I give you fair warning; this is a story told by a fool. Not one of Dostoeveski's idiots, a boorish intellectual, but a fool whose sole purpose in life is to spread foolishness and confusion. Idiocy is far too common; I leave that to anarchists and idealists. I am the excrescence that fills the void, the otherness to the reality you feel, hear, touch, taste, fuck and shit out of all the holes that you lay claim to. I am no idiot, but a foolish man with little patience or tolerance for fools. I tolerate myself, but only out of shear necessity, a necessity to strike a balance in the imbalance of my life. All other necessities are meaningless.
I don’t like people to ask me for a cigarette, even though I smoke myself, I find the habit in others repulsive. My father smoked, then quite and took to snuff. Black like roe, it stuck to the hairs of his arms and littered the carpet at the foot of his chair. I do not have fond memories of this, nor does my mother, whose job it was to sweep up under my father’s feet. I had an addiction, but some god or the other wiped my slate clean, leaving me with little desire for such wastefulness. If I waste anything, it is time, which I have more than enough of to waste and squander. I am above punition in such matters, as I see no purpose in laying blame where none is warranted. If anyone is to lay blame, it would be I, and that is out of the question. I am blameless. Others, I fear, are not so lucky.
I have worn my hair the same way since I was a teenager, not giving in to the custom of adulthood. It will stay as it is, or was, and that will be it. I have no time for cutting and trimming and behind the ears shaving with a razor sharp enough to slice me to ribbons. It is far less perilous to leave it be, and pay the consequences of not conforming to custom. If necessity should have it, which it may, given the vagaries of my existence, a time may come when I will need to attend to this, but for the time being, I choose not to do so. Hair has become a social issue, as are good looks and the right shoes. If I could, I would wear neither shoes nor good looks, and be done with it once and for all. But as I cannot, I am fated to an indifference that makes life a bad memory. Don’t ask me why it is, it just is, so settle for that or keep your gore hole shut. I have little patience for yammering and bad manners, or people who ask me for a cigarette when clearly I have no intention of giving them one. They are blameful. I am not. I fear nothing, but not fearing anything at all. If I were fearless, I would surely be dead, rotting in some lime pit with arms and legs severed from joints and hipbones. God has seen to that. Others have not been so lucky.
I don’t like people to ask me for a cigarette, even though I smoke myself, I find the habit in others repulsive. My father smoked, then quite and took to snuff. Black like roe, it stuck to the hairs of his arms and littered the carpet at the foot of his chair. I do not have fond memories of this, nor does my mother, whose job it was to sweep up under my father’s feet. I had an addiction, but some god or the other wiped my slate clean, leaving me with little desire for such wastefulness. If I waste anything, it is time, which I have more than enough of to waste and squander. I am above punition in such matters, as I see no purpose in laying blame where none is warranted. If anyone is to lay blame, it would be I, and that is out of the question. I am blameless. Others, I fear, are not so lucky.
I have worn my hair the same way since I was a teenager, not giving in to the custom of adulthood. It will stay as it is, or was, and that will be it. I have no time for cutting and trimming and behind the ears shaving with a razor sharp enough to slice me to ribbons. It is far less perilous to leave it be, and pay the consequences of not conforming to custom. If necessity should have it, which it may, given the vagaries of my existence, a time may come when I will need to attend to this, but for the time being, I choose not to do so. Hair has become a social issue, as are good looks and the right shoes. If I could, I would wear neither shoes nor good looks, and be done with it once and for all. But as I cannot, I am fated to an indifference that makes life a bad memory. Don’t ask me why it is, it just is, so settle for that or keep your gore hole shut. I have little patience for yammering and bad manners, or people who ask me for a cigarette when clearly I have no intention of giving them one. They are blameful. I am not. I fear nothing, but not fearing anything at all. If I were fearless, I would surely be dead, rotting in some lime pit with arms and legs severed from joints and hipbones. God has seen to that. Others have not been so lucky.
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