I’m in pain, my friends. Not the Oh My God, If I Don’t Take My Pills, Someone Is Going To Get Their Heads Kicked In kind of pain. It’s more the life-force sucking, soul-destroying Pain In The Bollocks kind of pain. I suffer for my art.
The hell with that – I suffer for being me. Not everybody ‘gets’ me, you see. To some, I come across as being a smarmy insufferable know-it-all. To others, I am an introvert who longs for nothing more than to sit quietly in a darkened room and contemplate life, the universe and time-travel paradoxes. But in reality, I am somewhere between the two.
I shouldn’t really care what people think of me, though. Those who know me well enough either think highly of me or are of the reasoned opinion that my company is not their preferred cup of tea. Which is fine by me, really, because they’ve at least thought about it. Rather than assuming I’m an insufferable know-it-all, they know by experience that this is what I am.
I admire people who form an opinion based on evidence, incontrovertible or otherwise. To those who go with the flow and still think Flat Earth Theory is viable, I offer nothing but my considered scorn.
You see, ultimately, other people cause me pain. When I try to reason with them, they will invariably kick my head in. I suffer for being me. I think I’ll find solace in a nunnery.
Money makes the world go around but it can’t buy me love. If you want to pass through the gates of Heaven, you’d better be dressed as a camel, because if you’re a rich man, the Big Bouncer will not let you in. Which is very unfair on those people who are rich in both material goods and the spirit of generosity.
If I was a rich man (no singing at the back, please), I’d buy a Lear Jet and a camel suit. Oh and my own publishing house, so my writer friends and could live in the lap of luxury.
Going back to what I said earlier in the week about achieving a kind of serenity, life being what it is gotten in the way of my good intentions. It is said that God laughs when we tell him our plans. Well, from today onward, I’m telling him nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Take that, God. Put that in your pipe and smoke. See how you like being ignored.
What I need now is a punching bag. When I get one, I’m going to fill it with bits of serenity, then beat, squash and punch it to an inch of its life.
To some (and you know who you are), Heaven is a place where eternal happiness awaits; where your friends and family are forever by your side; where there is constant laughter and music; where your favourite sports team never loses; where refereeing decisions are never questioned; where respect for your elders is a given; where your drink of choice is available and never served anything less than perfectly. Heaven, therefore, is the bar that never closes.
If this sounds like Heaven to you, go knock yourself out. For me, this is what Hell would be like. I’ll find somewhere else.
I’m not much of a Biblical scholar, and the concept of hermeneutics passed me by on its way to deeper intellects; but I know a paradox when I hear one. The Bible on one hand suggests taking an eye for an eye, while on the other it proposes turning the other cheek.
Watching footage of the horrendous goings-on in London and elsewhere in Great Britain, the only image that comes to mind is that of the late great Kenny Everett. His character, General Cheeseburger, had a distinctive way of ending his rants.
Let’s round them all up, put them in a field, and then bomb the bastards.
Posted in 100 Days, 100 Words, Life, Musings, writing
Tagged Bible, Business, Christianity, General Cheeseburger, God, Great Britain, hermeneutics, Jesus, Kenny Everett, London, London Riots, Philosophy, References and Tools, Religion and Spirituality