Chocolate, fireworks, puppies, lesbians and cancer
Current mood: decidedly indecisive
What do these things have in common? They're all in the title of my blog. Other than that, not much. You see, it was basically a ploy to lure you here. And I can only assume it's worked. If you wanted a more accurate title: When I'm famous (Tomorrow) was the original one. This is just something I came out with on a whim in conversation, and I liked it, so I thought I'd keep it somewhere. Author's Note aside, begin my actual blog.I was perusing the comments section of a Google-found news article concerning Bloc Party's new album when I came across the following statement:
"I think Bloc Party need to focus on what they do well, and not throw in the kitchen sink when they’re recording an album." Fair play to this guy. But... If I ever record an album, I will have an arbitrary track full of squealing noises called "Kitchen Sink", possibly recorded after injecting various drugs that are not yet invented into my fragile eyeballs. And it will be declared by know-it-all critics and indie kids alike to be innovative and arty, and I can swear ferociously at interviewers when they ask me about it, before completely denouncing all my own songs and playing a set made up of only b-sides and covers of obscure punk bands that have all been locked in mental institutes in France. This is the plain of existence on which rockstars dwell!
I wear my heart on my sleeve like a wristwatch, a fashion accessory with a pulse, exposed for all to see, and it's a fake.
I bear my carefully moulded self to the public, rebelling against society in ways calculated by middle management PR men.
My lips speak other people's opinions, lies drip off botox.
Sincerity masks my narcisstic disregard for those who worship me, at charity functions for people I'll never meet, drinking champagne that is worth a week of food to them, as I watch Barbie dolls pose on blood-red carpets, sliding along like they're on a conveyer belt.
They wear clothes tainted with the sweat and tears of women and children in sweatshops around th world, desgner clothing made to stand-out from other designer clothing, manufactured individuality.
Screw the public, but don't tell them. Slip rohypnol in their Ok! magazines and drench their hate-spewing newsrags in chloroform.
Weapons of mass distraction overpower weapons of mass destruction: Give them TV, give them the internet, give them heart disease, give them aneroxic sex dolls with fake breasts, give them a tube strike, and give them Big Brother. Literally - Strips them of their personal freedoms and wage war on invisible enemies.
Hate the mosques and don't trust your neighbours; they don't like McDonalds.
If only we had a hero, someone to save us... One more person to hate. Sorry, not hero, a team of ethnic heroines with disabilities. Be diverse!
Feeling good about yourself? Go to your local GP, quickly, and demand that he prescribe you something for that, with the medical expertise you scraped off wikipedia. You oblivious fucks.
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break-me-in's blogs, last updated : March 8, 2009
This is the plain of existence on which rockstars dwell!