Oh, I'd beg for you.
See, I thought atavism was supposed to mean that DNA glitches skip a generation or two (I must be an aberration). If that's the case, then I can only worry for the sanity of my children, or my grandchildren. The poor little bastards won't stand a chance. For them, life won't be so much merry as it will be painstakingly insular, skull-explodingly self-referential, and knuckle-crackingly frustrating. If ever any of you exist, future babies, forgive me for my part in it all.
Ah, welcome. I apologise for the apology above. It is the least - or the most, I'm not quite sure - I can do under the circumstances. You see, I've been doing research on hereditary traits, and I've a sneaking suspicion that our genetic gifts are often eventually blown sky-high by our genetic time-bombs. There's no way to beat it, I guess, except to hope that you come from pure stock, and that you are the perfect mesh of the positive traits of your parents. If you're from messy seed, tainted blood, or both, you can put all your chips on an innings full of bouncers. The odds are against you.
The research continues, but the findings, for now, stop here...
Did your planet take a good turn today? Did you wake from your slumber feeling refreshed and excited about facing another fulfilling round in the boxing-match of life? Did everything you touch turn to figurative gold? Oh, you lucky things. For any of you who found the missing piece to the puzzle of your happiness today, I congratulate you, and can tell you here and now that my envy is bubbling up in me like that fizzy-drink-reflux you get in your nose. I don't like the feeling, but there ain't no way to stop it. For all the rest, I hope your day bought at least a solitary smile to your lips, cracked and dry as they may be.
And as for me? Well, that is by-the-by. I think we can assume a day in the life of this screen-scribe is an acquired taste, one which I haven't come to terms with yet. It's like raw onions - not for everyone. Especially me.
Enough of this pleasantry. I don't feel I've done enough swearing lately. Swearing - contrary to popular belief - is an art form which needs constant up-keep if it is to be performed to an acceptable and proficient level. I shit you not. So, for the love of fuck-sake, I shall begin the rescue mission. You cunts.
My brother, who has a wise head on his shoulders, told me recently that he thinks greed is a learned trait. I had to disagree, and I feel safe that my opinion is correct. You may have your own thoughts on the matter, brow-beaters, but can you say with alacrity, and a clear-conscience, that you are free of it yourself? Does the Human Condition grip you in it's talons as fiercely as it does the rest of us, Sinners and Saints alike? I think the answer is self-fulfilling. Altruism does not exist, for greed is far more prevalent - far more powerful than most give it credit for. Interesting, hmmm...
I suppose you would prefer a dawdle down the leafy-green paths of positivity - or at least something that will leave a smile on your faces - more than the ornery, garbled messes I've been responsible for of late. Popularity is a strong incentive, and tonight I feel like a little for myself, so here it goes:
One wet night - a Monday - I met a girl on the piss who only had one hand. I didn't know this, and even if I had known, it wouldn't have excused her shabby attitude and bitchy outlook. So you can imagine my delight when she finally made some remark that was actually positive and funny, and you could forgive me for asking her for a high-five in celebration of this rare pearl of wise-crackery.
Me, holding my hand up: "Hahaha, that's a good one! High-five!"
Her: "I don't do high-fives."
Me: "What? You're fucking kidding me. Don't be stupid, high-five!"
Her: "No."
Me: "Aw, c'mon, that was a good one. High-five?"
Her, holding up her left hand: "OK"
Me: "Wait, wait, wait! You don't high-five with your left hand, you high five with your right!"
Her friend, sitting to my left, whispering: "She doesn't have a right hand!"
Looking down, it is apparent that her friend isn't pulling my leg, and the douche-bag I'm talking to is indeed one hand short. So, rather than retreating in apology in such an awkward position, I did the only thing I could, trudged on unaffected.
Me: "Ah well, high-five anyway!"
Her: "Oh my god."
She left, and the bar was a more pleasant place as a result.
I you could give your life for someone else's to be spared, who would it be?
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