man falling in love. Forgive the child in the woman, the woman is a child. Her smile, her unique ability, her magical sensitivities, at a ripe age for humour and my kiss. Here waiting, never letting go, smiling for tomorrow's carols, a snowless escapade in a wonderland of dreams. Her face undeniably persistent, whispers, disavows. Seasons greetings pass, but the fucks I give amount to a variable of none. She is the one, the only light in the manger, the solitary north star together alone. We strive to push boundaries, a cabaret night full of merriment, imbibing throughout the darkness of day, the gloom streets of London town on a middle day noon. Our victory will signal a relat...

North Korea is no longer Best Korea. Good night sweet prince.

The mother stares at the television, tsk-ing and saddened by the sudden flood on an old memory of a city from the mother country. His husband of many years sits by beside her, tentatively watching the sad news himself, purposefully denying any allegations of sympathy. Like the son. Totally annoyed by seeing his mother's unfounded empathy. She continually yells from the room, converting the mood around, bidding mournful shrieks of helplessness. The lingering smell of boiling vegetable oil does not make things easier, in fact. The son's schadenfreude ticks itself off. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself, while his mother prays for things to become better. The old folks were supposed to go to church that evening, only halted by the undying sweat of cold from the bitter air. The son hates it all. He would have none of it. Exasperated by his mother's lame philanthropic ideals, poor as they are, troubled a family as they are. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself again, as he ...

It was a joyous occasion marred only by sentimentality. Everything was going according to an unprecedented plan, an instinctive flow, and then introduced into a world of vivid colours. I was smack-dabbed in the middle of it all, a wayward mobile leading an unknown course. There I found love once more, not once, but twice, but three times. Still I sense there were more to it than just that. But for now I have to settle with just the melancholy, the bitterness of having none at all. Three loves in one whole day... what a strange sensation. Fuck me for assuming but there it is. For a whole life of waiting this sure feels like a heavy burden to reconsider. I am not alpha nor am I clinquant. I am but a vessel of pure mediocrity and/or suckage. Or maybe I need to work more on my insecurities. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Too much of Nietzsche hurts, too little of sunshine burns. I saw opportunity in the eyes of another. Freddie, is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy? ...

Funny things happen when least expected, or so is always the case. The call for something good breathes life off of my kindred spirit and bears some sort of increasing strength. I wouldn't want to assume. I've had similar feelings in the past, only to crash and burn simultaneously on my face and long since forgotten. It feels good to wake up once more unhindered by time, but so is sadly the case. The days leading to this always has something naughty up its sleeve. Last year I had an almost identical situation. Whatever this is doing to me now is unfortunately maybe just a fluke. I need to go back and make sure. Please bring me somewhere concrete. Leave the theatrics on stage, this is my life we are talking now. First stop: Party Fiesta.

Rather no sleep at all than three hours of sleep and eyes droopy as any fuck. Poor old sod. December screams freeze! I turn to find a wailing banshee with self-inflicted tinnitus. One slap and back on my feet. I'm sick and tired of these sacrifices. They laugh, I laugh, every single one of the bodies laugh for reasons unknown. Reach the slums -- only to find it left by itself, to loot and plunder by the vanguard of ideas and proposals. There it is. Her smile, he remembers. But why? I shouldn't. I couldn't. Of all the baddest of bad luck.

Transcript for epic fucking fail: Good day, boytoys and gentlemen! My name is Bruce Danus, a strategist, an obsessive dilettante, and writer of best-selling historiographic metafictions, A Gentle Molestation and A Winner is You. You can visit my website at www.brucedanus.com for more details. I am here today to proudly unveil my next greatest lordnovel yet. Pre-order it now and get a lifetime supply of malfunction which will greatly aid readers who have then suffered from delusions of grandeur! Before the unveiling I would like to share a little story about something: When I was young I married a woman from a boring country called Brassiere where every day people eat coxinha, horrible food made of elephant turd and monkey meat. She used to feed it to me, her mother, her sister, her sister’s mother’s sister, and every woman in the land. Ever since then I developed a longstanding loathing for women. My wife eventually left me. I could hardly give a rat’s ass. Although...

For a man so free that light encompasses There with him solace levitating besides his yellow wings From there it speaks with its harrowing presence Not a voice nor a sound but only a sightly sign His freedom brims, his body tucks into itself For flesh is weak that no freedom shall abide A prison yet still even including his masticating aileron An oxymoron, wherever it begins

Confidence does not always guarantee a safe passage to anywhere. Your nerves will find a way to break you down, push you further to the hole you dug on to, and bury you along with all your pathetic tears. There's no other nicer ways of putting it, truth be told, and before the clock strikes past quarter to ten, everything begins to illuminate themselves, then you see what it is that truly excites you: rage.