“And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also…”
Why? Why must you leave me upon this mantel? If you could only see the layer of dead skin cells that occupy the space which I inhabit, you would not let me live within this never ending hell…
This cannot be real, right? Of course it isn’t.
Nevertheless, “Werner Herzog’s letter to his cleaning lady” made me almost piss myself with laughter. Perhaps for the wrong reasons.
This shit is getting printed out, and stuck to the kitchen wall, where it will serve as a reminder that even when I think I’ve completely lost the plot over irrational things – which is almost every day right now – I’m not *that* fucking mental. Yet.
In the last five days alone I have punched a towel rail, repeatedly called the hoover a useless cunt over its inability to handle the lightest of debris and flown into regular Kinski-eque rages over the unceasing trail of dust that seemingly cannot be eradicated from any surface in my bedroom for more than half a day. I have also given serious thought to throwing away every single one of my possessions in a bid to eradicate the ‘clutter’ that both ‘surrounds’ and ‘taunts’ me. I have declared that we move house immediately upon finding a moth*. I have battered the shit out of two plastic bottles. Their very presence in my kitchen caused much distress. I have not stretched to killing a spoon on sight, but have threatened three of the bastards in the last two weeks and screamed at various Tupperware boxes that would not dry properly. Why must these plastic jesters mock me with their hidden bubbles and watery deposits?
Wait, this letter does not display mental behaviour to me. Does it?
No, this letter instead acts as an insightful and hilarious eye opener to the ridiculous, dramatic thought patterns that often take place in my brain every day regarding my living environment. Where the insignificant is raised to dizzying heights, and becomes the be all and end all of the highly charged moment it occupies. And not in the singularly wonderful way of a Herzog film, where the mundane is magnified into the sublime heights of bizarre beauty, but where the pointless shite like “why must this oose defile my velvet jacket? WHY?” and “where?! WHERE do these fruit flies come from?? AND WHY WON’T THEY DIE??” and “for the love of all that is good and pure and sacred in the world, I ONLY DUSTED THIS MORNING!!” and “there has been sweet chili sauce dropped upon the once clean floor. I cannot think. My mind, like the linoleum, has been desecrated by its sticky sweet evil” become the most important concepts known to man, and take over – replacing all capability of rational thought.
Like the creators of Moshi Monsters before them, the writer of this piece has quite possibly fallen temporarily into the abyss of my mind, completely by accident, and become horribly trapped, and maybe a wee bit scared.
So does this mean I’m mental? Nah, I just need to fucking chill out, and laugh at how bloody off kilter I have been acting of late. Have a few extra orgasms, and drink more. And realise that quitting smoking can often release the inner lunatic within us all.
If, however, it does indeed turn out that I am in the grip of a severe breakdown of normal thought – I can choose to view myself as some form of visionary genius. I am sure the high quality film making and groundbreaking documentary features will arrive in their own time. All I need is a plane ticket to the jungle, Brad Dourif and a gun. For my own safety.
*Have a history with regards to these winged cretins. Think young Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins. But substitute bats for moths, the cave for a cupboard, and the pre-caped crusader for a swearing redhead.