Strawberries

Strawberries are outstanding. They definitely stand out and are infinitely tasty. Their taste is sweet like a sweet fruit and makes your body shiver in spasms of pleasure. It massages the erogenous zones of the palate giving orgasms with its quality texture and vast experience in the field. The field is a place where they grow up and through experience they acquire a texture so nice and sweet and pleasurable and warm like a sun.

Sun is very important to strawberries and strawberries are trying to be best pals with it. They smile at the sun and bask in its glow sunbathing and reaching their ultimate color - red. Red's not dead, it's still one of the best colors and strawberries are very happy to wear it. They try green and white first but, come on, red is the way to go.

Red, ripe, beautiful strawberries are wonderful and lovely like a balcony with a view of the ocean. An ocean of strawberries, no less, as they are consumed in large quantities all over the world. World loves strawberries and eats them a lot making itself a better place. That's just the way it should be.

There are many ways to eat a strawberry. You can eat them fresh like a pair of new sneakers, 'raw' because you can't say strawberry without 'raw' or you can prepare them like a boxing champion before facing a challenger to the title. Kick-ass strawberries kick ass and knock people out unconscious with their flavor and style. World Fruit Council champions. World's Tastiest Fruit, now official. Respect.

There are many other respectable ways to utilize strawberries in fruit industry. You can make a tasty strawberry juice and drink it through a straw and it is berry tasty, if you pardon the pun. Pardon is a french word and strawberries were first bred in France, in the XVIII century which is a long time ago unless you are a titan and have lived forever then it might not seem a long time ago. Many people aren't titans though and are happy to enjoy strawberries also in pies and ice creams and milkshakes and chocolates. Strawberry milkshakes are better than others and they bring clients to ice cream parlors and restaurants.

Strawberries are beautiful like a woman and have all the curves in right places. They are far superior to butterflies who first have to become caterpillars. Strawberries are born as flowers! How wonderful would it be to be born a flower and not a screaming baby covered in blood and vernix caseosa. Once I wished I was born a strawberry but then I remember I'd get eaten, no lie.

Lying and deception is possibly the only flaw of strawberries but it is justifiable by circumstances. The lie here is that strawberries aren't actually berries, they are an accessory fruit. But such were the circumstances in XVIII century France and the French Revolution that strawberries were forced to change their name to avoid prosecution which is justifiable. Strawberries as accessory fruit serve as necklaces, bracelets, earrings and purses. Strawberries are no longer pursued by French Revolution and now live happily like a puppy at bitch's tit.

The conclusion is that strawberries are stellar like stars and fantastic like fantasy while remaining real like reality. They're not good, they're not better, they're the best. Better than the rest and all that jazz, blues and progressive rock. Strawberries rock my world and yours as well. Well played, strawberries, well played.

Hour arts of ruin

Hearts.

I don’t know a whole lot about hearts. Certainly not more than I know about spades, diamonds or clubs but on second thought I know more about hearts than about spades, diamonds or clubs. You can dig a hole with a spade. You can be a bad person and mine diamonds in Africa. You can party in clubs. But that's about it. I know a whole lot more about hearts than that. I stand corrected. Actually I’m sitting now but that’s the universally used phrase so I'll roll with that (I won't, I'm sitting. I'd have to lie down to roll). Who am I to tell you any different? I’m just me, myself and I, except when someone else is referring to me in second or third person, then I’m ‘you’ or ‘he’.

Anyway. I digress.

I know that hearts are red. It’s a solid choice of color. Red’s really rad. It’s a color highly concentrated on being focused. When you see red you see red; rest is just a background noise (sight) that you can hear (see) in the background, resting. There are things that are red and things that aren’t red. Red is such a superior color that it makes green jealous and blue sad. Hearts are red. They are pretty damn great.

