A Conscience & a Young Place

“Get up, get up, get up.  Get up!”
“ I can’t.  I’m too tired.  Leave me alone.”
“I can’t leave you alone.  I’m your conscience.”
“Couldn’t give a fuck.  Go away.”
“But you do give a fuck.  I make you give a fuck.  Now get up!”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you do want to.  You want to get up and make the most of the day.  Remember?”
“You told yourself last night that you wanna get up early so you don’t waste your day off.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“Doesn’t matter.  You’re too old to waste your days.”
“Whatever.  Nob.”
“I need sleep.  Go bother an axe murderer or something.”
“You’ve had six hours.  That’s more than enough.  I thought you wanted to kick-start your career?  Live the life you really want to lead?  How the fuck you gonna do that by lazing in bed all day?”
“Look, just fuck off okay.”
“I can’t fuck off.  I’m your conscience.  I’m always here.”
“Oh yeah?  Where were you when I was 17 and I got off with my mate’s girlfriend?
“Where were yer?”
“That’s Penis department and come on, you know how persuasive he can be.  I was young.  Come on man.”
“Okay, how about when I used steal cash from my boss’ trouser pockets?”
“Survival Alf.  You know full well I get pushed to one side once the Survival Department is on board.  They’re the fucking military man.”
“Or how about when I pretended to be blind and hang out in the ladies’ changing room in Miss Selfridge?”
“Dude.   That was fun.  And you know it.”
“You see?  I’m not half bad.  We’ve had some good times.”
“Yeah I know.”
“And we can have more.”
“Aw man, why can’t we do that stuff anymore?”
“Dude!  You’re too old!  You can’t do that shit anymore!”
“Yeah, I know.  Whose idea was this growing up bollocks anyway?”
“Well…. yours.”
“Come on.  You’re awake now.  Time to get up!”
“Okay, okay, okay.  I’m getting up.”
“I hope you’re not going to be in this mood the whole day.”
“Just be grateful I didn’t get hammered last night.  Dick.”

Nobody likes  a smart-arse.  And my conscience is definitely a smart-arse.  Every now and then, I like to deliberately piss that wanker off.  But overall, I’m glad that he’s there.  I’d be fucked if he wasn’t.  Although he’s not completely perfect himself.  And there’s plenty of other brain responses he has to deal with.

Alcohol tends to get the better of him and the little devil who lives inside takes over causing all sorts of naughtiness.  But I don’t mind too much.  Everyone needs a little fun.  I know my conscience enjoys a little fun.  And to be fair, he’s not as strict as others.  But the older we get, the more focussed on goals we get.  Together we have put sanctions on the Penis department, not allowing it verdicts on life decisions.  Nowadays, decisions are thought through and not made on how many attractive women will be present.  Or which female we want to have sex with.

Having said that, the Penis department is definitely still a strong voice, and should myself or my conscience switch off, all hell would break loose I’m sure.  That is why alcohol should be avoided.  The Penis department thrives on alcohol.  Cheeky bastard.

I rise from my bed having being wrestled from a cascade of wishy-washy dreams.  None of which were blockbusters, and one included a death of someone I know.  I remember waking up in a flood of tears.  Strange as it is, those dreams feel pretty good.  You wake after expressing such powerful pools of emotion, and from that, you feel fresh.  Like a reset button has been pushed.  Much better than the dreams where you’re trying to punch someone in the face repeatedly but cannot get any purchase.  They frustrate the hell out of me.  So much so, I feel like punching someone in the face repeatedly when I wake up just so I regain some normal feeling in my arms.  Such is life.

Whilst letting the pathetic droplets from my shower dribble through my head, I contemplate what last night I had planned for today.  I can never really remember.  The intermission of dreams normally puts a strain on proceedings.

Instead I think about breakfast.  Whilst shopping yesterday I decided against buying in breakfast for this morning.  I have no idea why.  Instead I’ll have to do the Tesco ritual.  I hate doing the Tesco ritual.  I spend half my life in that poxy shop.  Every little helps.  I’m fearful of the day when the whole of the UK is one big Tesco.  When people live in Cities owned by Tesco and the only means of employment is to work for Tesco, which, by the way, sells everything.  It also manufactures everything, does MOTs, and even owns the internet.  It’s like one big Communist state which ironically Capitalism eventually brings.  Except the money doesn’t go to the people, it goes to a big board of directors who scoop it up and stuff it in their mouths.  Enjoy your future, Right-Wing bastards.

I leave my shower, dry myself quickly, brush my teeth and attempt to style my hair.  I am often surprised how alert my brain can be to politics so early in the morning.  Except it’s not that early in the morning anymore.  And it’s not even sunny.  Maybe these shorts are a bad idea.  Where the hell am I going anyway?  The Playstation smiles at me, reminding me that we are three games away from winning the Champions League.  I could stay.  We have fun, me & the Playstation.
And then that voice comes again;
“Get out, get out, get out!”

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