The Master Circuit Is My Brain

‘There are only so many things to do, and there is only so much time in which to do them’, the Master Circuit told me, in its usual grandiose fashion. The Master Circuit is my brain. Straightaway I was galvanised into action – the Master Circuit had spoken! ‘Do the things, do the things, do the things!’ I barked excitedly. I was falling over myself with excitement! I ran about the place like a blue-arsed fly all day long doing the things. ‘Do the things, do the things, do the things,’ I said to myself as I went. That was my mantra – all my thoughts were about doing the things, and how important it was to do them. The years went by, as they generally do…


That was before I found out that the Master Circuit was full of shit, of course. ‘And how long did it take you to learn this?’ you ask. ‘A long, long time’ is the answer I would have to give you, if I were to be truthful. About fifty years, could I say? Something like that. Something in the region of that. Only in the last few years have I learned that the Master Circuit is full of shit. Only very recently have I learnt to my dismay that the Master Circuit is a complete and utter fuck-wit.


Now when the Master Circuit tells me anything I turn on it and abuse it roundly – I heap all sorts of vicious abuse on it. The abuse I come out with is so vile that I’d actually be embarrassed if anyone heard me! Not that they ever would of course because it all happens in the privacy of my own head. When I think about all the years of my life that I wasted ‘doing the things’ like the Master Circuit told me to I start to feel very bitter. What good did it do me to be doing all the things? What was the point of it all? I can’t get over the fact that I was stupid enough or gullible enough to believe the Master Circuit. I was such an incredible fool. I was such an incredible dumb-arse. Not just dumb, but super-dumb. Dumbness was like my superpower.


‘Not just dumb but super-dumb’ could be the story of my life really! If I were to write an autobiography that would be the title. That’s what I would call it. ‘What is man but a forked radish?’ – isn’t that what Shakespeare says? What is man? What is man? Just a radish, just a radish, just a fucked-up radish.


When I think about about when I think about all the time I spent thinking about the things I’m fit to kill someone. I was forever thinking thinking thinking about the things. The bloody old things. And doing them as well of course – when I could. When I did them correctly I awarded myself prizes, I conducted solemn ceremonies with myself as a witness and bestowed all sorts of awards and titles on myself. When I didn’t do them correctly then I punished myself. I put myself through the ringer. I tormented myself on a full-time basis. I was merciless on this score – I had no tolerance. I had zero tolerance. Now I’ve got a different thing that I do however – I complain and moan and bitch about the Master Circuit the whole time and I curse myself roundly for being so incredibly unbelievably bewilderingly stupid as to actually listen to it…




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