There’s no time, man. Not much time. I mean, there is, but I don’t feel like dedicating it here. Instead, I watch Beşiktaş games. The game ends, I watch commentary and analysis programs about Beşiktaş. These make me happy. How nice, something far away from religion and politics at least. I love Sergen a lot too. The team has become solid as a rock anyway. It’s all good and nice like this. Agbadou, Murillo, Ndidi, Orkun, Olaitan, Cerny, oh. Life is too short. Not worth taking seriously or getting upset over. If you’re going to get upset, get upset when Beşiktaş loses. Let this be your biggest worry. And this isn’t even a worry anyway. Ten out of ten.

The fire burns where it falls. The bomb dropping on Iran kills those in Iran. It doesn’t concern me. The only bomb I’d care about is the one Iran throws that lands on my head. Actually, not even that would concern me, for fuck’s sake. At most, it falls on my head, I die, and it’s over and done with. Lovely. Fuck this kind of life anyway. Was I even alive 38 years ago? I wasn’t. So? What is there to exaggerate so much? Live as much as you can, then die, drop dead and fuck off. Whether you get old, drop dead and fuck off, or you drop dead at a young age and fuck off. Of course, it’s easy for me to say these things. I didn’t drop dead as a kid, after all. But if you had known I’d turn out to be such a shitty person when I reached 40, wouldn’t you have killed me in the cradle? See. The ones you see in the cradle today will also become total jerks like me 40 years from now. If you don’t believe me, check back in 40 years. Okay, okay, I’m the only jerk. The ones in the cradle will all grow up to be angels. I don’t know, man. I’m just talking emptily, talking shit. Wouldn’t it be better if I didn’t talk, didn’t write? Well, I wasn’t writing anyway. Alright, see ya. Back to the game. And no crying when it’s over. It’s a game after all. It’s there to have fun.