Bits!

Friday 10:11 p.m.
First of all, I'd like to thank the anonymous babes in the apache, black and white stripey jumper, who was gloriously demonstrating her bits in the pub tonight. Here is my bosom! Fabuloso, so it was, missus!

I drank two bottles of collapso last night, yet wakened this morning feeling quite wonderful. Maybe it's taken three weeks on holiday to get here. I wakened up loving my life. Things struck me as wonderful!

Once I wanted to be a writer. Someone, who used to be me, had eight plays produced and two novels published. What a wonderment! What fruition! If I tried to pull something like that off these days, what chance would I have? What vindication!

This has really been a heavenly place to be for me, except, of course, I complained all the time. And moaned and groaned. Fortunately, at some point, I stopped believing in all the thoughts I was having. Most folk I know have trouble dealing with this idea that you can't believe in anything you think, but once you get the hang of it, everything gets much better.

If you would prefer to believe in the truth of things, well, just blow your brains out right now.

But tomorrow I expect the pizzaman may appear and the addictions will swop over. This is your last chance at this then, Jack!

Well, Hotboy, why don't you tell us spam robots about ra bliss!? I'm afraid, Jack, that there is no point in telling the spam robots or the flatheids about ra bliss because the flatheids will never get ra bliss. I always have to remember that the flatheids don't know they're flatheids and the flatheids will never, ever get anywhere near ra bliss. Why is that, Hotboy? I'm sorry, Jack, but they're just too dumb to meditate. And they cannot help themselves. Why is that, Hotboy? I might say that they cannot help themselves because they are stupid, lazy, complaisant basturns, but I really don't know why even smart flatheids cannot meditate. I don't even want to think of that. It would be better if they were happy, but I've never met a happy flatheid. Dearie me!

After the two botttles of plonko collapso, I wakened today in one of those rarely occasioned wonderful moods. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

I changed the route from Shotts to Newmains and went through Bonkle. Well, that's a bit of a laugh anyway. Then went through Allanton Woods, more scenic by far. Sat meditating in the good mother's house until she returned from lunch. What kills you is exhaustion if you get awful old. I could see that looking at her when she got back from the luncho.

So I went through Wishaw and Motherwell instead of going through Newhouse and Holytown. Like a bat out of hell. There are many roundabouts where the cars try to kill you and I scoffed at them. I just pedalled and flew like a bat out of hell and loved it and did my mantra and tried not to sing my cycling song which I used to sing when I was out of my head on the one brake bike so long ago.

I'm the urban spaceman, baby! I've got speed. I've got everything I need!

I seemed, more or less, downhill on that route, and I went to school in Motherwell, when schools were good for the proletarians, and the journey was very evocative memorywise, so it was.

So I have associations with the Domestic Bliss, the grannies, the whole of Lanarkshire, and ... well, my root guru might be the most amazing joe in Europe, and I have to stop complaining.

You don't complain all that much, Hotboy. Thanks for that, Jack!

What a fortunate creature, I am, I am!! What a fortunate creature I am!!!!!!!