From a couple of days, the world has been nothing short of a big wrestling ring. the Egyptians finally decided that they didn't like Hosni Mubarak very much, and therefore set about throwing food and rocks at policemen. At the same time, the Tunisians thought that Zine al Abidine Ben Ali needs a jolly good thrashing, and so he got his tomatoes as well. This is all just fine, because oppressive governments tend to get quite tedious for the citizens after a while. In Bulgaria on the other hand, we do not have an oppressive government. We have a stupid one, with politicians only becoming such, so they can prowl around the country in a convoy of Western European machinery at 200 km/h.
Sometimes I realise that I don't really understand politics, but should I really? How enriched do you think I'll be when I read in the papers that some fat man stole the SUV of the Labour Party leader? I couldn't care less really, and to be honest, if I met the thief, I'd shake his hand and grant him with a medal. Do I care that our Prime minister was a wrestler? I'd care more, if an ant was to die tomorrow. The ridiculousness of the situation in Bulgaria has been escalated to an entirely new level, and I do feel like I need a serious brake. And my organism is certainly in one at the moment.
From yesterday my nose decided to transform in a waterfall, my mouth set about drooling more that Pavlov's dogs, and when I ask my brain to come up with something sensible to write about, it just shrugs as if I asked it to solve the meaning of life.What is more, my legs are more unstable than leg calipers, and the activity of going down a flight of stairs is as comfortable as sitting on a rock tumbling down a hill. My back decided that it has to generate a substantial amount of pain for some reason, and that makes standing up feel as if someone is tinkering my spine with a knife. My left knee still hurts like your tongue does when you staple it, and the pressure in my eyes makes me feel as if they are going to explode with a florid bang pretty soon.
At this point, I should inform you that I am not 71... I am 17, and that makes me think about something. If I am as kaput as I am at the moment, what will I be when I reach the noble age of 50? I certainly will be as broke as a church mouse, because the only activity which I shall be able to undertake is typing.... That is unless I get arthritis. My only consolation really, is that by then all current politicians shall be kind of dead... And bright green.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete