Hypocrisy

The other day, I walked past the local cemetery and smelled a barbeque. Whether the two things are related or not I'll never know, but as far as I'm aware corpses don't long for chargrilled slabs of meat in baking hot sunshine whilst blasting out whatever noises Rihanna's making at the time; it's more of a living thing. Living just down the road from what is essentially a large underground retirement home, though, doesn't tend to bear as much of an enigmatic quality as one might initially expect.

Monotony is the order of the day, and week, and month now as I maintain roughly the same work/sleep routine as a tortoise for whom simply being awake constitutes as 'work'. It's even gotten to the point where any free time I manage to come across involves me lazily dawdling about, staring mindlessly into the television with a slack-jawed open mouth, idly refreshing Facebook every sixteen-and-a-half seconds in the hope that somebody has news to share of a violent spontaneous combustion or picture of beans on toast, and peeing. My existence becomes the very definition of hypocrisy wherein I ponder all the things I'd like to do in my free time whilst complaining about the lack of free time in which to do those things. When such free time comes about, I ignore all previous notions of things I'd like to do and complain about how I have nothing to do and end up rambling about it on this thing and going back to retype words several times and adding neglected letters after some extremely self-embarrassing mis-spelling.

I'll go now. Mostly because I'm finding this one dragging and have resigned to counting this post as a bit of a blip on my continued lifetime, upon which I'll look back and yell at myself through the very fabric of the fourth dimension telling me to stop being "so fucking boring!" However, it might also have something to do with the fact that I have many other things to be thinking about getting on with right now.