waste

It's started raining. Again.

There is a halo of receipts and rail tickets on the table, within the older penumbra of general A4 crap, an empty wine bottle at it's core. The kitchen is full of tea things waiting for breakfast and slugs, which I'm attempting to evict. And mosquitoes, which I'm killing. Sorry, but they started it. Anything tries to bite me without informed consent after I've put away a bottle of Rioja and two large whiskies is asking for trouble I reckon. Especially on the day I do my tax return.

Which sort of begs a question. How much more dislocated from the natural processes of the world can you get? I'm in a bad, drinking-on-my-own mood as the result of a fucking big, complex form that I filled in today to avoid hassle and, potentially, cost, entirely resulting from the way a bunch of suits in an bunch of offices miles from here decide to arrange the control of an artificial and abstract method of, well you can see where this is going. I gave that form a whole day of my life. The mossies just want to feed and breed. I'm spending a day pissing about with completely sterile paperwork. If I'd ignored it, nothing would have changed, except that I would possibly have got some more lettuce planted for the refugee slug diaspora to assail. And we think we're more advanced than them!

Which is the crux, I drunkenly suppose. Maybe the fact we think of things in terms of 'advanced' is the issue. Not that I have any idea what mosquito cosmology is like. How philosophical can you be when you live for three days and are solely concerned feeding and shagging? Or, if your male, shagging? To be honest, I don't care, and I doubt I'll ever have the ability to know.

And I'm still going to kill them.