Writing can help one get things off their system.

Can. Used to. For me, that is.

Because what’s the point of writing when you only feel that you’re getting nowhere. Nowhere near to what you want. As if you’re stuck in a Catch-22.

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I think my sacarsm is getting the better of me.

Eniminiminimo. However the fuck it goes.

Nursery rhymes. They’re actually pretty profound when you think about it.

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Eniminiminimo;

Catch a tiger by its toes,

If it hollers let it go;

Eniminiminimo.

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Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream;

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.

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Birds of a feather flock together,

And so will pigs and swine;

Rats and mice will have their choice,

And so will I have mine.

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Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout,

Down came the rain and washed the spider out,

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain,

And itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

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Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men,

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

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Okay, so maybe not the last one. Not so much because the poem is depressing and never explained why brilliant Humpty even sat on the wall in the first place, but mainly because everyone knows that horses aren’t repairmen.

In case anyone wants to correct me by saying that it’s only a fucking poem and that it’s an analogy of some sodding English war history, save it. Bad mood. PMS. Whatever.