I cant even spell right tonight. Thats why tommorow, theyll be a double post of what I hope to turn into a 5-day-a-week affair.
Savour the flavour!
Monday 17 March 2008
Tuesday 11 March 2008
Patriotic Disbelief
I return once more from a weekend sabbatical from blogging, in order to talk aimlessly and come to an eventual climax where everyone goes "ohhhhhhhh."
Everyone being the three people that read this. You know who you are. You champs, you.
But needless to say, my enthusiasm drifted somewhat over the weekend, as I entered a hibernation of sorts, resting in my bed and chair alternately, fueled by a combination of night nurse and strong antihistemines. The resulting dreams were ghastly, and seemed to focus alot on failure, aswell as my fear of being in zombie movies. Now I want to be very specific on the movies part, being that my zombie dreams seem to contain brilliant dialogue, and plot twists that were frankly incredible. Really, I didnt see them coming!
When the question of food came drifting into my mind, I had to think, really think, about what sort of food I wanted. The possibilities, the adverts say, are endless, and naturally I can get on board with that way of life. When the option came, I chose a pizza. Probably not the wisest of choices in retrospect, especially not for a dehydrated person waking from what felt like a 15 hour coma, but nevertheless, I proceeded.
It wasnt a good choice. Its never a good choice, in any capacity. If i had children, I would surely sit them on my knee, and say to them lovingly, "Son/Daughter, your 17 now, and its time for you to know what you should and shouldnt do."
To which the reply would be:
"Dad, you tell me every year, and why do i have to sit on your knee? its really weird."
"Son/Daughter?"
"Yes dad?"
"Dont eat ready made pizza thats stale when sick. Its not good for your body. Its not good for your health."
"Okay dad"
And following the the interchange of conversation, not only would they be scarred for life, but they would leave that little bit more educated, that little bit more worldly, that little bit more knowledgable. And I would be safe in the knowledge that one less teenager would make the same mistake I did.
But anyhoo, the main crux of this was to ascertain why I enjoy the so called "ready meals", especially after my father had been cruel about the whole subject at breakfast. And the simple answer is; Its food. Probably not good, not wholesome, but it gets the job done, and pretty fast. I wont eat it every day. Ill be surprised if I eat it more than once a week, but at this point in my life, I couldnt care less whether the ready meals have pasted beetles wings or not, because frankly, its just damn convinient. And isnt that what England is all about? Wanting to do something, and not doing it, and choosing the easy way out? like in every war? and in every faucet of English culture? In this respect, isnt slacking the most profound and brilliant of English Pastimes?
God bless the Queen?
Everyone being the three people that read this. You know who you are. You champs, you.
But needless to say, my enthusiasm drifted somewhat over the weekend, as I entered a hibernation of sorts, resting in my bed and chair alternately, fueled by a combination of night nurse and strong antihistemines. The resulting dreams were ghastly, and seemed to focus alot on failure, aswell as my fear of being in zombie movies. Now I want to be very specific on the movies part, being that my zombie dreams seem to contain brilliant dialogue, and plot twists that were frankly incredible. Really, I didnt see them coming!
When the question of food came drifting into my mind, I had to think, really think, about what sort of food I wanted. The possibilities, the adverts say, are endless, and naturally I can get on board with that way of life. When the option came, I chose a pizza. Probably not the wisest of choices in retrospect, especially not for a dehydrated person waking from what felt like a 15 hour coma, but nevertheless, I proceeded.
It wasnt a good choice. Its never a good choice, in any capacity. If i had children, I would surely sit them on my knee, and say to them lovingly, "Son/Daughter, your 17 now, and its time for you to know what you should and shouldnt do."
To which the reply would be:
"Dad, you tell me every year, and why do i have to sit on your knee? its really weird."
"Son/Daughter?"
"Yes dad?"
"Dont eat ready made pizza thats stale when sick. Its not good for your body. Its not good for your health."
"Okay dad"
And following the the interchange of conversation, not only would they be scarred for life, but they would leave that little bit more educated, that little bit more worldly, that little bit more knowledgable. And I would be safe in the knowledge that one less teenager would make the same mistake I did.
But anyhoo, the main crux of this was to ascertain why I enjoy the so called "ready meals", especially after my father had been cruel about the whole subject at breakfast. And the simple answer is; Its food. Probably not good, not wholesome, but it gets the job done, and pretty fast. I wont eat it every day. Ill be surprised if I eat it more than once a week, but at this point in my life, I couldnt care less whether the ready meals have pasted beetles wings or not, because frankly, its just damn convinient. And isnt that what England is all about? Wanting to do something, and not doing it, and choosing the easy way out? like in every war? and in every faucet of English culture? In this respect, isnt slacking the most profound and brilliant of English Pastimes?
