Sleeping.

Why when I go to type "sleeping" in my title box does Google auto-fill decide that what I really want to write is "Sleeping naked."? I really don't think I'm of an age where that's a part of life I particularly want to explore any more than: "OH, you do? *fucks*". I can only assume it would link me to some horrendous, soft-core pseudo-porn meant to arouse 12-year olds or something.

Speaking of 12-year olds. No. Not really. That would be a disgusting segue. Nah, I genuinely am a bit lost today as for what to write about. A little ironic given my antepenultimate post, but I will struggle on nonetheless. I want to make this passably interesting because I am going home for a few days, and will have more interesting things to do with my time than sit in front of a computer. Not really, but I will be doing things. How frustrating. I hate things. They're so boring.

I wonder which god dictates irony; I wonder if their sides ache from years of laughing at us all. Hmm.

Just spoke to the man from Warchild about doing some work for them. He seemed pretty amenable to the proposal, so that's nice. Oh, and one of my friends is meeting the editor of Q tonight, so hopefully that might be an 'in' - however thin. I need to think of a new way in which I can break into this area, because I don't think convention is going to suit me - in fact, I don't think that kind of boring 'working your way up' is at all for me; how mundane and commonplace. I want to do something with my life, make a difference. I know people always say this, but I mean it. I want money. I want charity. I want a house. I want a boat. I want children to live. Bah. Maybe I should come up with some invention that revolutionises the way we do some process or other; shame I'm so useless at mechanics, science, maths, and with my hands. I guess that kind of rules out that idea, so let's move on. I will just have to become a successful author: this will be my grand platform, from which I can launch a career destined for the dizzying heights of fame grandeur. And you, dear reader, will be the cushions that I land on when I realise this is all just a fragment of my ruptured imagination. You shall be the gently rolling grass bank onto which I can drop slowly, and roll anonymously away upon. That will be nice. Just causing a scene would be something I would enjoy immensely. Just appear, do something really weird, and go away again. Write a novel which makes people genuinely stop in their tracks and weep with joy, and then just vanish into the sunset on a... horse or something.

On that subject, I've been monging around on other people's blogs (and, if anyone reads this) there is some interesting stuff out there. The operative word being some. By this, I of course, mean that there is a whole load of unbearable rubbish. I pray to the fictitious gods that no one flies past mine with the same level of scorn that I have for theirs. And... also, why does "next random blog" (or whatever the button is) take you to the same twenty-five pages every single time? I swear to fuck if I end up on that awful proselytizing Christian couples' page again, I will be forced to commit the greatest human atrocity since 9/11. I will go over there and pound their god-awful perfect, suburban, off-hue, tan, mother-crapping faces into internet-nothingess. I cannot abide that whole "My name is *whatever*. I am a mother. I am a Christian." That's great, be proud, but stop defining yourself by a bunch of characteristics which by no means embody who you actually are. It's the same as me going:

"I'm Jack. One day I hope to fulfil my purpose on this planet by procreating. I live my life by several other people's rules."

Great. At least say how old you are, or what you enjoy, or who you are and why you are; you're not a Christian, you are Christian. When did these things become lost in the fabric of ephemera? Semantics are bloody important people. Saussure wouldst be spinning betwixt his grave and purgatory; suspended animation in a nightmarish world of indecipherability as created by him. What a fabulous irony that would be.

Nah, I've nothing against you if you want to follow a religious lifestyle, but I have an issue if that becomes your defining trait; mainly because it can't in and of itself be an idiosyncrasy and thus, by default, cannot be a defining trait. There we go. Another irony. Chalk it up. No, I have no problem with you for being that way, but I will take issue with you when you start spouting this kind of "I was saved by Jesus" rubbish. No, you weren't, you were saved because of your own internal strength; you were galvanized by Jesus, you were never saved by something non-existent. It defies all rational explanation. I don't hold much with this kind of impromptu, spontaneous emotion which suddenly saves people; no, I believe in connections and explanations. Somewhere along that line there is a moment when thoughts boiled up to the surface, to join other ones, and these were sparked together by a memory, or a thought; and thus I said to you you are saved.

Maybe they were saved, I dunno.

I won't talk about religion anymore, because I could probably go on for three-hundred million hours.

I will just say, however, before I leave, and I genuinely don't intend this to be offensive (for once):

The Bible is the greatest work of fiction. Ever.

I sincerely believe that. It is beautiful:

"My transgressions,O Lord, are multiplied: my transgressions are multiplied, and I am not worthy to behold and see the height of heavensfor the multitude of mine iniquities."

Sublime. If they existed for no other reason than to inspire that. God bless them all.