Gobshite of the fingertips

I'm not sure I wanted to write anything at all, and I was fairly sure that most of life should be experienced in the same way you fight a successful fight: You are there; you are switched on and alert, but there is no internal monologue. The decisions you make come from natural grace or lack thereof. Imagining anything more than a brief overview of the end result, which should be no deeper than success is going to get in the way. Stopping to think about a line is the same as taking a second to formulate where the hands of the three-hit combo are going to land. However, writing about writing is the worse form of writing, so I turn it on to the gang of niggers I stormed through yesterday. I have sincere issues with racism, but tell me why I shouldn't use a word that offends, when the targets deserve to be offended. You can try, but I'm done with liberal. Anyhow, there must have been thirty of them and, from what I could gather, they were split fairly evenly. The language that echoed down the highstreet was phenomenal, and you no doubt questioned me when the word 'nigger' appeared. People were kept in the doorways of the neighbouring bars. No one was advised to step anywhere near them. Not one to take advice, and not one to show any respect to those who seldom display it, I walked straight through them. Bumping shoulders with a couple. I didn't do this so I could tell you all how brave/stupid I am, or so I could pretend that if they had turned on me I would have singlehandedly put them all on the ground. Shit, if that had have happenend I'd have been lucky to get through four of them. I walked straight through them because everybody else should have walked straight through them. I walked straight through them because everytime we back off in the face of degenerates they take it as respect. I walked straight through them because I'm trying my damnedest to help you guys out.
 
Anyhow, I just wanted to write something, and that's what happenend. Each sentence pounded on from the last; a fairly subconscious affair, but writing about writing is for the dullard. In the meantime I advise you to find something that allows you to beat your cowardice, because once you've been brave once or twice it'll get addictive. So, drop your razor blades, put your sillhetto heel through the television screen, turn that walk in to a run, stay stressed for a few days instead of having that cigarette. Teach your mind that you have control of it, there's nothing worse than knowing the majority of people are a bunch of lazy fuckers who think a few hours of something a week is going to make any difference to them. But, what do I know? Ha! I can't end on that, so instead I wish you the best, just so long as stay better.