I’m personally of an opinion that hearts are pretty damn great. I back this sentiment by an argument that hearts pump blood through your body and generally speaking keep you alive. They make you tick. They are of grave importance. Them and their pals: veins and arteries face an uphill battle every day. They are seasoned mountaineers. They climb the mountain of human existence for a living. If your heart was to stop, you would die. And trust me; there are better ways to spend your life than dying. At least up to the point where you just have to die. No escaping that one, brother. Until then; yeah.

Our hearts are excellent. Our hearts are like a heavy weight boxing champion. No, not a champion of putting things in a square container. Boxing. Sport. They hand out one hell of a beating, day in day out. Night in, night out. On the day the organ forms in our tiny little bodies hidden inside our mothers’ wombs, someone says something about rumbling and someone else puts red (see?!) boxing gloves on your heart and lets it loose in the ring. You can hear the bell. Round one.

Our hearts are filled with blood. Hot, red, red hot sticky blood that runs (actually, as it doesn’t seem to have developed lower limbs, it flows) through our body. I often wonder how is that possible, considering that blood consists heavily of iron. Can you make your favorite shirt look nice with blood? I don’t think so. You would have to wash your favorite shirt again after ironing. Which means you would have to iron it again. It's a vicious, bloody circle. If you want to iron clothes stick to that iron thing machine device and leave blood to do its primary job: keeping you alive. And try not to lose it, dude.

Anyway. I digress.

People who enjoy being alive should cherish their hearts and be grateful to them. People should take care of their hearts: eat well and sing them songs in a calming voice that calms the seawaves waves on sea. People should bake them a glorious cheesecake that has a distinguishable vanilla and lemon aroma (but only in reasonable amounts; you don't want to kill your heart) and say a couple of nice words like 'Hey heart, you're nice' from time to time. Else your hearts will be in ruins. That would come out as an undesirable outcome for all the parties and it would certainly ruin your weekend.

If I was living in Central America centuries before colonization of the continent I would gather up a group of like-minded folk: hearts enthusiasts. We would greet ourselves with hearty hellos and we would build shrines and altars to all the hearts. We would make sacrifices to them and chant chants. “Oh ye mighty Heart. Look kindly upon us for we bear you this gift of some description.” *slices the gift’s throat*

And now our civilization of prophets of hearts would be in ruins. The fading memory of our once great culture would be preserved merely in ancient ruins and skeletons. That kind of ruins it. Except it doesn’t, not really. We were there. We’ve seen some shit and we loved our hearts. Until other people came here and brought silly clothes, funny languages and guns and diseases.

As my final admission hear this: my heart was my favorite heart. Is that selfish? It’s not. It certainly isn't heartless. I don’t think so. Now another one is my favorite and it also became mine which is confusing. My previous heart was stolen from me some time ago. I know the perpetrator and I don’t mind. The perpetrator can keep it for as long as they wish. Just keep it warm and comfortable, okay? Give it a blanket and some cocoa, would you? I’ll do the same for yours (which is now mine; it's confusing). No ruins; no extinction; no fading; let’s keep our hearts alive and let them prosper. Let them pump that blood like a water pump that pumps blood and beat like Dr. Dre.

One day they will stop but at least we will get a good run. Or a good walk. Yeah, I prefer walks. They're a walk in the park. There's no running out of time.

Hoe & Ale TV

Love is a phenomenon that occurs in human world. Humans love things. Humans love themselves. Humans love each other. Other humans love some humans but not every other human loves all the humans. Only some of them do and most of them love only a few humans. And each one of them is nice because loving is nice. It’s nice and loving. It’s nice and sweet and warm like a blueberry pancake on a Saturday morning.

Blueberry pancakes are very sweet and tasty irrespective of time and day of them being served. A lot of people love them. But blueberry pancakes do not love people because blueberry pancakes do not have sufficiently developed brains. Some scientists argue that pancakes do not have brains at all; that they are just a mixture of eggs, milk, flour and some more flour that flourishes in a frying pan. This tells us that only entities with brains can love. Can animals love? Maybe. But not as consciously as humans do.

