Wednesday, 2 January 2013

The FTSE 100 has soared past 6,000

[] = private conversation

That's good news, isn't it? All because they've changed their minds in America about the fiscal cliff mass suicide thing. They lost their nerve at the last minute.

But the soaring FTSE won't mean more jobs, will it? There are millions of people unemployed. How are they going to get jobs? They won't even have benefits soon.

I'm trying not to get depressed. I don't want to live in a waste land. Let the FTSE soar! What do we care? Do we have enough baked beans?

I'm going to concentrate on myself. I can't sort out the problems of the world. I've got problems of my own. No one knows the troubles I've seen. That's why I'm a blues singer now.

I might stop reading the news. I'm sick of the fucking news. ['You keep telling us, man.' I mean it, Voice.] I don't want to hear about fiscal cliffs. I don't want to hear about ETFs. Those creeps should get a life.

I'm getting a life. ['Can I come with you?' Yes. Before I escape though, get free, I'm going to kick some ass and take some names. The moment (after) I sign a publishing deal for my songs it's going to be a fucking bloodbath on this blog. 'Like the end of The Godfather, Mikey!' Yeah, like when the other Mikey moves the family to Vegas. 'Can I dress up as a cop?' I'll think about it, Voice. You'll need a body first. / I'll have nothing to lose, and nothing to fear. I'll let my anger spill out. Unless I get all mellow before then - like some sort of crazy blogging Jesus. 'Oh, forgive them, Mikey, for they know not what they do. They're stupid c**ts.' / 'I can't wait, Mikey!' You'll have to wait a while. 'Oh, the tension!']

I'm keeping this Sunday clear, to finish my fourth song. I don't want to use Gilly Marie. Not because of my angel and the other one. ['What other one?' Stacy.] It's a garage band song. It's too simple.

Things are moving on. I'm moving on. [You're right, Voice, it is tension.] I'm putting pressure on myself. I'm going to change everything. I've got no choice, anyway. It's either that or ... find my own cliff to jump off.

I'm tied to this. I can't explain. I've done it all. But it's not enough for the dumb animals. They have no culture, no soul, no imagination. So, I go on, feeling sick. / If I can get away from this blog - let's face it, the game isn't worth the candle - I'll easily write two hundred songs in five years.

['O Lord, take him out of here before he loses his mind!' I lost my mind years ago, Voice.]