Some people are so guarded. I asked a friend the other day what kind of juice he likes best and he told me to go fuck myself. I didn’t take it too much to heart. Another guy I stopped on the street to ask the time – he punched me right in the face. A little harsh perhaps, but again, I shook it off. Women I have more success with, and children, really I have a great rapport with children. In general, I mean. Problem is you can’t readily approach a child for friendship in these times, so yeah, I mostly keep to myself, these days.

-Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?
-I don’t have a low opinion of myself, I’m king of the fuckin’ world, baby!

The other thing is that backwards banana scrambling that some are so fond of. You know with gooby eyes when fools go wandering, and they have their little trip, and it all seems so safe and secure yet wonderous, and by the end of it all they’re salivating like tired out children? Yeah, I’ve heard that the effect of such an exercise, what it can do to the brain, is pretty much near disastrous, and that it’s the sort of thing that can’t be undone all too easily. Gotta be careful, is all I’m saying, got to be care full.

Here. When I speak to a doctor I like to give him the assurance that I am a man of learn-ed leanings, whose shrewdery knows no bounds. It usually takes the good man about five minutes to assert his intellectual dominance however, and I am forced to yield to his benign superiority, and to yield also to the suggestion that perhaps those cloudy notions of my own self-image that I held to so dearly were erroneous, if not, absurd.

So yeah, fraternizing with doctors, you’re always gonna have trouble there. Other question is, is he shitin’ himself the other end of it? Tryin’ to come across like a good ole boy and one of the lads, or perhaps a muso if not a brickie might’ve been concert pianist fuck me he coulda been anything. But he chose the law. The medical law that is, feelin up old ladies whose only complaint of a headache was rewarded with… and tellin wee boys that they’re stupid for the rest of their lives. Then they go home to their cold wives for cold cuts and cold cans of banana cream dreamin of the banana boat holiday you never had the tanned girl gone missing you’ll never get another go because the practice needs you and where does all the money go the standard of living but oh so empty why the fuck.

But here the craic must be good, the oul doctors in the hospital playin pranks an all, letting on some boys been diagnosed wi cancer. Bit far maybe, but probably get some laugh after it, mad cunts. Runnin about playin mad with the machinery and chattin up the nurses smuggling in steaks singin wee songs havin the pure craic patch adams the craic’d be good like. End of the day it’s just a bunch a lads, few women knockin about too, the whole thing havin the craic. Patients them near dyin but sure ye’d keep them goin an all, you pure busted workin a 48 hour shift. Aye, availability of the best drugs goin, only the purest of good morphine, intravenous, sure them boys wouldn’t get addicted or nahin. Too sensible a boy a doctor than to get stuck on it and then maybe even like a wee sneaky beer in behind the curtain. Draw thon curtain there and  we’ll all get a wee sip. Get them tunes kickin. Aye I say they’d have a good oul laugh.

So yep gettin’ back to that gooby eyed thing. It’s a weird one like, gettin’ all gooby. I kinda like it. But here, like the whole package, everything that comes along with it…I mean, is that all normal craic? Hard to say… Not much for it but to keep ‘er pinned. ‘Troubled times will come, Troubled times will go.’ Yeap, try hard to stay alive. And keep the faith, hafta keep the faith. Haha.