Six more images and why I’m angry at them.
Because I’m not finished with this downward spiral of existential dread.
Fuck these lemons. Fuck their dew droplet dappled skin and the lovely rustic crate that houses them. Where the fuck is this? On a nice relaxing farm I bet. No, Fuck them. I’m going to go buy a clinically clean lemon from my soulless, brightly lit supermarket and murder the fucker for the sake of a Gin and Tonic, because this kind of wholesome shit will never be within my reach.
Look at this wave. This wave is everything you’ve ever wanted to be. This windswept mother fucker just crashed its arse out in the middle of nowhere because it doesn’t give a shit about what you think, and you know what? It looks majestic as fuck while it’s doing it.
I often lay in bed at night thinking how I’d like to be this wave.
Who in their right mind is this perfect? Look at that pocket square, it’s lovely. NO, who the fuck has a pocket square? Is this guy a cartoon from Monocle Magazine that somehow came to life and now apparently doesn’t have anywhere to work? Seriously, where is he? Look at that tiny plant and that timber floor and the low skirting board, this is blatantly a New York apartment and that man doesn’t own a desk because I assume he spent all his money on a nice satchel.
This photo is everything wrong about everything and goddamn it I need a pocket square.
Look at these fucking chairs. They’re like those creepy robot dogs from Black Mirror, just menacingly poised in this tiny apartment with a badly positioned fridge. Sitting there in communion, silently discussing how they’re going to murder their owner, who was probably paying way too much for this place anyway.
What the fuck is this?! Wes Anderson’s shed? Look at those nice little plants out there, fuck those plants. And who the hell has quaint little tram tracks leading into their shed like that? I tell you who, Wes-fucking-Anderson, that’s who.
Why is this house driving through the snow? I don’t know or care, I just want to go live there under that big mean mountain, alone, forever. That would be very nice. I’ll spend my time writing novels and making fires for them, in between bouts of house-driving around the mean mountain.
Look into this chicken’s cold dead eyes. Look deep into that pit of vacancy and anger, that red rimmed nightmare of pain barely bothering to glance back at you. There’s no understanding of the betrayal those eyes have endured, or of the unending suffering they still crave. To hell with this fucking chicken.
What do you fucking mean you want more? Fine then. Treat yourself: