Quand on est dans la merde jusqu’au cou, il ne reste plus qu’à chanter.*

I live in mortal fear of not only being (mis)understood as a total po-faced git, but – and what is way scarier as well as way more heinous a crime – of actually being one. Dreadful, no? I mean, better no face than po-face. Or something.



No, seriously. I seriously admire the people who manage to steer clear from melodramatic self-pity. And as it happens, I also seriously admire those who actually know stuff and go about neither pretending to know stuff nor rubbing it in the (po-?)faces of others that they actually do. Do you see what I mean? I think that's brilliant in a person. Oh yes verily.

That is totally apropos nothing, by the way. But so is everything, is it not? It is, you know. Besides which, it is spring, it has sprung, my body'll nevermore be young [it does scan, if you read it right], and dammit whatever the actual state of everything is, I will be anarchically high every once in a while, in the (yes, po-)face of the world and all its woes. Which are numerous, but sucks-boo to all that.

All together now, a-one, a-two, a-one-two-three…

*I don't speak a word of French, but Sammy Beckett did. And quoting him in the original makes me appear cleverer than I am, what-what? Shhhh.