Duff is duff

The Duff is back, and apparently, hardly missed. He's been pissed with himself for letting this avenue of expression barren and at the mercy of the weather.

The Duff is back!

Has he been busy? No. A game of badminton, an afternoon of sun tanning, a movie, 3 weeks of work, and a chicken later, he is no different from the last posting.

Yes, a chicken. And it was trying to cross the road. Made The Duff's day.

Mr and Mrs Smith had some heavy boobular action. Angelina is overly babelicious, as in too painful to look at cos she's too much of a good thing, or a few things in this case. Brad Pitt does his weird eccentric bit once again. Can't see how he can keep it up.

The Duff has been messing around with simulated stock investing. He sucks at it. Playing around with pure guesswork, it reminded him of his parents' folly in real life. He shall have to tread carefully when the real thing comes about.

Work is getting boring as things clear up. What's left is a skeleton of tasks that hold little meaning to him. A lack of focus has arisen in his life. A cloud of blurring, a fog of unconsciousness. An immediate goal is lost in the horizon. He has to find it soon.

The Duff wrote a short script for an artist in Australia to illustrate. It has been 2 weekends, and no reply. Was it too short? Was it too lousy? The Duff deliberates but stops short of overwhelming self doubt. Screwit if need be. Personal tastes are just such, personal.

The Duff has also started on a book. A silly little project that his girlfriend had sown in his cerebral prairie. He plans to finish it within 2 months. Let's wait and be disappointed. Himself most of all. Starting with defeat? Almost sounds like a business plan.

He has started working out again. Albeit still as infrequent as before, its still better than none. His sloth has created a body of unapologetic fats. The constant pints of ice-cream, caseloads of carbonated sustenance and ever re-appearing snacks on his table do not help also. His proverbial 6-pack seems as unattainable as Michael Jackson's innocence.

How about the Truth? The Duff, in his everlasting map-less life, seems even more clueless than ever. Is the world really as chaotic and unchartered as it seems? When events occur, why do humans love to fit it into a so-called plan that they think is written out there, somewhere?

Where is the Truth? What is the Truth? Does it exist? Does it matter?