The knocking next door holds so much promise. Its true what they say about the grass on the other side. I presume the neighbours live a wildly exciting life, full of strange practices and productive habits, whose only residue on the outside world is the not-so-faint knocking on my kitchen wall.
Sadly I doubt my visions are truthful. My neighbours aren't cult leaders, or inventors, building flying cars and self cooking eggs. But wouldn't that be super, truely scrumptious Id say. Somebody has to have those guys as neighbours. One day, Id love to live next door to somebody really great. I don't really crave greatness myself, I just really enjoy its presence. People that aren't wired the same as the rest of us are so refreshing to watch, so uplifting to be with. They bring a new lease of life to a barely employed, unqualified and thoroughly bearded bum such as me. It is the minds full of colour and bizarreness of these people, and not my own, which lead me to conjure up strange and wonderful explanations for the unexplained noises in my life. In this case, my neighbours hanging another fucking Ikea print, with a sledge hammer by the sounds of it.
On another path, recently I have been attempting to write a kids story. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I guess its an easy audience to please, one similar to my own mind-set and perhaps the most honest of all critics. Plus I think it would be a pretty "awww" producing gift for my little sister. What I do know however, is that it is proving rather difficult. I can whack out page upon page of this stream of consciousness bullshit all day, but ask me to rhyme the word 'cow' with something that vaguely relates to the story I'm trying to tell, and I'm in dire straights. I am however, greatly looking forward to introducing you all to Dixie The Daredevil Dairy Cow. Shes a cheeky one.