God bless the Queen?
Thursday 6 March 2008
And now you know...Ding!
Its no mystery between anyone that has met me that I love the English language. And hare brained schemes. But the latter is somewhat unimportant when compared to today. Today was World Book Day. Or "pick up a book and read day" which seems to be terribly less catchy. In every regard. Also, I forget which one it is.
Nevertheless, im sure that it involved reading. Now reading is an important pastime, which I both enjoy and endure frequently, when the mood strikes. I like it. It takes me to places, inspires and encourages creativity, yadda yadda snore. But there was something about today, and being forced to read, forced, by our delightful head of year that made me feel tired, angry, lonely and confused. And not in a good way, in fact in a manner not unlike having to read Postcards for my infernal English course, it makes me feel like im pressured to do something. Which for me, is an incredibly disgusting feeling. Let me tell you a story...
At the start of year 12, I, like many students, had an incredible amount of free time. The year was new, the school was fresh, and I needed something to occupy my time. I had always like reading the funnies in the papers, I would cut out Garfield, and to a lesser extent Marmaduke and stick them places, because they were funny. I thought "Pfft, I can do that" and so i started drawing. I started drawing alot. I drew to the extent that my work slipped and my grades at the end of the year slipped. But i didn't care, because what I had to show for the drawing was alot of sketchbooks that I could look through and see progress. I dont mean amateur progress, I mean that the cartoons that I was drawing were of passable comic standard. I guess Jim Davis passable.
on may 2007 I attended the Bristol Comic Convention. A distinctly geeky activity but still. I was amazed at the compliments I got for the comics and cartoons I had drawn, and people who asked for my website, to which i would sheepishly reply, "I dont have one guv'nor" (because i was cockney). I drew still, all through the summer, and past the year long threshold, and everything looked great for me in the world of cartoons.
Then one day, I stopped drawing. I just stopped. I stopped, and I never started again. I havent drawn for over 5 months now. Why did I stop? I cant remember, pehaps I lost enthusiasm, perhaps I got bored, perhaps I had a bad day and didnt feel like it. In any case, I had stopped, what felt like for good. For a few weeks after I felt guilty. "perhaps I should draw" I would think to myself, and then something would stop me, and the guiltiness subsided after a while. I cant quite think what it was, but I have a feeling that it was something to do with someone asking me to draw something for them, maybe a logo. Someone I didnt know. The overwhelming feeling of having to actually reach a deadline with something that I felt was a simple creative outlet was pressuring, it was making me worry; "is this good enough, can i reach the deadline, what happens if I forget."
It wasnt a hobby anymore. It was a job. And I didnt like that. Something about being forced to do something that I used uniquely(from a certain point of view) put me off it. So I stopped. And Im afraid that in this respect it didnt make me happy any more. Like reading, and being forced to do it.
The point is that im afraid that being forced to read for three years of university may make me hate reading, and i dont want to do that, ever. So exuuuuuuuse me if i dont want to "Drop everything and pick up a book".
Jesus. My stuff might get damaged.
BUT... all this will never happen with writing right?
Guys? Right...?
Nevertheless, im sure that it involved reading. Now reading is an important pastime, which I both enjoy and endure frequently, when the mood strikes. I like it. It takes me to places, inspires and encourages creativity, yadda yadda snore. But there was something about today, and being forced to read, forced, by our delightful head of year that made me feel tired, angry, lonely and confused. And not in a good way, in fact in a manner not unlike having to read Postcards for my infernal English course, it makes me feel like im pressured to do something. Which for me, is an incredibly disgusting feeling. Let me tell you a story...
At the start of year 12, I, like many students, had an incredible amount of free time. The year was new, the school was fresh, and I needed something to occupy my time. I had always like reading the funnies in the papers, I would cut out Garfield, and to a lesser extent Marmaduke and stick them places, because they were funny. I thought "Pfft, I can do that" and so i started drawing. I started drawing alot. I drew to the extent that my work slipped and my grades at the end of the year slipped. But i didn't care, because what I had to show for the drawing was alot of sketchbooks that I could look through and see progress. I dont mean amateur progress, I mean that the cartoons that I was drawing were of passable comic standard. I guess Jim Davis passable.
on may 2007 I attended the Bristol Comic Convention. A distinctly geeky activity but still. I was amazed at the compliments I got for the comics and cartoons I had drawn, and people who asked for my website, to which i would sheepishly reply, "I dont have one guv'nor" (because i was cockney). I drew still, all through the summer, and past the year long threshold, and everything looked great for me in the world of cartoons.
