C'est la vie
C'mon, you have to enjoy the tedium of the existence of the human being. The thing chosen to contain the state of the art chip that can think of itself and then think of itself thinking; ultimately implode and wipe everything out of existence including itself. It sticks to its ideologies like gum to a shoe and completely loses hope in what it has because there is promise of something greater. Hope destroys reality.
We exist in a dimension in which reality is all we have; but are clever enough to know that that's not all there is. The curiosity in what exists beyond reality is so bad it necessitates using reality as the opportunity cost. And then we wonder why we are so sad.
I wonder why people are so happy in the morning. The morning people with all their Dora-the-Explorer smiles and their never-ending tales of how they had the afternoon champagne tea at the Vic over the weekend. Why would anyone have champagne tea? Here goes nothing: don't spend your last penny on champagne. And don't buy tea - it's a kettle of hot water and a tea bag and two millimeters of skimmed milk (white water) sitting lonesomely in a microscopic steel jug in the middle of the tray. £39.99 with a yet-to-be-buttered scone and a napkin to bring you a napkin closer to the middle-class of the West End. In the East End. It floors me, morning happiness. I cannot wrap my head around it although admittedly, this could be due to the physically colossal quality of my head. Don't people have nightmares about the one that ran away to deal with?
'Hello!', they bark through their teeth. 'What a berk!', you say back. All they hear is 'Good morrow to you too, gov'nor!'. They look at you with their lovely faces and you know this is the part where you hold hands and sing a song. The two doucheketeers from Wankshire. You want to punch someone so bad but for the little problem: you are a slapper and not a puncher.
There is too much foreplay going on. Life is too short for this nonsense, just get on with it and go home and sit in your favourite corner, cry a little then hit the hay at 2246. You will take exactly 14 minutes to fall asleep if you had a good cry unless you took the £39.99 tea aptly described above. At 0600, you would have slept for 7 hours - which is the recommended length of sleep according to the study you trust. At 0610, you are too tired to get up and too weak to convince yourself that life doesn't hate you and you don't hate life. It's ok. You will be fine and you will live to fight another 7 hours of sleep that leaves you in a state, beat. Off you trudge to your daily chores because - bread. Metaphorically, of course; you prefer hot garlic bread smeared with grated cheese in your heart of hearts. But for now, a large caffe latte with an extra shot and vanilla syrup is all you need. You want it with milk so you have to instruct them to use 'whole' milk. Which they don't do anyway. They have their own ideas of what is healthy for you so they give you that stuff from which the essence of milk has been stripped because - fat. But wait, they did ask you if you wanted to have a white chocolate and raspberry muffin with your coffee because - sweet. That's £3.69 down the drain.
All this rage holed up inside and you can't let it out because - anger management. Count backwards from ten, breath in and out, look in the mirror and tell yourself, it's fine. It's fine. Off you go to catch the train only to find someone as sad as the rest of us decided to jump in front of one because - sad. All trains are now sad about it and they are mourning a little. Wait an hour for the stronger of the trains to crawl in with his sorrowful face to get you sorrowfully to point B. Meanwhile, dive into the twitterverse and look at the hash tags. #prayFor... #hijack...#crash. Just sadness. You run away from it all but not before broadcasting your own 'My heart goes out to...#prayFor...'
When you can finally get your piece of peace, the lovely chap sat across from you is very sad about Donald Trump. Verbally, too. So he says, 'Hello' through his tea-stained teeth. 'What a berk!', you respond. And all he hears is 'Good morrow to you too, gov'nor!'.
C'est la vie.