Engineered: Chapter 1

The subtle art of leaving your wanking chariot.

The art of swinging one’s feet out of bed is just that: an art. Now, I know you’ll sit there and say, ‘Oh, gravity does half the work,’ but never let a fundamental force of nature take the credit. It’s in every atom, cell and household you might find yourself in, doing the heavy lifting that syntax does for language. No, fuck that omnipresent creep. The art of swinging your legs out of bed and onto the threadbare shag is a human thing. You do it. And that’s You with a capital U. And the reason why gravity doesn’t get to stick its fucking neb in is that it’d soon get the whole you outta bed if the mattress were tilted just so, and you were a corpse. And art, my dear friend, is a thing you do; you do it to the universe. So, the feet outta bed? That’s me, me doing that to the fucking universe. But what is not the universe pushing back is opinion. No. That is a fragment of the universe that is frozen in tabloid sheets of not nice. Opinion is what middle-class people who write books about what dogs and cunts [fill in the blank] is/are. Normally men, but that’s a safe bet in a probabilistic universe with testosterone in it. Opinion is the high and fucking mighty judgements meted out from MacBooks on kitchen islands whilst the sun beats the French doors and the maid beats the kids into school-shape, lickety-split. Opinion is, from there, ferried through the fibres, down to the office in Fuck-Knows-upon-Thames and edited by some Death Star dropout with a penchant for word wrangling and cuntishness. And these boors, these jeering half a million pound every three hundred and sixty-five days a whatever whingers, with their mortgages more secure than a nun’s naughty bits, these are the opinion shepherds who tell you, my dear and faithful reader, that I am scum. I am the central spoke of villainy, around which all evil spins. I am Johnny Job Seeker.