Log--9854-04/09/2026-Ricky-Browne
Farting and Other Philosophies
4 September 2026
I got up at the reasonable hour of 5 a.m. this very morn. I could have hopped up earlier; I woke four times, but I've been struggling to focus during the day with really early starts and all.
The world tosses and turns, as do I. Waking, I feel, is a good problem. It gives me options. If I was sleeping 12 hours a day at this age, I'd probably be depressed. I was a lot more tired in my twenties. It might have been the lack of healthy food, but they say tired is an emotion, not a state, so it could have been psychological. Maybe they don't say that. Maybe I made it up or got confused. Unsure. The point is, me like early start.
Fifty is the new 100, as they say. Not long for death—well, I hope not. But I didn't look after myself for two decades: smoking, drinking, drugging (myself, that is), poor nutrition, late nights, little physical exercise, asthma, undiagnosed sleep apnoea (Oh, that was the tired thing!), diagnosed schizophrenia. I'd say the list goes on, but that's about it.
I've come so far mentally, but I'm fatter for the whole experience, and with bad teeth. My breath is fine, mind you. I owe it all to my lovely wife, married circa 13 years—I'm not doing maths at this hour. Oh, and Jesus, when I'm not trying to actively avoid His word, so the changes in me aren't so radical that I move to a South American village and start proselytising.
I've lost 10 kilos. Only cost me $1,600. Go GLP-1s. I'm on Wegovy, but am planning to switch to Mounjaro, which has the higher dose. I need it; still “hunghung” (hungry), as my daughter says.
Spring is here, slightly warmer in the morning, but not warm enough. Which reminds me, I'll have to learn how to survive heatwaves. Super El Niño on the way, apparently.
People get me wrong. Sometimes they confuse my humour for being a cunt. It's easy to get people offside these days. I should know; I'm easy enough to trigger. Just mention “shitting your pants” and “fish and chip shop” in the same sentence.
I'm not a cunt, though, not these days. I try my best to uplift people, not tear them down, even the dicks. Dicks and wankers and slags are just broken people. I was broken once; I understand. What really shits me is they will potentially stay dicks, wankers and slags all their lives. It's sad. I'm one of the lucky ones who fucked their shit up so badly that I had no other possible way to address it than by working on myself.
Then God chose for me the absolute best wife possible. I'm incredibly lucky, and so is she, if I'm being honest. We are a perfect match. Like Thelma and Louise, if Louise was a man and they didn't drive off a cliff, but instead worked on themselves and each other.
Just remember, you can't say the word “farting” about without the word “farting.” Are we in agreement?
4 September 2026
I got up at the reasonable hour of 5 a.m. this very morn. I could have hopped up earlier; I woke four times, but I've been struggling to focus during the day with really early starts and all.
The world tosses and turns, as do I. Waking, I feel, is a good problem. It gives me options. If I was sleeping 12 hours a day at this age, I'd probably be depressed. I was a lot more tired in my twenties. It might have been the lack of healthy food, but they say tired is an emotion, not a state, so it could have been psychological. Maybe they don't say that. Maybe I made it up or got confused. Unsure. The point is, me like early start.
Fifty is the new 100, as they say. Not long for death—well, I hope not. But I didn't look after myself for two decades: smoking, drinking, drugging (myself, that is), poor nutrition, late nights, little physical exercise, asthma, undiagnosed sleep apnoea (Oh, that was the tired thing!), diagnosed schizophrenia. I'd say the list goes on, but that's about it.
I've come so far mentally, but I'm fatter for the whole experience, and with bad teeth. My breath is fine, mind you. I owe it all to my lovely wife, married circa 13 years—I'm not doing maths at this hour. Oh, and Jesus, when I'm not trying to actively avoid His word, so the changes in me aren't so radical that I move to a South American village and start proselytising.
I've lost 10 kilos. Only cost me $1,600. Go GLP-1s. I'm on Wegovy, but am planning to switch to Mounjaro, which has the higher dose. I need it; still “hunghung” (hungry), as my daughter says.
Spring is here, slightly warmer in the morning, but not warm enough. Which reminds me, I'll have to learn how to survive heatwaves. Super El Niño on the way, apparently.
People get me wrong. Sometimes they confuse my humour for being a cunt. It's easy to get people offside these days. I should know; I'm easy enough to trigger. Just mention “shitting your pants” and “fish and chip shop” in the same sentence.
I'm not a cunt, though, not these days. I try my best to uplift people, not tear them down, even the dicks. Dicks and wankers and slags are just broken people. I was broken once; I understand. What really shits me is they will potentially stay dicks, wankers and slags all their lives. It's sad. I'm one of the lucky ones who fucked their shit up so badly that I had no other possible way to address it than by working on myself.
Then God chose for me the absolute best wife possible. I'm incredibly lucky, and so is she, if I'm being honest. We are a perfect match. Like Thelma and Louise, if Louise was a man and they didn't drive off a cliff, but instead worked on themselves and each other.
Just remember, you can't say the word “farting” about without the word “farting.” Are we in agreement?