Then one day, I stopped drawing. I just stopped. I stopped, and I never started again. I havent drawn for over 5 months now. Why did I stop? I cant remember, pehaps I lost enthusiasm, perhaps I got bored, perhaps I had a bad day and didnt feel like it. In any case, I had stopped, what felt like for good. For a few weeks after I felt guilty. "perhaps I should draw" I would think to myself, and then something would stop me, and the guiltiness subsided after a while. I cant quite think what it was, but I have a feeling that it was something to do with someone asking me to draw something for them, maybe a logo. Someone I didnt know. The overwhelming feeling of having to actually reach a deadline with something that I felt was a simple creative outlet was pressuring, it was making me worry; "is this good enough, can i reach the deadline, what happens if I forget."
It wasnt a hobby anymore. It was a job. And I didnt like that. Something about being forced to do something that I used uniquely(from a certain point of view) put me off it. So I stopped. And Im afraid that in this respect it didnt make me happy any more. Like reading, and being forced to do it.
The point is that im afraid that being forced to read for three years of university may make me hate reading, and i dont want to do that, ever. So exuuuuuuuse me if i dont want to "Drop everything and pick up a book".
Jesus. My stuff might get damaged.
BUT... all this will never happen with writing right?
Guys? Right...?
Wednesday 5 March 2008
Objective Disparities
I write this with very cold hands. Probably a useless fact, but one might be willing to remember that cold hands cause the muscles to slow down, due to lack of blood flow. Thats right friends, I be Knowledged. But it might account for typos. And extra letters, because...because...you never know...
...shut up...
WHilst its true that my hands may be cold, I need to say that this is not the fault of some far polar denzien, or a wind originationg therof, but the simple fact that I am too moronic to put on a coat when driving, and I haven't thus far figured out how to work the central heating on the car. "I rarely need it!" I yell at my father, as he beats me round the head for being so stupid. "Its always warm!" to which he replies, with contempt in his eyes, his voice almost at a whisper,
"Its winter, idiot."
Now my father, or "Dad" as he prefers to be called, calls me lucifer. Which is weird. And he also, if you can imagine it, is a person that suffers from temporary spontaneous obsessive compulsive disorder. Something I have inherited to a degree, and as such he gets very excited about something very fast, fills his world up with it, and the gets bored of it just as fast. I suppose its not that uncommon, but he seems to suffer immensely from it.
In this respect, it is very weird to see him truly excited about something. To truly see the gleam of happiness, regardless of the object or activity in question. Yesterday, I found that something. I saw that gleam. The thing was none other than the movie Sleepless in Seattle. The following conversation is true, and what happened verbatim when he saw the nights television listings.
Dad: YES!
Me: What?
Dad: Its on!
Me: Whats on?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Sleepless in Seattle?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Why are you so excited?
Dad: Its a classic!
Me: But you hate movies. You dont like much in general.
Dad: Yeah, but this is Sleepless in Seattle
Me: I can see that, but youre apathetic most of the time.
Dad: Yes, but this is different!
Me: Tom Hanks is different?
Dad: And the guy from Frasier. And the president from independence day.
Me: ...Jesus.
Dad: No, Sleepless in Seattle
See why im freaked out? Even Im never that excited. Except about Breakfast at Tiffanys.
"Breakfast at Tiffanys?"
yes, Breakfast at Tiffanys...
...shut up...
WHilst its true that my hands may be cold, I need to say that this is not the fault of some far polar denzien, or a wind originationg therof, but the simple fact that I am too moronic to put on a coat when driving, and I haven't thus far figured out how to work the central heating on the car. "I rarely need it!" I yell at my father, as he beats me round the head for being so stupid. "Its always warm!" to which he replies, with contempt in his eyes, his voice almost at a whisper,
"Its winter, idiot."
Now my father, or "Dad" as he prefers to be called, calls me lucifer. Which is weird. And he also, if you can imagine it, is a person that suffers from temporary spontaneous obsessive compulsive disorder. Something I have inherited to a degree, and as such he gets very excited about something very fast, fills his world up with it, and the gets bored of it just as fast. I suppose its not that uncommon, but he seems to suffer immensely from it.
In this respect, it is very weird to see him truly excited about something. To truly see the gleam of happiness, regardless of the object or activity in question. Yesterday, I found that something. I saw that gleam. The thing was none other than the movie Sleepless in Seattle. The following conversation is true, and what happened verbatim when he saw the nights television listings.
Dad: YES!
Me: What?
Dad: Its on!
Me: Whats on?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Sleepless in Seattle?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Why are you so excited?
Dad: Its a classic!
Me: But you hate movies. You dont like much in general.
Dad: Yeah, but this is Sleepless in Seattle
Me: I can see that, but youre apathetic most of the time.
Dad: Yes, but this is different!
