I Hope the Terrorists Win

J. K. Giih



I got woken up this afternoon by a mailman who couldn’t fit a book through the slot and instead of just giving up and dropping me one of those notes that say I can it up at the post office kept ringing the doorbell until I was forced to get up and forget what I had been dreaming about. Furthermore the book looks more academic than I expected, which proves that I don’t always expect the worst. I don’t understand why anyone would work as a mailman. It pays only a little more than what I get sitting at home doing nothing. If I worked as a mailman, I would probably quit even sooner that I did when I worked as a telephone salesman (two or three hours, including the training and motivational lecture). It shocked me that some people seemed actually willing to buy the expensive magazine subscription I refused to sell them.

I’ve been going through a lot lately. I’ve now had three days in a row when I didn’t write down any of my dreams. If I was a psychologist I would find this worrying. Even worse, I haven’t been writing anything in my magical journal. I never was happy with the strict format I had started it in, for to follow it faithfully I would have had to keep checking and copying a fair amount of astrological information, the kind of information it simply doesn’t make sense to record daily when it can easily be found on the internet, if needed, at any later date. In addition the white space between these kinds of unnecessary items would have doubled the waste of paper if I ever decided to print the document. I was going to start again and do it my way, but apparently I’m lazy enough to interpret free form as a permission to only write when it suits me. I feel like a complete failure. Incidentally I don’t understand why girls don’t volunteer to talk to me in the midst of this crisis when it’s so obvious how interesting I am.

My grandfather who died decades before I was born had a sad tendency to blame the society for his own misfortune. Perhaps his downfall was that before drinking himself to death he tried for years to work and earn money for his family when it might have been more suitable for him to be an artist or a bum. I wonder if it’s thanks to him but I have already rejected the possibility to even apply for anything that might be defined as a job. Therefore, by all logic, I should be free to do what I’m supposed to be doing, and yet I have hardly progressed in anything at all. I’ve heard a rumour that when people die, they keep getting reborn until they have learned everything they need to learn to prevent themselves from being born. If this is true, I’m in big trouble. I just want the pain to stop and someone is ringing my doorbell again. I should be less sensitive to sound now than before I had bought two loud clocks, but no. On the positive side I think I’m much more likely to die of a heart attack than a liver failure.