Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit-crushing game shows,
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pushing you last in a miserable home,
nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have
spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life.
But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life.
And the reasons?
There are no reasons.
Who needs reasons?
