Daily Blitherings

A feeling of dread starts to set in as the realization of the hangover begins to vibrate through the pilot’s brain. He is sitting here at his laptop trying to get as many thoughts down onto digital paper as possible. He does this due to the fear of his brain healing for the last few nights of debaucherous behavior and the memory being lost into the caverns. He realizes that his left foot is slowly becoming numb, perhaps an inverted heart attack? Fuck it, he might die and even that would not be a tragedy because he would not be aware of it, this calmness instilled on him is short-lived as he contemplates an after life. Oh god, God? If you’re there, save me from this heart attack! His heart beats quicker as he sits on the chair covered in clothes at his graying Laptop, he realizes that he is writing about himself in entirely the third person, “how self indulgent” he mumbles to himself, in a voice which gives off a slight taste of copper. He sniffs, scratches a piece of crusty gold coloured excretion from his eye looks out of the window and breathes in through his right nostril, the other one is blocked. A sharp pain shoots up his lower left back and the link is made back to the heart attack. Maybe it’s like the warning of a tsunami, the calm before the storm, this numbness and pain before death as the tide recedes along the sand. The pilot starts to wonder what another sane human being reading his passage would think of it and whether there was necessarily any point of specifying that a human being would be reading the letters. “As opposed to what, a salmon coloured flamingo?” he says to himself, that coppery taste returning. He thinks of Alice in wonderland, then the annoyingly punned Alice in Sunderland, a satirical adaptation that he only read half a page then got bored, this aggravates him and he realized that he needs to take a shit.
The bathroom door needs a little extra nudge because a slightly moist towel is on the other side of it, the pilot realizes how much he hates the word moist, he repeats it to himself a few times to get that feeling of total distain back again. Moist. The door opens with a grinding sound. He pulls the disgusting towel from under the door, the friction with the carpet makes that grinding sound again, but a higher pitch due to the panels on the door vibrating more from the upward movement of the towel. The pilot closes the door, drops his trousers, spreads and squeezes, realizing that sitting should be somewhere in that list but decides to leave it out purely for comic effect. Wipes, washes hands and goes back to his computer, again, pulling up the actual trousers is left out for comic effect. He starts typing, his hands take a couple of seconds to dry, but when they are dry they are smooth but slightly rough. He scratches his eyebrow with his left hand; it makes the sound of leaves blowing in his head. He reads back over what he has written and wonders if what he had written had been a work of fiction, whether he would make a main protagonist, a subsidiary supporting character or even a non-existent extra. Do they have extras in books? Or if the book is based entirely on reality how come there are no end credits? He then realizes that end credits would be pointless because each actor or actress or just actor according to the politically correct, world be part of the writer and creator’s mind and personality. The politically correctness confused him. It seemed that they, they being them, Them being non existent, wanted there to be no discrimination between men or women, well, Them must be bi-sexual, which is another form of greediness, and greediness is one of the main driving factors of the average human, so people in general will now be referred to as Them.