Get a Grip

Seriously. You need a fucking word in your hairy dinner plate ear, you cunt.

Get a grip

Sit down. Grab a beer or a water.

And listen like it’s 1993.

First, pay no heed to media and political action intended to move stock markets. Resist feeding your limited, precious silver coins of attention into the great slot machine of fear whose fuel is that very attention. Or don’t complain that your shitting your y fronts in front of your Sony Bravia like a freak who pours bleach on their chips then complains of a sore throat.

Walk away. Don’t take sides. And don’t for a second consider you are ever at war. Only the politicians are at war.

Now is not the time to sit in panic while you make beans and toast for your children. They feel that. Education happens energetically. Not just in a classroom with big titted Mrs Flapsberry. So educate them by demonstrating courage and love and hope in the face of endless negative horseshit. You are greater than this. Your children are greater than this. Humans are greater than this. Be someone that proves this, not someone who collapses like a fucking fanny. Get the fuck Up off your knees. They want you afraid. It’s what sells papers and drives shares.

Whatever you are feeling, we are all feeling. We’re in it together. Don’t forget that. You’re not fucking special.

Every day, stubbornly act as if the future is bright. Stubbornly refuse to be afraid. Assume your children will live in a world of beautiful miracles. Act in favour of that. Turn off the shit box. Put it down. Fuck your lovers like it’s the last time. Not because traumatised badger fuckers will end it, but because it’s inherently impermanent anyway.

These sad fuckers can’t end it. They don’t have the right or power. They never did. It was always going to end without them. That power belongs to the universe itself, not to some Corrupt pant wetter in a fucking suit. Power is pathetic. It’s like a tramp in shit soaked trousers wearing a plastic crown. Fucking clowns. Don’t give them your anything

Drop the fucking pathetic fear act. Pick up the love and hope.

And humour. . And show your kids that the buttered politicians and the buttering billionaires and corporations don’t control your fucking mind. That they don’t control where you put your attention. That they can’t fucking control whether you live in fear or peace. Fuck them. It’s not their choice. It’s yours. Take it back.

Turn off the fucking shit box. All of it. Take your dog to the beach, you cunt. Stop being a fucking pathetic scared fanny. Look at you.

Get a fucking grip

Turn it off and enjoy your life. It’s not making you informed. it’s ruining your day.

Fuck the cunts.

I

Mean

It.

I’m still Here, okay.

I’m just busy building a Time Machine to bring Alan Rickman back.

Get in touch if your tits are melting from Fear. I’ll invite ya round for some chai and a few vase breaths.

Om Ah Hum

Love

FTB.