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Saturday, January 29, 2005
And as I came back from fencing a demon stared at me from his car window, intent on running me over. I didn't like him or his beard.
Car drivers don't like me. I ride a bike and do stupid things. Their fear expressed through horns. Their insults bouncing off of my shiny yellow helmet (not).
I hear someone shout 'ginger' at me. It's ridiculous to the point of laughable, the issue of hair colour.
My friend's dropping school, joining the army. Flapjacks are cooking in my oven. On the subject of him though, the removed part of myself notes my own, innate middle-classness. The outer part of me tries to joke about it. Predictable banter. He was almost crying. Life has dealt him a mix of the absurd and the terrible. He tells me that he's probably going to miss Iraq anyway.
How can it be a life when the government has you on contract? They're preying on the vulnerable, to use expendably in illegal wars that the public don't want.
Oil's bought with blood. The army are there to ensure our quality of life stays the same, even if it means keeping other peoples' down. They'll be deployed where 'necessary'. Not where there's human rights abuse, but where there's money.
After all, I suppose defence funding is huge. They have to get some return on the money, right?
There's a monetary prediction of every war. Depressing to think of the people whose job it is to add up the cost of every army funeral, against what there is to be stolen. And the job of the people who lie for a living, telling us it's all for a good reason. It's all for a good reason... It's all for a good reason...
Car drivers don't like me. I ride a bike and do stupid things. Their fear expressed through horns. Their insults bouncing off of my shiny yellow helmet (not).
I hear someone shout 'ginger' at me. It's ridiculous to the point of laughable, the issue of hair colour.
My friend's dropping school, joining the army. Flapjacks are cooking in my oven. On the subject of him though, the removed part of myself notes my own, innate middle-classness. The outer part of me tries to joke about it. Predictable banter. He was almost crying. Life has dealt him a mix of the absurd and the terrible. He tells me that he's probably going to miss Iraq anyway.
How can it be a life when the government has you on contract? They're preying on the vulnerable, to use expendably in illegal wars that the public don't want.
Oil's bought with blood. The army are there to ensure our quality of life stays the same, even if it means keeping other peoples' down. They'll be deployed where 'necessary'. Not where there's human rights abuse, but where there's money.
After all, I suppose defence funding is huge. They have to get some return on the money, right?
There's a monetary prediction of every war. Depressing to think of the people whose job it is to add up the cost of every army funeral, against what there is to be stolen. And the job of the people who lie for a living, telling us it's all for a good reason. It's all for a good reason... It's all for a good reason...
