Second Little Idiom

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The Rolling Stones Let It Bleed

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“Blood is Thicker than Water”

Our second little idiom translates something like this: the family bond is closer than anything else. I like this one as it relates perfectly to the Grueheads. Over the course of the last six months we have become unified by horror. Close ties and lifelong allegiances have been fashioned using the bloody tool we have at our disposal. Deep red connects the dots, the gnarly medium we all adore brings us together, wires our souls together and supplies us an outlet for all our shared darkness. Some may mock such an alliance but those who understand it never “look a gift horse in the mouth”. We appreciate irony, searching for hidden meaning, when many discount it as fool’s gold. This is “no flash in the pan” I speak of, at the Rivers of Grue we lay the sturdiest foundations, no feeble fortifications and flimsy structures here. The rivers flow with all our blood, a blanket of grue which tucks us in tight at nightfall.

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When the crimson waters commenced gushing we pledged ourselves to a cause. Never unwittingly, we took a punt on something exclusive and placed our faith in one another without procrastination. All of us have imperfections but never once is that regarded as a negative. It’s a common misconception that anyone who gets enjoyment from watching onslaught is nihilistic in the extreme and evidently carrying some childhood trauma around with them as perpetual baggage. I scoff at such tomfoolery as I had a contented childhood, treat others with the respect I would wish to receive in return, and always attempt to sidestep snails during a cloudburst. Watching a little harmless human suffering is my reward for a long day’s frustration and likely the reason why I have never engaged in genocide. Horror has actually kept me on the straight and narrow, God bless it.

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I am fascinated with menstruation and believe it to be a pursuit for both sexes. Men nay lack the necessary oviums to be regarded as heavy bleeders but there is definitely still a cycle of sorts as I have discovered on numerous occasions since my personal Hiroshima. Things may well be hunky dory one minute, jaybirds chirping verse outside my boudoir window, and early morning erection crying out for a little light A.M. relief. Then, when I’m least expecting it, said feathered friends will choke on their own acid reflux and drop from their perches, followed by the realization that my bladder is way beyond capacity. I sit down to pee more often than not and, if that makes me less of a man, then I’ll gladly be more of a woman. However, doing so with a boner is a treacherous expedition fraught only with peril.

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Anyhoots, the world suddenly becomes a less appealing place and I feel the overwhelming feeling to bleed something out. I guess that makes my mind little more than a womb in a cradle as ovulation happens in the top box and traditionally at least once monthly. I also feel more sexual during this peak time and this corresponds to the female template also. As I am rather a sensitive soul at heart, it is within this seven-day period that my feelings are more likely to be bruised by harsh home truths general unpleasentries. It just so happens that blood plays a major part in the function of our cerebrum so, while I won’t be rushing down to the local Wal-Mart to stock up on panty liners, I’m convinced that it’s all linked somewhere.

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There is no stronger bond than blood, and it is a common thread we all share. We all pump it through our ventricles regardless of age, gender, coloration or connotation. We glean our own meaning from all we consume, cherry pick from each vine that bears us fruit, and through prose I champion such independent collective pursuit. You see, wherever our intimate tangents lead us, it invariably and inexplicably links us all. By sharing we’re caring and this is why integrity is so key. I stand proudly behind every solitary last word I scribe, knowing that the Grueheads will do the same. As I gaze over my shoulder I am greeted by an ocean of similar souls, a network of good, honest, affectionate folk who, it just so happens, are partial to the odd goblet of cruor to wash down the fast food peddled by unscrupulous and misguided role-models.

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Such junk food is forced down our throats daily by a marketing machine which trundles over our beliefs, giving us the old media induced wedgie then running off into the darkness with our lunch money, leaving trails of skepticism in place of hope. News reports “keep us in the loop” offering fables of anguish and human malice before leaving us with a parting tale of a wakeboarding budgie with a penchant for Haribo. I get it. We are supposed to come away revitalized right? Thousands perish in an unnatural disaster but it’s fine and dandy because Percy the Pigeon can recite the first three bars of our national anthem with a harmonica. Fucking Coo!

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Mistruth and lobotomizing force-fed bile keep us topped up with hatred and choke us with negativity, stealing any childlike innocence and pilfering our dreams. These rivers flow in opposing course and we advocate love and allow it to breach these barricades. It befuddles me so that we are banished for our art, discarded by partisans who claim to know the mental diet we should all follow regimentally. Glossy magazines peddle ignorance, bank on airbrushed bingo wings and photo-shopped facial growths to suffocate us with slander and endeavor to gently usher us in the direction of the perfect body. And don’t even get me started on the paparazzi.

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Now you’ve done it. The paparazzi is the lowest common denominator in my opinion and calling them algae would be doing sea urchins a gargantuan injustice. I get that every pap is essentially a voyeur just like myself and everyone has to make a living from something but seriously. Is it any wonder that Sia chooses to remain ambiguous? I like her work ethic as she has great desire to achieve through her art, but no interest in all the inevitable bullshit attached. At Paparazzi HQ, I would imagine her to be their number one public enemy. Much as I give her kudos, it must get mighty exasperating combing forward your fringe to go and purchase a quart of milk each morning. Nevertheless, she clearly has deep red running through her pipes, and must be applauded for independent thought if nothing else. Fuck paparazzi in their ignorant guerilla assholes with their own wide lenses until they go click.

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These cunting whores drip poison into our ears and eyes, smiling crookedly like assassins whilst nestling their sharpened knives into our spleens. Their game is up, such antics can no longer blind us or bind us. Not here, within our Rivers of Grue. Envy, greed and hate don’t define us here, free will is optimum and the door revolves both ways. Those who choose to languish within our crimson waters will agree that blood is thicker, it congeals not to restrain us but to offer security, keep the chill from settling in. We are good people; surgeons, artists, armed forces, buskers, dental hygienists, cashiers, trapeze artists, and mild deviants. Moreover we all share analogous warmth, kindness of spirit and devotion to our fellow soul.

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As you will be aware Twitter is unreservedly my chosen tool of communication. The reasoning behind this is that 140 characters offers up a unique challenge. How to convey one’s feelings and aspirations in a mere smattering of words? Easy, you can say with a sentence what a tabloid newspaper spends 3000 words waffling and the drivel they spurt holds no credence at all as it spews from the pens of charlatans with all the charm of a heap of slag and moral fibre of a busload of convicts, those rightfully incarcerated I might add. The real grime. I was asked last night if I’m a free bleeder and my rejoinder is a resounding yes. That stubborn deep red spritzer clogged my arteries for my whole adult life but right here, in the presence of the Grueheads, it jettisons from me like a crimson fountain. Blood may be thicker than water but this is also true: it can damn well quench your thirst.

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