Stale. Repugnant. Decadence at the state of rotting splendour, dour and grim and black. The state of it; in its entirety, is useless. There is only turning back, but turning back is going back into the pig-pen, reliving the same stoic wallow; the same muck and fence and food. Going forward is the running out into the sunlight-basked fields into the unknown; crevasses and cliffs or diseased blight, hidden by promised valleys and daisy-strewn hills that rule the eyes and brimming with White Light Majesty.

It’s simple; it is simply hatred. It is reluctance and bitter sighs of regret which, for all its worth, the mark of despise and catatonic abhorrence stemming from basic like-or-dislike factors. There is no reason; this, itself, is the explanation. Plainly said, I hate it. I dislike it. I give it loathe and I give it curses and I bid it to hell.

I write it to reap its benefits but I write it as though I am typing it, churning it, gobbling the same repeated points and information, chewed and regurgitated into a less comprehensive form; but chewed at least, because they want it chewed. They want it masticated and spat out looking like moulds of brown lumps discoverable at failed cafeterias. I give what they want, and that’s the one important point. The whole other unrelated one is how I find it detestable and how I take it upon to myself to do it.

Uninspiring is the word. Shallow, hollow, decayed and the likes come secondary. After sales service, they say; get it from us and get something else. Two birds with a stone, two cockroaches with a single slipper; hit one get another twice the benefit double the fun. Up yours, I say. Go fuck something else.

Boring. Boring boring boring boring. Dull. Like watching flower grow. Like watching metal rust. No, wait, like penning the next Magnum Opus of Magnificent Bore, starring the silent symphony, attended by the ghost of crowds going for Transformers 2. What joy. What prospects. Gay-yippee-yay.

Imperative. Important. Prominent. Culmination. Amalgamation. Benefits. Repeated to the point of conundrum, humdrum, ho-hum. Like train announcements. Ever heard it go? Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6. Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6. Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6. Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6. Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6. Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.
Train to Seremban Arriving at Platform Number 6.

You missed it.

No. It’s a death trap. I refuse that cheese. I’d renounce cheese just so I won’t be tempted back into it. You go in there and the trapdoor shuts, and they put you under the sun. Everything dehydrates. Everything leaves. You die dried like salted fish. Of course, you’re not just quite dead dead. You just lose it all.

This is the last one.

I will not go through it again.

*******************

For the record, Adaptation., written by the ever bizarre Charlie Kaufman, is one of weirdest movies I've watched. It's either a win big or lose big type of movie; it's either you love its peculiarity or you hate it and go wtf.

For the other record, I really liked it very much.