Withering flowers in a dry wash, small upstart plants refusing to give up just because there is no water and the sand has been baked to brick. That is what life is all about.

I do not have life of that sort. I’ve always been more of the feather in the wind and that has not got me a box of chocolates. Most of the time I’ve had that flower. It’s my own fault really for having low testosterone or something and not having the will to power, the need to fight for my rights to party.

Although I bet no one has put references to Nietzsche and the Beastie Boys in the same thought before. That’s something anyway. It’s my worthless gift when a wanton need to slaughter my enemies would be more useful.

Surely my Viking ancestors are spinning in their firey longships.