Happy confederation

So last night I watched the fireworks being shot off to celebrate my nation's b-day. Since we were close to the launch point they were right overhead, so they looked just like the inside of my brain during an orgasm. It was mortifying, because it sounded like orgasms too, since everybody was making moan-y sounds whenever there was a particularly good one, and I was there with my mum and, like, a hundred small children.

So one half of my brain was pissed off that I was watching orgasms and not having them, while the rest of my brain was like "Dude! Make these perverts stop moaning in front of my mother and the minors!" Some of the minors present were francophone, which reminded me that the French term for fireworks is 'feu d'artifice," which made me think about faking orgasms. That made me sad. Faking orgasms. Shit. What a weak realm of human activity.

And then I realized whoever had coined the term 'feu d'artifice" probably hadn't been thinking about faking orgasms, but about how fireworks look like bombs and artillery and whatnot, but nobody dies, just sits on the beach watching and feigning orgasms in front of my mother. And for once I could have some sort of imagination on a more human level of some poor fucking sucker living in Gaza or Fajulla or somewhere else people get blown up alot - not sleeping anymore, never being sure when the bright blowy-up thingies were going to fuck all your shit up. There are some things that are just so insupportable the brain shuts right down . . . and supports them.

I fucking hate fireworks.