"I'm on the hunt, I'm after you"

It is apparent that the music industry is filled with dipshits who believe a pastiche of borderline psychotic ruminations smacking of violent stalking compulsions is somehow romantic. It is also apparent that the music industry is a golden bastion of gluesniffers who ritually kill - and subsequently urinating upon - music listeners on the weekends. I don't know. I don't have access to their dayplanner. Take, for instance, that maudlin Clay Aiken and his ever-painstakingly creepy ode, Invisible. A mighty fierce piece of shit, indeed. A little ditty that starts of with this honeyed tongue lashing:

“Whatcha’ doin’ tonight
I wish I could be a fly on your wall
Are you really alone?”

...Cos if you aren't, I swear to God, bitch, you are fucking dead. OOPS! Sorry about that. I thought I would finish up Clay's thoughts on the matter. Anyhow! Like, what the fuck? Were these people on glue when they thought they mined industry gold with this prelude to mental illness? Jesus. He bloviates further with:

”If I was invisible
Then I could just watch you in your room
If I was invincible
I'd make you mine tonight…”

Really, you don't say? And at knife-point, I assume?

Romantic? No fucking way. Basis for a restraining order? You bet your ass, boychick. However, I gotta say that I don't think anything can top the granpappy of scary stalker diddies. Here, I am obviously referring to the Police's Every Breath You Take. Sure, it sounds fairly innocuous, what with Sting's dust-light vocals and the fluffy layered keyboard arrangements. Who wouldn't? It's the fucking Police. Here's a small excerpt:

"Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every single day
very word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay
I'll be watching you

O can't you see
You belong to me"

Riveting. Now imagine that being played back on your voicemail. Except that the music is stripped away and the singing is substituted by angry and uncontrolled shouting, interspersed with bursts of sobbing. This was number one for eight solid weeks on Billboard Top 100 in 1983. Girls wanted to slowdance to this shit. Kind of fucking scary when you think about the number of people who can relate to it.

Skipping to Braindeath

Ugh. I just ate an apple that I had forgotten in my bag for quite some time and it sure tasted like ass.

I hate doing front-desk work because it is soul-crushingly boring. I just sit there and play a solid hour or so of Murderer or Molester whenever someone walks through the door. Simple game, really. Some yob comes in from the street and I try to figure if this person is either a murderer or molester. Or, worse yet. Both. It is a fucked up game, I know. But it sure beats the shit out listening to easy-listening radio. And we all know that easy-listening radio is never an easy listen. Fuck no.

I am happy to report that my house is a spectacular crack-den. Also, I have to do grocery shopping. Grocery shopping. A sign of civility when the task is actually done. Really. When all the good stuff is gone, you’re essentially reduced to foraging for food around the house like an animal. Sniffing and munching (and quite possibly yakking cos you don’t know how long that thing’s been sitting there) whatever you happen upon. It’s a slippery slope and soon enough, you’re pretty much snacking on stale cracker and mustard sandwiches for the next couple of days. Shit’s gross, but who are you to argue?

Meh.

Pretty uneventful work day. Just like the other 563 days I have spent internalizing my rage and giving my paranoia a great workout. I look forward to the gin-and-tonic-fuelled lunch on Friday.

I had a thought about my brother the other day. This thought, or series of thoughts more precisely, stems from a discussion or two I had with him. He's every bit the character I wish I were. Notably, my brother possesses a character that just boggles my mind. He's good-natured, calm, affable and an all-around sweet guy. Whereas I am an erratic, mouthy and vulgar nutbar. As that short bastard Popeye would say: I yam what I yam.

His motto: There's always tomorrow.
My motto: There's always suicide.