Idle thoughts on the Ides of March

Tuesday, the Ides of March. I feel like purging. I will. Because I can.

So, I can’t drink copious amounts of mind numbing whiskies, beers, spirits or jet fuels for the fear of brain damage and liver failure.

I can’t ingest, inhale or inject large amounts of psychostimulant or hallucinogenic drugs into my bluish green veins for the fear of salivating overdoses and painful withdrawal symptoms (for when I, inevitably, run out of money).

I can’t smoke tar bars for the fear of lung cancer.

I can’t eat the crap I want to like thick slabs of red meat and sticky cheese burgers and greasy fries and fried freakin’ chicken for fear of clogging up the fragile arteries of my heart.

Because remember, even a passionate heart is already just dying one beat at a time.

I can’t get the job I want because…aw heck, I don’t know…JOB works in mysterious ways.

I can’t get the girl I want for fear that she’ll cry rape and I’ll get mace faced.

I can’t help all the suffering I see on the streets of Nairobi and that just fragments my mind with doses of guilt and appreciation for the comforts I have.

I can’t say the things I want to say about this undeniably corrupt, insidiously anarchic, inherently devious, megalomaniac, dinosaur-aged, warthog’s seminal discharge of a government for the fear of pissing off the wrong people and being thrown out of the country or silenced in ways that would invoke the services of the grim reaper because free speech is not a right in this country but a privilege. We live in a world where our basic rights are stamped on everyday by rules and regulations that have been set up by politicians who are too afraid to come out of the cabinet.

I can’t drive a car without being stopped by fat pigeon-like policemen asking me why I don’t have five hundred shillings to feed them chai with.

I can’t go out there with spiked nun chucks, a gas powered selective fire assault rifle or a honey sprayer and jars of seething bullet ants and commit wholesome amounts of violence for the fear of ending up in a cell made for ten people but in actuality holding about sixty.

Google is taking over my vocabulary and my ability to remember certain words or even how to spell them thus rendering my mind a little more incoherent everyday. We’re all suffering a technologically induced dementia.

I spend way too much time around machines which means I’m becoming less articulate in actual real life conversations with animate objects such as yourselves.

I'm dreading just living on the memories of a dead youth.

I'm trying to change the world with the harnessed power of pessimism. A lot of people don’t see the logic in that but I live in a “If you expect anything, you’re ready for anything” frame of mind. Cautious, I know, but also aware.

And if you wake up and the suns shining and the birds are chirping and the air is fresh and you go on expecting everything good to happen to you the whole day then maybe that bird shit stain on your best suit says differently.

Not that I care much for suits.

Tuesday. I purged. Because I could.