Wankers

Sometimes I wish I could blow fairy dust on my tarot cards and make some of them come to life. Who would I be... the Empress of course. But I don't want to digress today. I just want to put one wanker to shame. I need an axe really, I could stand the gore, but probably not the smell that would come out of a wanker. It'd be nice to see a wanker go cold, but then again I have to think of decomposition which would happen fast, because bad people decompose faster. Don't argue with me, it might not be true, but for me it's a sacred truth. It's just like a monster thriller where once hit where it hurts, the monster will fizzle and evaporate fast fast fast. The same thing happens in life. And monsters are bound to give off foul-smelling gasses. So, no axe. Although my weary brain can just draw a not too blissful picture of what I could do with an axe and a wanker. Wankers, the most private of people, because of course they don't want us to know that they're not getting any and have to make do with dating porn sites, are... wankers. And the more private they try to be, the more obvious they get. You can spot a wanker from a mile off. I can spot them from 7 miles off, but that's just me and my sex radars. And really, they can wank themselves to death if it so pleases them, but not if it means that so hard they try not to look like a wanker, they behave even more of a wanker. Wankers can never be my friends. Because friendships start with a handshake. And there is no way I am putting my royal hand into another hand which obviously has been shaking something else just beforehand.

Killing

As much as I love love love the arts, I think people who are over artistic are nuts. No, let me rephrase that. People who think they are artistic but probably aren't go overboard to tell the world... Hey, I'm soooo artistic. The thing is people who are naturally artistic never bother to tell the world about it, because they do so by nature. It is intrinsic, innate, there is no need to book a TV station at odd hours of the day or night and just talk, talk, talk, use difficult words just to make sure you're seen as an intellectual and make poor Cettina who runs the grocer shop switch the channel on her remote control because she's not understanding anything. And because there is no need for modesty while blogging, I am one of the over artistic, no, better put, overtly artistic. And I don't book obscure TV stations at the oddest of hours. I am known by my nature, because, and yes, wait for it, I am a gift to the nation. I am not the one who said these words, rather I am quoting a very very gifted man who has done a lot for the arts. No bragging, no modesty, just the truth. But, but, but, I do not look like the genius that I am. And I don't really care because the proof of the pudding... is in the listening in my case. Now I have nothing about killer heels, on the contrary I think killer heels are exactly what their name suggests... killer. But I still don't need the killer heels to do my bit for the arts. Because I don't need to kill, I don't kill people's dreams and hopes. Rather I try and make those dreams, evoke those dreams... I create, I don't kill. Men (because it's a man in this case) who like to dash hopes and dreams with a rusty blade should be locked up away from society. Nobody can kill my dreams now, because I've carried out so many already. But killing the dream of a little person? That is despicable and punishable by torture.