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Hi, I'm Mac Sirloin. I have this great habit of incessantly rereading my own posts when I genuinely have nothing better to do. I've realized that pretty much every blog I've typed up as of late has been angry bordering on verbose psychotic rages. So this is a happy blog. I want to start trying to recall more experiences based on the happy times I've had with people instead of dwelling on the (literally countless) rages I've flown into over nothing. And it's going to rhyme.

Bullet Magnet, he's really smart/
In creating my account, he did his part/
To join a forum about a slave that farts/
I can hardly wait for Dinner.

Maybe it's these pills that thin my blood/
Maybe it's being back in my old neighbourhood/
It seems every bombshell of rage is a dud/
And I can probably wait for Dinner.

I like my new puppy, his name's Darby/
Dumb as a knob, cute and pretty/
His crapping on the floor can be shitty/
But at least he gets his dinner!

Surrounded by abnormals and wierdo-types/
It's not with them that I hold my gripe/
They showed I need to avoid a fight/
And the answer involves eating dinner.

I want to play bass, program and draw/
And scratch my groin 'til it's red and raw/
You can't tell me that's against the law/
Unless you're eating your dinner.

I never thought I could be good at stuff/
Just to mug and yell and treat everyone rough/
But now I do more than sit on my duff/
And shovelling in some dinner.

Deep down and dirty I'm still a grumpass/
But my brain feels more like sun and grass/
Than the oozing backside of an overpass/
Where people throw away their dinner.

I really feel like I live in the future/
Using the net to be a media moocher/
There really will never be a proper suture/
For stealing virtual dinners.

It seems like I spent years alienating/
When I should have been congratulating/
A circle of people I found infuriating/
For their ability to postulate, comment on, consider and hypothesize dinner.

I want to draw a novel, and write a comic/
I'm getting lazy, so 'hooked on phonics'/
This is feeling unsettlingly unironic/
And something something dinner.

To be frank this goes out to you, OWF/
Four years, at whom I would huff and puff/
Hiding behind a toothy grin and words too gruff/
To appropriately speak at a dinner.

I would describe this place as 'a den of gay Australians using fishy means t/o remove your shirt'
But then I'd be outright ignoring the dirt/
The new members, soon to come after their first Oddworld flirt/
And make terrible fanfiction concerning a Mudos' Dinner.

My rhymes are so crap, I'm seeing red/
So I might as well put this song to bed/
And make a joke about being well fed/
(Right here, while I cook dinner)

Fin


I'm not sure if this is because of my traumatic experience in Hamilton (surrounded by born again psychopaths as I was), but that wispy connection to God that I've so stoicly stood beside seems to be fading.
The brain is a very powerful thing, sometimes it does exactly what it feels you need without asking, and for awhile it did so for me. But I think it may well be time to grow up a little bit. I'm not going to start saying there's absolutely nothing 'out there', this is much more personal. It was like an external device you could temporarily hook up to a PC to make it process faster (Is there such a thing as practical USB RAM?). But I'm at a point where I can make manual use of those parts of my brain, whatever they are and whatever I mean by 'they', without that ingrained automation. I would love to talk to anyone about this who doesn't think I'm just spouting bullshit.

Meeting adjourned.