The end of all that!

Thursday 9:58 p.m.
                             If you don't like drunken posts, well this aint for you.
                             What a fortunate creature I am, I am! What a fortunate creature I am!
                             This is because I know what you have to do. Anyone who has read the Life of Milarepa knows what you have to do, even if it is from a standing start. Or, even if you are or have been a bad basturn, there is a way to freedom and liberation from all of that.
                              There is no discernible beginning and no discernible end to this samsara.
                               Oh, what can you do, Great King, when old age and death come rolling in?
                               The problem is that what you have to do is so obvious, and yet so very, very difficult. It takes such an effort ....
                               But there are some people who just get it all at once. Apparently, the juju gets explained to them and BANG, there it is. They've got it.
                                I assume they get it all at once, if you accept rebirth, because they've toiled for eons and eons previously, and are then just ripe for it when the boy tells them about it.
                                What then am I? What is the self?
                                 It is in the body.
                                 It is in everybody.
                                 It is everywhere.
                                 It is the ALL.
                                 It is Self. I am it. Absolute oneness.

                                 But for joes such as moi, it's just a lot of hard work. That's why the Milarepa joe is so wonderful. Massive determination. When he kills all his maw's enemies early doors, he just has to stay walled in for a fortnight, doing that juju. Just a fortnight? As you flatheids will know, it is hard to sit for five minutes without being walled in. Just imagine five minutes without all the clicky beepy crap, like being without all that. Oh, no!
                                 So I'm obviously not even at the races. I meditate for a few hours today, and then I do the clicky beepy crap to promote my ebooks; all my access to my accounts and all collapse, and I got out to the off-licence.
                                 But I have to say that I'm having a great time throughout this. Even getting my account blocked was a relief. Why am I bothering with this crap? I don't need to sell books to anyone. I mean, the books aren't that good. I only tried really hard on a couple of occasions because I knew that the evil bourgeois would only allow moi to protest so much. And all of that!
                                I will write again. But I will stop doing this ebook kindle crap because it's just stupid. Ten percent to anyone who wants to do it. Ten percent off the top of my seventy percent. No, sixty percent. I've only got sixty percent of myself. That's very good. When George Foreman stopped fighting the first time, he had no percent. All the percentages had been given away for the money up front from his "backers".  I'm quite prepared to give fifty percent of my percentage to anyone who will take these clicky clicky beep beep machines away from me and throw them all in the bin. What a waste of time this clicky clicky intermittent re-inforcement stuff is.
                               Jack, I can't get into my reports or my accounts or my Author's Page or anything anymore because I do not understand the multiple password username monsters. They are not human beings. They make no sense. They do not want to talk to you. You can't even whisper seductively. They are the stupid, unempathetic machines. Thank god they have barred me from doing anything. I must not go back and try again. I must walk off the park now.
                              I need a kid who hasn't got a jobbie to take all this away from me. I'll have to find a gay boy to come and live with me, one who is homeless and would like to spend some time in the newly decorated rooms, and doesn't mind a platonic gay relationship. Some sap from Iowa maybe. No, be better if I didn't have to talk to him, and just get him to do it for the ten percent of my fifty percent. Of course, the kiddo will get ten percent. The Domestic Bliss is, of course, an utter bourgeois and they can always be counted on to look after themselves.
                              Oh, well. The door has gone open and shut, and I will have to stop now. There is a cave waiting for me somewhere. And a lot of weeping and wailing, and pulling my own teeth out and stuff like that. Then, once all the teeth have been pulled out -there will be a weeping and gnashing of teeth, but the teeth for gnashing with will be provided - just serenity, and peace, and contentment, and equanimity, and not not wanting anything, not volitional impulses.
                              Just when you've got over them, just when you've managed the being on your own, up comes Frankie Howerd to stand in front of you and tell you a few jokes, ones you would have liked to hear some time ago, but ones you don't want to hear right now because, right now, you're doing something else, something you've managed to get into and find wonderful because of their absence.
                              What are they for?
                              Well, Hotboy, they became the real men. And you could have been a wee mention on the end of feminism, the one which enjoined the necklace of testicles, the trophies that they took, on the way to not being able to do anything other than pretend to be pantomine dames instead of the women that they could have been, the one who had the babies and got the wages and ran this world, the ones like my auld maw, instead of these beings who do not know how to nurture, which is what the wonderful women in the noble working classes of my youth used to do.
                              The wakes. The fat wee women used to run the wakes. They had control of everything. The got the wage packets. They made stuff, they controlled the world. As a kid, I wanted to be one of them. The men sat and make jokes, and were funnier, but they women had it, so they had. Whatever happened to them?