Me: Tom Hanks is different?
Dad: And the guy from Frasier. And the president from independence day.
Me: ...Jesus.
Dad: No, Sleepless in Seattle
See why im freaked out? Even Im never that excited. Except about Breakfast at Tiffanys.
"Breakfast at Tiffanys?"
yes, Breakfast at Tiffanys...
Sunday 2 March 2008
Flowin'
Is alot like the word Blowin'. Which causes things to fall down. Which is the state of affairs in many of the publics houses after a "large" earthquake hit the sunny shores of Great Britain this week. The end is nigh, and the end is also the end the regular news at this point. Because people will be covering it all of this week. Covering it with their flopping, arryd, lifeless bodies. Because it was totally extreme. Dudes.
I couldnt give a damn. Well, I guess I could, but to be honest, I would be expending energy that could be put to other causes. Like using my arm to lift the last hobnob from the packet to my mouth. Over, and over, and over again. But I digress. I have many more important things to do, with my life especially, and with the only thing I have planned for this weekend being an excursion to my hopeful future abode, you'd think that I would have time to do such things. You would think that as an able young man, ten times the stronger than my ageing and irritable father, with a brain as sharp as a tack and an even better resolve than the former and latter, I would be able to complete a tiny, itsy bitsy essay. BUT...nahhhhhhhhh.
Procrastination is in everyone and everything. Its why we get up in the morning, because we procrastinate going back to sleep, so we do something else, and its why we dont get enough sleep, because we stay up late watching bad movies. Its why we eat, and its in the very air we breathe. Its why we have got so far as a species. So dont not procrastinate. The killer bullet, the silver bullet, to our metaphorical werewolf, is procrastinating procrastination. THEN, we can get some work done.
Only me?
I couldnt give a damn. Well, I guess I could, but to be honest, I would be expending energy that could be put to other causes. Like using my arm to lift the last hobnob from the packet to my mouth. Over, and over, and over again. But I digress. I have many more important things to do, with my life especially, and with the only thing I have planned for this weekend being an excursion to my hopeful future abode, you'd think that I would have time to do such things. You would think that as an able young man, ten times the stronger than my ageing and irritable father, with a brain as sharp as a tack and an even better resolve than the former and latter, I would be able to complete a tiny, itsy bitsy essay. BUT...nahhhhhhhhh.
Procrastination is in everyone and everything. Its why we get up in the morning, because we procrastinate going back to sleep, so we do something else, and its why we dont get enough sleep, because we stay up late watching bad movies. Its why we eat, and its in the very air we breathe. Its why we have got so far as a species. So dont not procrastinate. The killer bullet, the silver bullet, to our metaphorical werewolf, is procrastinating procrastination. THEN, we can get some work done.
Only me?
Double you tea eff
Yesterday I embarked upon a voyage of tribulation, sacrifice and nervous pretention, allowing for steeliness and trepidity of spirit. I also went on a train.
Many people are afraid of flying. Not unjustly either, considering the fact that they are traveling a mile high in a giant steel tube, held together by similar materials, and held up by thicker, shorter steel tubes. With fans. fans. Fans that are reversed, and pointed in the opposite way to the place you want to go. And this scares even me. (I know people, luke, scared? surely not? but its true)
But what could possibly scare me more, or at least the same amount? A giant steel tube balanced on two pieces of metal less than a foot wide. I found out yesterday that I am afraid of trains. No kidding. And before you start the ridicule, remember that this ia a machine that can be stopped by a leaf. A leaf! I ask you!
But nevertheless, i was able to get by. Im out of things to say. SOOOOOO ill just quote something.
"Holly Golightly Im in love with you"
"So what?"
Great holy christ i think im in love with Audrey Hepburn. The Breakfast at tiffanys version. Not the corpse.
I dont even know if shes dead or not.
Many people are afraid of flying. Not unjustly either, considering the fact that they are traveling a mile high in a giant steel tube, held together by similar materials, and held up by thicker, shorter steel tubes. With fans. fans. Fans that are reversed, and pointed in the opposite way to the place you want to go. And this scares even me. (I know people, luke, scared? surely not? but its true)
But what could possibly scare me more, or at least the same amount? A giant steel tube balanced on two pieces of metal less than a foot wide. I found out yesterday that I am afraid of trains. No kidding. And before you start the ridicule, remember that this ia a machine that can be stopped by a leaf. A leaf! I ask you!
But nevertheless, i was able to get by. Im out of things to say. SOOOOOO ill just quote something.
"Holly Golightly Im in love with you"
"So what?"
Great holy christ i think im in love with Audrey Hepburn. The Breakfast at tiffanys version. Not the corpse.
I dont even know if shes dead or not.
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