Spew

I could hear the shower running, I knew she wanted me to join her in there, and God I wanted to. But, there was something... something I had to do before I could burst in there and have my way. I can't recall exactly what I was doing, something mundane like ironing. I can recall rushing the task whatever it was just to get in there before she was done, but it was too late, I heard the shower being turned off and my chance being missed and despair filled my world...

Then the all too well known sound of my phone on vibrate dragged me from sleep. 'Mother' the LCD informed me. Half past seven in the morning? she must have left for work not 20 minutes ago. What the bloody hell could she... the cat... I bet its about letting the cat in or something equally annoying. "Hello?"
"Chris could you get up and see if your dads okay? hes just phoned me and he's on his way home, he's not feeling well."
"eh... yeah sure. where is he?"
"he should be in shortly"
"yeah cool" I said, shaking the sleep from my head and cursing myself for not getting in the shower with whoever quicker in the dream realm.
I groggily pulled on some clothes and stumbled down the stairs and through the hall. Just as I opened the living room door my father walked in the back door. We were perhaps 4 metres apart. but there was no greeting, just silence and awe at the scene before us. He had the appearance of someone who had waded through a swamp of spew. It was caked to his beard, his jacket, his jeans. I only glimpsed at him briefly, not wanting to embarass him, but in the quickest of glances I knew I saw carrots amongst the debris.

Why?

Why aren't we happy with what we already have?

We have Myspace, we have facebook, we have bebo, before them we had books, and newspapers, and leaflets, and flyers, and before them we had various means and methods of self satisfying ourselves by worshipping the physical representation of the spoken word. Ever since some German realised he could mass produce the printed word using an apple press we have been deluding ourselves that someone somewhere may give a fuck what we , the masses, say, and what we, the masses, think, and even more, may want to read it. Well shit maybe some of us do, and so it is with forced hand, gritted teeth, and rotted liver that I sign myself up for his horseshit blogging tomfoolery.

I sincerely doubt that anything that will ever grace this page will change anything about anything, regardless of how insignificant that anything may be, but here goes.

So, to answer the question I asked when we first came in, because we are bastards and bastards are never happy with anything except the sound of their own voice and the hope that someone or something somewhere may be altered in some way by the sound and content of that voice.