Thinking non-stop for twelve weeks is jolly difficult, let me tell you.

Talking about absolutely nothing and yet still stringing together a coherent narrative isn’t anything like as easy as it looks, you know. There’s no way I shan’t sound like a ponce by saying this, but it’s an art, really, dear boy. An art, and I am an artist. At least, people call me that. Or something similar-sounding, at any rate.

Today, the imprecise nature of the non-subject I shall avoid tackling is particularly irrelevant to me. So much so, that I’ve just this second changed my mind and decided not to bother with it. Instead, I shall present a stream-of-consciousness-style medley of minor gripes, because we all love seeing other people complaining about things. We don’t like to admit it, but we all know it’s true.

The weather’s not very nice this time of year.

The packets of mayonnaise in the A block canteen are pretty disappointing.

Whatever happened to intervals in the middle of films in the cinema? I miss them, and I hate having to hold it in for another hour until the end.

I wish my intermittent stammer would go away.

I can’t think of enough things that I don’t like. I shan’t do this again, I’m far too cheery. From now on, I shall only talk about pleasant and reassuring things, just like the illuminati want me to.

Oh yeah. Don’t think they’re not everywhere. They are. They’re at your office. They’re in your hoe. They’re in your food and your attic and your clothes. Ever eaten chips? They’re in your salt. Wear glasses? They’re in your eyes. Ever drank milk? THEN THEY ARE INSIDE YOUR SKELETON CONTROLLING YOUR MOVEMENTS.

TRUTH.

Possibly.

Next week I shall be mostly eating chips.

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