DOING this blog, I’ve all but lost the gentle art of self-flagellation. Once upon a time I’d muse lengthily on the bleak implications of my existence, but these days I’m too busy.
I’m in a terrible mood today, though, and I reckon I’ve karmically passed on that feeling of being shat on from a great height; although to my credit I haven’t actually shat on anyone’s desk from a great height in return.
Apart from general fumings, I’m deeply facially unpleasant to the man next to me on the train home, who merely wants to get up three minutes earlier than necessary so that he can stand in a queue for the door. There’s no cause to slam down Dave Graney’s autobiography and cross my arms, infusing the poor chap with black molecules of bad juju as he wends his way, inch by inch, down the crazy carpet.
So to avoid getting karma back again twice as hard, I’m going to flagellate myself with a bunch of sticks and mortify the deeds of my flesh. Pip karma at the post, as it were.
I’m not Catholic, so I only feel bog standard guilt, but still it seems fitting to follow the path of rogue Catholics who enjoyed a good flogging. I don’t want leaves all over my house, so I’ve fashioned a handbag-sized ‘birch’ rod I can take out with me tomorrow. Now I can give myself a smart thrash on the wrist whenever I come over all self-righteous.
You put something down for a second 'round here.
Keeper? Am available for flagellatings.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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