Confessions of an unstable Editor-In-Chief: I'm a changed man!
Still in the hospital? No, not really. If, then only in my mind. My 15 minutes of fame is over and I'm on my way back to real life. Back to reality where the clouds pass by like mambo-jambo jet-fighters and where the world is actually ruled by hitch-hikers. Nice one, I think I just put together a really good rhyme. Damn, I'm good.
This week hasn't been any better than the last ones. I won't start talking about my work as a editor-in-chief of The Cheers magazine. I really won't. I don't want to. I have a personal life as well you know. Hmm, actually I don't, but I won't get into the cheers crap one way or another. I bet you're tired of me always talking about the same old shit about journalists, editors and wannabe professional wave riders. Well, I think that's all history now anyway. Now that the magazine has been farked and everyone's hoping for the fark-up to continue, including the owners of this magazine, I will be out of job soon one way or another. Why should they keep an asshole like me on their pay-roll while everyone else is doing it for free. Why should they? Why should they keep me as the head of The Cheers while I'm actually doing nothing, nuthin' but complaining about my life. Even my work is being done by my assistant editor-in-chief. She was also assigned by the owners.
They didn't even care that I don't want an assistant. Though well...yeah, good that I have her as otherwise I would have to work myself. But right now I can just relax and enjoy the view. The view that I see on my computer desktop, currently a theme from Monsters Incorporated. My mouse arrow looks like Homer Simpson, btw. And he usually looks like one of my bosses ugly like hell. I bet they're gonna fire me now for sure. But who cares, I've got a good contract and in case they actually do fire me, I will get twice as much money within the next year than I'm making now. Stupid motherfuckers.
But as mentioned, I really don't want to talk about my work as an editor-in-chief, I'm afraid this stuff might sound too formal, too decent and not right for you guys. Why do I think so, you ask? You stupid bastard, I'm the editor-in-chief of the magazine and I need to explain nothing. NOTHING, get it? Fuck off!
Can't understand these son of a bitches, they're just full of shit. Who am I talking about? God knows, who cares anyway. Forget it. I have decided to change my life, for good that is. Right now it's just so fucking depressing, that this is basically the only thing I can do. Last night I thought it would be a good start to stop using these fucking swearwords so that people would be more ready to talk to me. I think I'm doing a pretty good job already. I used to spit while swearing and no one really wanted to be near me while I was talking. Usually, when Is tarted a conversation, they pointed their finger to my little (and expensive) digital tape recorder and went as far from me as possible. So usually I just used to communicate with my little piece of machinery for the sake of eventually getting the tape to the other person...well, independent of the fact whether you actually understood what I was just talking about or not, you should be glad you haven't met me. Though I bet you can still smell me from the screen of your computer.
Anyway, I've stopped using the bad words and from now on I will do my best to talk like an intelligent person. Maybe I can even find a life for me this way. Life full of fun, drinking, swearing in Thai language (did you know that masturbation in Thai language is Chuk wow and Dog's dick is Kwai mar and Son of the bitch is Loog-Ga-Ree?). I can't even imagine a life without embarrassment. Even the dogs have been barking at me, they're doing it ALL THE TIME. But not anymore. Now I'm a totally changed man. No swearing, no masturbation, no bank robberies, no monsters sleeping on my floor, no fantasies of my grandma. From now on I'm the new and improved version of me. Version 3.08 to be exact.
Jesus fucking Christ! Some fucker just called me and asked if he could order some women to be sent to Palace, room 307. One should be blond(50/87/134) and the other one baldy (I don't even want to mention the wanted measures here). What a weird fuck. I'll tell you, for us, normal people, this kind of behavior is unacceptable. And where did the dickhead got my number at all? I closed down that shop years ago. Fuck! Like I said, from now I'm a changed man and I don't deal with type of things. Jesus!
Got to take a piss...