Sense Is Hard To Find

That old bad feeling has got me on the hop again. Even as I write these words I find myself recoiling with horrified incredulity at my own inane stupidity. Why do I have to come out with this shit? Since when has the bad feeling not had me on the hop? I’ve been hopping for as long as I can remember now. Hopping is all I know – I can’t actually imagine any other way of life, any other mode of existence. I’m a hopper. I live in hopper world – I live in Hop-To-It World. ‘Hop to it’ my mind says and I do. Hop to it because if you don’t the old bad feeling will get you. It’ll gobble you up in a flash. It’ll take chunks out of you. So I hop obediently like the good little hopper that I am. I hop like a crazy bug. I hop all day long. I hop for all I’m worth and then some. As I say, hopping is all I know…


This moment of clarity quickly passes and true to form my mind starts babbling nonsense. “I come from a long line of nose barbers,’ it says portentously, full to the brim of its own non-existent importance. Full of shit really, if you want to know the truth. “Come to Barnacle Bill’s for a slap-up meal of pureed owl-livers and fungal hyphae on burnt toast with a side of word salad”, barks my mind like the vile unspeakable pestilential jackass it is. “Sense is hard to find in this day and age” I find myself commenting lamely, unaccountably impressed with my own laughably superficial wisdom in these matters. Impressed despite myself. But then it’s back to the grindstone and before we know it the day is over and it’s time to start talking about other things. We’re on our way home and there never was a better man for the job. I nod sagely, as if I both know well what my mind is saying and agree totally with it, but the truth of the matter is that I loathe it and despise it with a passion. My hatred for it knows no bounds. How did I ever end up with a filthy verminous maggot-mind like this, I wonder?


‘What did I ever do to end up with a mind like this?’ I complain loudly but no one will give me a straight answer. No one will look me in the eye. There’s no one there anyway – only me and my mind. There’s just me and my projections which scamper around the room like so many satanic imps. Laughing like bastards. Those bloody little imps, they’d drive you cracked they would. Not that they really exist because they don’t, not that this stops me being driven mad by them because it doesn’t. People look away, afraid to look me in the eye, not wanting to know about my troubles. They cough discretely into their handkerchiefs. They order another round of drinks from the wild-eyed barman. They munch like lunatics on cocktail sausages. I can’t blame anyone else for my mind but myself, I know that. It’s all my own doing. It’s all my own fault – I’ve been giving my mind all the leeway it ever asked for in the hope that it would help me escape from that old bad feeling. I’ve been letting it away with sheer bloody murder the whole time and now it’s gone and turned into a complete and utter twisted bastard. My mind has turned into an out-to-lunch no-holds-barred foaming-at-the-mouth total psycho as I’m sure you can tell from what I’ve just been saying. It’s got me right where it wants me…


So now I just have to put up with my mind and all its filthy nonsense. Nothing else I can do – I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. There is a certain inevitability about all of this. I’ve boiled the eggs and now I have to put my feet up and read the Daily Mail. I’ve ironed my trousers and now it’s time for tea. I have gone to the park and now it’s time to feed the ducks.




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