Well, I don't blame you for trying to lash out at the fact that Ol' Dave has earned more money than you'll ever see in your life, has a much larger and nicer house in a far more pleasant bit of the country to you, has slept with more women than you - each of whom individually are far more attractive, intelligent and better head-givers than than the slurry whores you've boned, has held positions of great power and responsibility whereas your own mum probably doesn't trust you to walk the dogs, has a constant stream of people who will come round to his house and drink wine that costs more per bottle than your entire booze budget for the last six annums - who hang off his every word as if it were Wilde whilst even your best friend rarely lets you finish a sentence (or if they do they're only doing it because they're thinking of ways to get you out of their house), employs several people to do all his menial tasks whereas you have to get down on your hands and knees and clean up your own filth (except you've let it slide a bit, haven't you? There's visible dust on even the kitchen sides and the toilet has at least two spats of fecal ghee that have neglected into a black skein, their only hope for escape a particularly forceful stream of urine or the slow bleaching effect of several blobs of your watery, useless semen), has been splashed all over the national press whereas the only way you'd make the front page is if you decided to rape and murder a teenage girl as a cry of desperation against your gone today, gone tommorow existence, has been talked about in homes all over the UK and beyond whilst not even the couple two doors down from you know your name (beyond referring to you amongst themselves as "that fucking wierdo" on the 0.8 occasions they've seen you do anything noteworthy), etcetera, etcetera.
So, yeah, fight the power you funny, funny motherfucker.
― On one hand I've got myself to blame (Lynskey), Friday, 4 November 2005 14:55 (nineteen years ago)