Yesterday I popped into Waterstones to buy a couple of books. One of them I couldn’t remember the name of. Or the author. Or even what it was about. But I knew it had a sofa on the cover. It wasn’t much to go on, and frankly I had no chance of finding it, but while looking I stumbled across a book called “Fuck It”.
It appealed instantly because I’m in that mood.
Basically it says I can roll up Buddhism and Taoism and make them understandable to you by asking you to just say “Fuck It”.
I agree. My decision to write a blog was born out the “Fuck It” mentality. I am currently sufficiently unattached to things not to really worry about much of anything other than following my nose.
I may have little confidence in the relevance or value of my words. But Fuck It.
I may find it outrageous that I live, breathe and speak. But Fuck It.
Take the poetry. How presumptuous. But Fuck It.
My (second) ex-wife considers me a “Knob” for writing poetry and posting it online, which I know because she sent me text saying so. It was meant for someone else, but I got it instead. At the time I found that hurtful. But Fuck It.
Halfway through that last sentence I had a minor pang that perhaps I shouldn’t mention that in a blog. But Fuck It.
Right now I’m a little queasy that I’m breaking some kind of record over how many times I write “Fuck” in a blog post. But Fuck It.
Fuck it all.
Go on. You know you want to.