[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Let's see what a mildly-caffeinated head can come up with. (Coffee at five o'clock in the afternoon. I'm aging. When it becomes coke at 0600h, I'm Americanised. Americanized. I mean, Diet Cocaine? Eh-meh-RRReek-an-uh-zd.)
First, my previous post. I edited it to put the link to the war song I was referring to. I had got the title wrong, at first. That's what you get for not being Jacob Zuma and still writing about Umshini Wami.
I saw this cartoon in a Babylon paper, recently, where some lawyer is telling a client "Sorry, I added extra zeros to the phone number—habit of a lifetime, you see."
Next: heartbreak! :o) Honestly, this must be for lack of stuff to write about.
A man rushes like a rocket towards the finish line, and is happy to win the hundred-metre dash—another success for his army division in these prestigious Army Games. As he is doing the victory lap, he is awoken by the nurse giving him his lunch soup. (Food sucks, even in the army hospital.) He sits up, pushing himself up with his left leg. His right is just a bandaged stump, a mere extension of his hip, kicking about obsecenely in short, quick arcs.
The amputee who wins the hundred-metre dash in his dreams: that is what heartbreak is like, for me.
Or the guy with a missing right arm seated next to you, to your left, in the taxi. Keeps grunting and groaning, and you start to get pissed. He understands, and turns to explain: You see, I feel some irritating itch on my arm; around the wrist, he says, pointing far beyond where his upper-arm stump sits flapping. I want to scratch it, you see, but ... but it isn't there!
That's what heartbreak is like, for me.
Okay, dwelling on missing limbs can get seriously morbid. Let's see. Like the gentle stream, the brook of water. Nice picture, eh? Well, they've dragged the kicking, wailing mother away, and her son has already been pulled out of the water, his belly punctured to let out the water so the load may lose some weight, wrapped, and taken away, as the priest chants ancient words. And in the water, from between the rocks, a steady thread of crimson blood seeps relentlessly, as though a body is still trapped there. The dead boy has been pulled out, but the blood is still staining the water, freshly.
This is what heartbreak is like, for me.
Enough of that shit. But still. With this love shit, I've been called a "bitch". That I let it matter too much. But what to do, if you are the emotional kind? I wish I wasn't, too. But no choice was given. :o(
Strange, considering my foremothers were a race of warrior women. Mercenaries who prowled these plains and were feared. Not the picture of emotional dolls—silent night-time raiders with body paint and dealdly javelins. And also very beautiful, to add the edge to it all.
Might be a nice thing, as I'm starting a company this month.
Tech companies, on average, are failures. I started one, back then, that no longer exists. But now I'm older and wiser. I can hope for better, expect better.
So, what point did I make? None, really. I'm having a pretty good time. My kittens all got new homes, so I'm just chilling here. Space got the hormone jab, too. No more kids. Now, I'm getting ready to enter geurilla mode and sleep on floors (literally), as this company goes out into the rain.