Humans understand love but they don’t understand love. They love love and other people and things. It’s great that this exists because it’s nice and is not bad.

People claim that love can be unconditional. Especially in families. But what about abusive families? What about parents who do not shy away from a bottle? Parents who have a crisis of life which they try to remedy by sipping on Hennessy? It’s always children who suffer. Are they loved by their parents? Not enough. Imagine this situation:

Existential Crisis Alcoholic Parent: 'What is love?!!!'

Baby: 'Don’t hurt me!'

Do they love each other? Not enough. This is not good and it is sad and bad.

Sometimes you have to work on your love so it becomes beautiful like love and life and flowers. It smells nice when you breathe it in. Two people bound by love are beautiful people. Beautiful like love and life and flowers and freshly cut grass and a colorful bird. Love inspires, love binds, love hurts, love lives lives, dies deaths and is born again. Love is like a phoenix. It does not mean it originates from Arizona. It means it rises again. If you lost your love it can be found again among ashes because that's where phoenixes rise from. Keep your ashtrays close but don't take them on a motorcycle ride because they are useless there and make sure you don't smoke. Smoking kills and is uncool. Only pricks smoke and nobody should love them. Not even their parents. And if their parents smoke too then they deserve each other.

So as we can see love can be a very complicated subject. It can also be an object if it is acted upon by the subject in a sentence.

Love receives an ‘s’ added at the end when it is used in the third person singular form in present tense and a ‘d’ at the end when it is used in all the people forms in past tense. This part of love only adds to its overall complex complexity that is not simple by any stretch of the imagination.

***

Hate is a phenomenon which occurs in human world. Humans hate things. Humans hate themselves and they hate each other. Hating is not nice. Hating is bad. Hating is like a smashed up rotten grapefruit that had a really bad day: full of bitterness and anger and bad smell. Hate is fueled by anger and frustration and jealousy and makes you hate things becuase you are angry, frustrated and jealous.

Humans hate a lot of things but most of all they hate other humans. Hatred among humans is the most developed and cultivated type of hatred and a lot of people seem to take great care in taking care of their baby child hatred. They let it suck their tits and they give it toys and candy and pay for its education until it graduates and goes its own way with their parents' blessing and pride. Then they make a new hate becuase life without hate is empty for them like an empty basket or an empty jar of pickles eaten out by a person who really loves pickles or indeed any other empty container like an empty can or something emptied by binmen who hate their jobs on a misty and chilly morning.

Humans do not only hate humans. Humans hate events and things and abstract concepts like hate or love or unpunctuality. There is nothing more humans hate than someone not showing up on time or bus being late or Holocaust or slavery.

In contemporary vocabulary used in modern society by modern society well versed in contemporary vocabulary, someone who hates something is labelled a label: 'hater'. It's a concept of personification of a concept. You take hate, hate and that makes you a hater of the aforementioned something. There is a lot of haters not only out here but out there as well. They hate things like bad music and bananas and Denver Broncos. Which shows that haters are often unreasonable in their hatred because who would hate a banana? That's crazy. It's bananas.

Hate can be very similar to love in some cases. Primarly in the nominative but not only. Similarly to love, hate receives an ‘s’ added at the end when it is used in the third person singular form in present tense and a ‘d’ at the end when it is used in all the people forms in past tense. They are like brothers or sisters or twins from Thailand. But are they? They are not because love comes from Old English meatloaf lufu and hate comes from Old English Haitian hatian. So in a way they are brothers or sisters or twins but not from Thailand - they are from Anglo-Saxon areas which renders them Anglo-Saxon twins. So similar yet so different.

Hate is also a very strong emotion that often lurks in ventilation shafts of buildings that are actually human beings and not buildings (because it's only a metaphor) because people have to vent their hatred from one time to another time. Which is a good and not a bad thing because you don't want it piling up inside of you and make you burst like a bubble with your intestines falling on the faces of your relatives and loved ones making their favourite clothes dirty. They would hate that.