HELLO NOBODY I AM SAYING NOTHING

BLEEEUUURRRRGGHHHHH
WOOOWOOWOO
LAAA LAAA LAAAA LAA
I just shat a bunch of dead pixels into both of your eyes. Celebrate me, for I am a geneius.
I hate artists. I loathe them. I like art, and some artists are my friends.

But I do wish artists were dead. Smug fucks.
WALALOOLARY, I MAEK THE ART, I AM IMPORTANT, LOOK AT ME I THREW A WALL AT A PEN

I hate concepts. Bunch of muck. Let art affect who it does for their own sake, not yrrrr flimsy yet persuasive rhetoric, because I AM GOING TO BUY A SWORD AND CHOP OFF YOUR HEAD

I hate playing shit shows. They make me feel lousy, and envious of anyone who can ROCK OUT. I will start a band this year, it will be my awesome, and the players MY SOLEMN BITCHES. But they will know their place.
ANYWAY
That should have been in brackets.
Another shitty gig, and another lame teenage whine. Limiters. They suck. They are unreasonable. You insist on dropping everything down to 100db then you lose the physicality of the sound. The grit, the weight and the detail...
I am of course talking about LOUD music... it should be played LOUD and listened to LOUD... quiet music the inverse...

I heard that an OBSCENE health and safety measure may be implemented where limiters are a legal requirement in all live music venues.

This means me = fucked = no more team brick gigs to do as team brick as I am now = a fuckin shame (for me, not for the countless brightstars who think I suck, they're probably right, 50 million fall fans etc), cause it felt like I was startin' to hit my stride, so to speak, feelin' the ever-lovin' thrummm of woooshy noise beguilia (that is when I'm not met by a ghastly GAGGING BOX or a SILLY MAN who is stood in a box and the man is SHOUTING AT ME TO BE QUIET and dragging his slidey-mech-slugs towards him in a bid to SHUT ME UP. Prickery. Honestly.)

This being said, I rocked glasgow last week. I need to have a trusted team of sound engineers in all corners of the globe.... and BIG FUCK OFF AMPS AS CONTINGENCY PLAN..

Shitting fuck hell arsewart captain wretch piss Gok Wan cock patrol i hate you

My failings and inadequacies (OF WHICH THEY ARE LEGION) often make me wish I slept on a bed made of guns. The pillow is made of triggers.

I only want to get things right (or when I do get things wrong, I want it to be like tripping over a rock and breaking my ankle to find a golden mushroom or something gay like that or something AWESOME like breaking my leg by pretending to play football and finding that I had a robotic leg all this time, the kind of wrong that's illuminatory and life affirming, not the kind of wrong that's just crushing defeat, sailing past, on a bus, wearing shades, texting their mates about what a prick I am, whilst tossing a can full of puddle out the window clocking me full times up my jaw as I howl "BEJOYCE, IT'S ALL CHARACTER BUELDEING! AEY AM AN ATRIST AND ITES MY CONDISCION! IEM A GENEIOUS!)

I'll reiterate, I just want to get things RIGHT, and float about in my own little autism skateboard that I can ride because it's only for US AUTISM PEOPLE and we suck at stuff so let us have our magic skateboard OK THANKS --- BUT I CAN'T

Because people get in the way
SHITTY SOUND ENGINEERS
PEOPLE WHO HATE ME
SHITTY NEIGHBOURS
LIVE MUSIC VENUES IN RESIDENTIAL AREAS WITH NO SOUNDPROOFING (what do you expeeeeeeeeeect?)


FUCK IT



I'M GOING TO GO AND SLEEP

RIGHT AFTER I BUILD AN AQUEDUCT FROM MY SOLIDYFING SHAME (THE WATER WILL BE RIVERS OF SELF HATE... AND WATER.... OF COURSE, YOU FUCKING PLEB.... god I'm thirsty now... really, I could just go for some fizzy water, you know like 1992, in the sports centre at night, buying a can of tab clear, or lucozade, or just some fizzy fucking water god that'd be great) AND I WILL SLEEP UNDER IT AND EITHER WAKE UP A SOGGY DEAD OR QUITE REFRESHED.

GOD IN HAEVN I'M TIRED AS A... NO

WAIT

I MEAN THIRSTY
I'M THIRSTY
I WISH I WAS A VENDING MACHINE
I MIGHT BE ABLE TO GET THAT RIGHT. I MEAN, IT'S EASY...

I suppose if my AS "schtick" was identifying varying carpet weaves, my life might be a damned sight easier, I'd just sit at home, scratching the specks of mud, coffee, semen and disappointment off my sick-green carpet and analysing the surviving strands.


BED TIME FOR DICK HEAD.