Rubbish Modern Life Is

My twisted, frosted jpegs are too much for the internal whiz-bang memory system of this laptop. There's a price to pay for the repeated processing of things, going down to threadbare parameters and incredible spelling mistakes and poor naming conventions. They turn the digital air blue. Graphic sex, violence and design, with a smattering of foul language, but what is life without time to pause for reflection?

Making a birthday card on Moonpig has become as complex as editing a Ridley Scott movie using an etch-a-sketch (patent applied for). All those key swipe robbers of time and brain cells dictate that we must live in a visual world except for ...  other people who may either choose to or are made to do things differently. Other "other" people have few if any choices and that's never good. I blame those now long gone collective memories of conquest, still embedded in our brains; the silver psychopathic alien creators.

UPDATE FAILED!

I'm creating these artifacts as an alternative to keeping sour dough in the cupboard and giving it a pet name and allocating it some kind of (sour dough related) assumed personality. You may wish to inquire of your sour dough what pronouns it might prefer to go by. I'm going to be sticking with collages, all so topical and abstract that they can mean anything but mostly nothing. 

To avoid offence don't ask me for my views on whatever kind of music you like, or literature or modern chocolate. Inner conflict results. I'd want to give an honest answer but in the end I'm more interested in being a people pleaser and just making opinion related things up. Truth matters but not that much really, not if it's hurtful or petty. 

I'm still bitter about the Glastonbury experience but I can't tell anybody. I feel the same about the National Lottery and the two weeks holiday nearly everyone in a useless profession is granted at Christmas time.