I really love this post.

welcome to the machine.

CXXII

Ladies and gentlemen, what is love?

• Love is a device invented by bank managers to make us overdrawn.
• Love is in the air.
• Love is a product of neuro-chemical reactions.
• Love is louder.
• Love is irrational, natural, and very important.
• Love is a drug.
• Love is like quicksilver in the hand.
• Love is friendship set on fire.
• Love is everything it's cracked up to be.
• Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.
• Love is here.
• Love is sorely missing in a lot of lives.
• Love is not numerical.
• Love is.

Wow. That list was incredibly short, and full of love. Lovely! I love this randomness I go through, but sadly I must be less random from here on in, as the Curryland government has put a tax on randomness. I am poor. And loving. So I'd love to be random, but the government's love of money is, erm, ridiculous.

So what is happiness?

• Happiness is a state of well-being, characterised by emotions.
• Happiness is a rare commodity.
• Happiness is a product of neuro-chemical reactions.
• Happiness is something everyone wants to have.
• Happiness is a state of non-contradictory joy.
• Happiness is not numerical.
• Happiness is a drug.
• Happiness is a warm gun.
• Happiness is having no essays due for three weeks.
• Happiness is fine, but it's momentary.
• Happiness is all the little things that make life awesome.
• Happiness is here.
• Happiness is catching a firefly, and setting him free.
• Happiness is irrational, natural, and very important.
• Happiness is.

I am happy too! Happier than I've been in a long time, for I've had four epic nights out of four and those four nights have been all in a row. Four happy nights! I'd love to keep being happy, but again, the Curryland government has put a tax on the amount of exclamation marks I use. So I can't use any more in this post.

So what is comfort?

• Comfort is overrated.
• Comfort is one of those words we all like.
• Comfort is the death knell of academia.
• Comfort is rarely rewarded.
• Comfort is a product of neuro-chemical reactions.
• Comfort is priceless.
• Comfort is always there.
• Comfort is knowing nothing.
• Comfort is the enemy of greatness.
• Comfort is here.
• Comfort is a drug.
• Comfort is not numerical.
• Comfort is a warm couch on a frosty morning.
• Comfort is.

One more, I think, and then I'm gonna scoot. For now.

So what is π?

• π is 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609433057270365759591953092186117381932611793105118548074462379962749567351885752724891227938183011949129833673362440656643086021394946395224737190702179860943702770539217176293176752384674818467669405132000568127145263560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430146549585371050792279689258923542019956112129021960864034418159813629774771309960518707211349999998372978049951...

I shall return.

Johnny cakes? What the hell are Johnny cakes?

enter the abyss.

CXXI

Welcome back. I've missed you. And surely you've missed me too. Biscuit.

There will be some of you who are new readers. Normally at the start of a new season I give a short spiel about who I am and what I do. But instead of that, I'm gonna tell you my life story.

So. I was born on a boat (motherfucker) off the coast of Switzerland in 1932. My parents emigrated to Curryland a week after that, and I followed then a week after that. My evil identical twin brother emigrated to France in 1964, and decided he liked it so much that he stayed. We had one cat.

Growing up in the streets of Curryland was not much different to growing up in the streets of Antarctica. I had friends, but they decided to emigrate to Atlantis. At age 23, I moved away from my parents' house to the one next door, which happened to be right on the border. Biscuit. So, half the time I was in Curryland, the other half, Currytopia. Living there was pretty good, as long as I avoided the occasional terrifying border skirmish.

When I started forging my media career at age 104, my four-year unpaid internship meant that I had to learn to survive on nothing but Pringles. I did, however, learn a bit of salty language as a result. Near the end of the fourth year, I walked back home, ducked under the crossfire of a border skirmish, ate some Pringles, scratched my pooch behind the ears. It was at that point in my life that I had the most profound thought ever.

As a result, my media career skyrocketed (at age 55), I started writing my own blogshow (The CJ Curry Experience, of course), and began raking in the dough (and as a result, I've never been able to get the flour stains out of my clothes. Or my rake). I am now a semi-successful entrepreneur, but I still can't believe that there's no French word for entrepreneur. I have one cat.

Also, I'm 211 years old. Biscuit.

I endeavour to do the same shit I've been doing for the last three years, in blog format. Which is... I forget.

Incidentally, if you see a helicopter screaming over your head right now, it means I have selected you for the CJ Curry Prize. Congratulations! You are the Curryland Citizen Of The Decade and have been awarded one thousand CJ-points. Which, as it happens, is the exact cost of the letter you need to mail in to me in order to register for the prize. Camels are ineligible, as are quokkas.

Your death will be exquisite, and I will see you again soon.

Biscuit. DAMMIT BISCUIT, STOP CHASING THAT BIRD AND COME AND GET YOUR SUPPER.