Trite

A lot of people that I observe, like to talk about the things that they want, especially the things that they can't. Imma take a go at it... since I don't do that very often. (Because statistics advises that my expected return on any effort spent is far and deep into a profit regression.) Now, here we go, are you ready, in style with the folks that I listen to, yelling out into my earphones at work on a roll, to pay the bills, and avoid the chills of a skint tit with a skin tint. [All this is happening while I'm taking a break, from a casual inspection of a massively messy spaghetti type language of the PHP, Perl, and Python possession (it's Ruby, she's got her fans, but she reeks of bad crepes and motherfucking Javascript), Imma wring my hands.] I wish that more people would stare death in the eye, and talk shop with fools with a gleam in their eye, to be specific, as one terrific fellow quoted on TV, I wish more people would be like on the brink of abysses, chewing glass, spitting shards, and moulding flasks of disdain over tea and crackers. I wish more people would despise the flip side of doing what they enjoy, because it's a cop out for plebs of every meagre aspiring feel, and appearance, thoughtless, impassioned, clowns of the fecking flippin crowd of dispossession. But hey, if it makes people happy, it makes me happy, so generally I rest my case and let it be.

I think I've been listening to too much Eminem.