I acquired a Merino sheep
My cousin swapped her with me for a YBX9 battery.
She was skinny with an elongated neck.
It was evident that this sheep had a very strong opinion about herself.
I placed her with the rest of the flock.
She was skinny and had some seriously jowly chops.
Her teeth were massive like Freddie Mercury
And she seemed to glide as she walked.
The other sheep showed her a higher level of respect.
Her teeth always gleaming in the sun as she demanded her attention.
The wolves attacked less
The flock seemed more content since I got her.
I dressed her in a colorful frock and business heels.
I moved my wife out of the house and into the flock.
I moved the big toothed sheep in, she was gorgeous.
She is my Jacinda, she must be loved and protected.
We make love at midnight.
I found this poem under a Pohutukawa tree near Wellington. It was signed by Opposition Leader Simon Bridges.
He is travelling around New Zealand, cathartically dropping off letters of endearment depicting Jacinda Ardern as anthropomorphic livestock so that one day if he becomes the Nation’s Leader, he will publish an anthology in attempt to win over the love of Jacinda and woo her away from Clarke.
For Fuck sake lads, my podcast has some seriously issues with hosting.
These site host providers are breaking my heart. They offer free hosting, then once you go to upload anything they start asking for account details.
This has been my most tumultuous endeavour ever, and it’s still going.
Now I don’t have any extra money at the moment, and I know as fact that I won’t be yielding any income from doing the podcast. Not now anyway. My intention is to break even only, it’s a hobby. Much like my motorcycle fetish. I fix and sell bikes, but only to support my habits. Once profits and losses get spoken about, the enjoyment and meaning in doing these activities will need to be compromised. This is also why I do not give a fuck about sponsorships for this blog. I haven’t had many offers, but every discussion so far has been about my swearing and the topics.
The last thing I want for my creative work is for it to be inauthentic and only an approximation of what I wanted it to be.
Speaking of inauthentic, please buy whatever these Capitalists are flogging. I get a small commission for anyone who buys these trinkets via this hoplink. Go for it, it may you give a minor dopamine hit, then hopefully you chase that same dragon every time you feel sad.
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However, I do hope that you will sign up for my Patreon.
It is key for participation and it allows me to do this every week, along with my Podcast. The only real benefit is that I am uploading my book there. One chapter a month, each chapter is about 8,000 words.
https://www.patreon.com/Blacksheepwriting?fan_landing=true
This is a special one this week.
Not because it’s blog number 20, but because it’s my beloved wife’s birthday. That being said, I haven’t done 20 weeks of blogging, as many of the old readers know, I was knocking these out at 3 or 4 per week when my mental state was at its worst. You cunts had to listen to me whinge almost every other day.
I will dedicate this one to my wife’s life. A bit like a eulogy for someone who isn’t dead I guess. I know what you’re thinking, ‘why is this twat writing this shit about his wife’s birthday when there are so many other things happening?’
I’ll tell you why.
The news is saturated with shit, and I’ve been corrected so many times over the last few weeks that I have made peace with the fact that I shouldn’t be talking about twaddle I know nothing about. Nobody listens to the voice of a fiction writer anyway, I will let the streets speak for themselves and hold my opinion for Facebook arguments.
Also the number 20 is evidently congruent today. Not only is this the twentieth blog, I also know Tasneem for 20 years, I was also twenty when I met her. I suck with numbers, but this one sticks out like the herniated scrotum of an older nude gentleman, and it needs to be acknowledged and appreciated as such.
I met her at a house party like I’ve met many people. I’m pretty good at parties because of my social anxiety. I tend not to care about anyone there really, as I don’t want to open myself up to commitment thus making myself vulnerable. I would just turn up and then fuck off whenever I wanted. I had no ties. I still do this.
So after getting properly wankered and then proceeding to do wheelies and burnouts in the street, I saw her inside.
That day, I watched the sunrise, I played some football and I spent the early part of the evening watching the sunset. She was still the most beautiful thing I saw that day.
I don’t appear shy to people who meet me for the first time and my shield of ‘Not giving a fuck’ protects me, but this was different.
She had me awestruck, and because I was a self-centered prick for the most part of the evening, my chat up was slick and to the point.
I handed her my ‘Pussy Patrol’ business card and that was that. She disappeared into the crowd and was gone. Like a cloud in a tempest.
She called the next day, and now here I am. Sitting at home on a Monday morning, drinking coffee while smoking my vape, genuflecting on the thought of how lucky I am while I type this.
I live out loud. She doesn’t.
Those who know her tend to get really close to her. She is a family girl, not only family by blood, but also family by default. Friends, colleagues, students. Anyone who interacts with her really.
It is pretty obvious that she never puts herself at the front of the cue.
It’s not unusual for her to be the sounding board for many a people’s problems. The complaints department is open 24 hours a day.
She listens.
She found her calling early.
Having worked as a Promo Girl, because she is gorgeous, and then being accepted into Beauty School, also because she is gorgeous, she decided that this was not her calling.
She was then given the opportunity to study anything she wanted after we moved to New Zealand.
She decided that she wanted to help people.
So she kept house, studied part time and worked three jobs, all while I was out manifesting destiny. Mostly making friends and playing sport to be fair.
She now works with people who have special needs. No, I don’t mean looking after me, she works at a school which helps and educates kids with special needs. I’ve seen her interact with these kids, she is like a stunning Mother Teresa with a nice tight butt. Pure sexy and that.
We don’t share the same dreams at all. It’s really strange.
The things I want aren’t necessarily what she wants, but she has never ever not supported me. I try to do the same, with limited success.
That is why I am grateful for the people she has in her life. I’m far too focussed on my own shit too much of the time. The Goblin of Strange and Uncertain times has taught me lessons I will never forget. Everybody is the centre of their own universe, it’s not just about me. Almost an existential realization I got while meditating.
I also spend most of my day in my child ego state because I’m a Creative, and this puts a huge strain on her, making her have 3 kids essentially. Two girls and a 40 year old baby that changes his mind as often as Trump changes his position.
I must be terrible to live with, but she allows me to explore the errors of my ways.
I definitely love her in the traditional sense of the word, whatever that means.
As mentioned on a previous blog. I’m not sure which one, I give them fucked up names, but I speak about my personal experience with love.
I’ve spent years coming to this conclusion, mainly because people were falling in love with pavements and exhaust pipes.
It goes like this.
Love is not how you feel about a particular person or inanimate object. It’s all to do with how this person or thing makes you feel about yourself.
It’s not just momentary pleasures like bumping uglies or pulling wheelies, it’s the general zeitgeist of the emotive realm in which you live out your days.
These moments of pleasure like sex or wheelies, both of these I am average at incidentally, have there place, but it’s not a contributor to love. I can ride anyones bike or missus and it won’t mean love.
When these momentary pleasures are gone, being with Tasneem will still make me feel better about myself, I can only hope I have the same effect on her.
This woman is a Saint, and the world needs more people like her.
So Happy Birthday to my love and may she have at least a thousand more.
Here’s to another 20 years of her putting up with my bullshit. I’ll have it no other way.
Disclaimer: I’m pandering to you cunts, the talks that my wife and I have are a bit more deep than this.
I hope I didn’t divulge too much personal info as I know how she feels about that, but let’s just say that if things go tits up at some point, I have loads of stories.
Ok go fuck yourselves.
I’ll go work on my Podcast now.
