Well, it's what I've been saying, isn't it? This grumpy old woman knows what I'm talking about. And she agrees with me. She probably gets her ideas from my blog. I've been looking at her Philippa Gee Wealth Management website stuff. See if you can dig this: 'Money should be viewed as a gift. It should provide you with options and opportunities - reducing your worries, allowing you to plan for the future, offering you choices as to how you live your life. If you view money as a burden, then something has to be wrong with your head. You're mental. Maybe you should see a shrink.' I like this woman! Yes, she's grumpy, and old, but so what?
As for the funds, I really don't care how many there are. (What am I, the fund police?) But I need to write, so why not write: 'There are too many funds!' -?[!] I could go to my local bakery, and scream: 'There are too many cream buns in the shop window!' It would be just the same. Who cares, honestly?
We all need something to get excited about. To write about, to talk about, to complain about. But where is the silence? Where is the calm? Where is the emptiness?
One day, I'll write myself out. I'll talk myself out. I will think myself out. Then I'll be free. I'll be silent, and calm, and (truly) empty, and clean, and I'll be free. It's my dream.
Words are dirt. Thoughts are dirt. Noise. Sickening trash. It's all chaos. I understand this, and accept it. But look at all the smooth writers. They have no soul. They are fucking idiots.
Sorry, Philippa, if you're reading this. I just get carried away sometimes. And you're not that old. Cheer up, girl!
As for the funds, I really don't care how many there are. (What am I, the fund police?) But I need to write, so why not write: 'There are too many funds!' -?[!] I could go to my local bakery, and scream: 'There are too many cream buns in the shop window!' It would be just the same. Who cares, honestly?
We all need something to get excited about. To write about, to talk about, to complain about. But where is the silence? Where is the calm? Where is the emptiness?
One day, I'll write myself out. I'll talk myself out. I will think myself out. Then I'll be free. I'll be silent, and calm, and (truly) empty, and clean, and I'll be free. It's my dream.
Words are dirt. Thoughts are dirt. Noise. Sickening trash. It's all chaos. I understand this, and accept it. But look at all the smooth writers. They have no soul. They are fucking idiots.
Sorry, Philippa, if you're reading this. I just get carried away sometimes. And you're not that old. Cheer up, girl!
