We can share the popcorn
And go to the pub at night
We can get right tanked up
And go home and have a fight
The mind is a funny place, not funny ha-ha, or even funy ha-HA, more funny you need to shut your face you daft little bastard you. Ok, maybe not even that. It's just funny, peculiar even, maybe even funny-peculiar, like your mom (speaking of which I've brought and introduced that phrase here in Glasgow, so far that land seems infertile much like your little sister). I think partly I'm intrigud because I have overall a great deal of control that is exercised over my thinking process, conscious imagination. There was 20 minutes of clear unconscious silence, no thought, just a sort of ruminant drifting nonsense. Patrick. Or was it Partick. Movies infusing with brain and cephalic vein with the lymh shuttling in. This is stream in winter, solid but mobile and completely fertile to the ideas of wine-o's and rum. Fucking incense and cigarette veins like coffee ice cream it's not the same as clove smell smooth and a bathroom mirror underlying the infraspinatus muscle. Fucking. I can remember a twelve second interval of coracoid process definition where the beginning was fuzzy but all resolved. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, each prayer offered off cue and against a god's will just for the sake of Alexander Pope. Stealing panties would have been a riot during the whole chinese experience no? No. Just couch diving and a Christmas card that seemed all too better than the last thing I could remember with tears attached. Panties itself is just a funny word, a bit inbetween forgetful misuse, a word for men but never a woman I've known, but have I known anyone or myself. All signs say yes in other people, acquaintance passive acceptance with scribbly scribbly scribbly squiggly words.
Yes it's true that the dining dead themselves see the plageristic misnomers in the cigarette burns and the obvious lack of humour in this entry. The last I admit was an inspired email, and it was a quick fix between my toes for heroin addicts and a snuff or two just for good measure. Am I ugly ot tangerine, or just an off chartreuse? Damn cinematic gaps filling with wedges. Aaaaaanyeay. Perhaps the best way for all of you to handle the situation is to just ignore me. Or have some fun and dream like I do.
It's pitch black at 6 o'clock now. Seduction is a bitch when it pulls on the left string, just a bit of a peal and a tintinabulatory Poe poem.
29 October 2004
27 October 2004
Hamate Processed Pagodas
You're awake and trying not to be
Wrapped around your pillow like a prawn
And the nighttime's wrapped around you
Will be until it drops you on the dawn
From the C train to the shiny tower
Kicked around til happy hour found you
Where you can drink that smirk right off your face
Finally my CDs arrived. Actually they came Monday, exactly 6 weeks after I took them to the Post Office. Thus I spent the last two days literally hunched over them listening feverishly. Of course the first disc out of the case was Astral Weeks because it doesn't get better than that, lemme tell ya. It was orgasmic, in fact, if I had a girlfriend right now, I would totally kick her to the curb. That's right, this shite is the dog's bollocks. I was off my tits for 48 hours because of this bloody pile of plastic, but then I had to attend class and visit my cow and fuzzy sheeo friends at the farm.
Alas, I feel I am justified in short-changing you in terms of my prosaic prescence because who really has taken the time to be present, seriously now. So I am off to buy liquor and sweets for the bday bash on Saturday. Rum soaked jelly babies are the sweet du jour, should be fuckin great lest that damn JAPpy midden got involved in the planning. Bollocks to her. Stuart Murdoch frequents my Safeway, too, thats swank if you didn't know.
OH.. don't go just yet.
CONGRATULATIONS IP 199.18.113.94, you and you alone have made it to like the bazillionth hit on my little thingy-ma-doo-thingy here. So go get yourself some cheesy popcorn.
Wrapped around your pillow like a prawn
And the nighttime's wrapped around you
Will be until it drops you on the dawn
From the C train to the shiny tower
Kicked around til happy hour found you
Where you can drink that smirk right off your face
Finally my CDs arrived. Actually they came Monday, exactly 6 weeks after I took them to the Post Office. Thus I spent the last two days literally hunched over them listening feverishly. Of course the first disc out of the case was Astral Weeks because it doesn't get better than that, lemme tell ya. It was orgasmic, in fact, if I had a girlfriend right now, I would totally kick her to the curb. That's right, this shite is the dog's bollocks. I was off my tits for 48 hours because of this bloody pile of plastic, but then I had to attend class and visit my cow and fuzzy sheeo friends at the farm.
Alas, I feel I am justified in short-changing you in terms of my prosaic prescence because who really has taken the time to be present, seriously now. So I am off to buy liquor and sweets for the bday bash on Saturday. Rum soaked jelly babies are the sweet du jour, should be fuckin great lest that damn JAPpy midden got involved in the planning. Bollocks to her. Stuart Murdoch frequents my Safeway, too, thats swank if you didn't know.
OH.. don't go just yet.
CONGRATULATIONS IP 199.18.113.94, you and you alone have made it to like the bazillionth hit on my little thingy-ma-doo-thingy here. So go get yourself some cheesy popcorn.
21 October 2004
Gothic Carolina Drawl
I have dreamed of a black car that shimmers and drives
Down the length of the evening to the carnival side
In a house where regret is a carousel ride
We are spinning and spinning and spinning and now
It's been brilliant weather here of late, cool and rainy mist in the morning drenching from the heavens opening up into a slate gray-blue ceiling lined with purple saffron and intense orange, almost magma-like as the sun crests spilling outward onto the hills at Loch Lohmond to the west. It happens like this every morning just in time for me to approach the corner of Byres Road past the Botanic Garden, the scent of spring evolving into autumn wandering into the intersection and mixing with the gasoline and oil and pavement of passing cars as they splatter rain water up and onto the cement sidewalks and ornate rod iron fencing guarding the garden entrance. Each and every day I stand there and see the sun slant through the steeple windows of an old gothic church now renovated and filled with a few pubs and dinner theatres, igniting a hallowed part of the world boiling over with magic unlike any other. It's absolutely peaceful amidst the heavy morning traffic with cold air whipping up the back of my coat shivering my spine and hairs along my neck as I hear the music of the city tapping against my feet, a gentle thud of tribal throngs. The land itself exudes something long sapped out from the ground stateside. It's no wonder people seem to seem so unarrogant yet proud when pride itself is in the soil, it gave birth to everything here in a quiet majesty, an indistinct regality that was never reserved for the blue blood alone. A nation of warriors indeed, silently carrying themselves as kings without thrones, a nation of equality amongst the inebriated, dark princes and even darker dames. It's the charm of a sweet drawn out drawl from the foothills of the Smokies, southern drawl slow and sultry, but underneath the hallow feeling of a sacred pulse throbbing in lofty sandstone heights, light ad air yet deep and trembling. Mother's hum as it were. Somewhere a the sheek cat is purring to the slow scratching of the silk soft fur of cheeks and chin. Mother's hum as it were.
The evening too shows golden on the loch stretching its thin legs over the colouring orchard aside my window clad in red and umber orange-brown yellow pluming up from the green undulations extending from the red brick face of old stone side buildings. Waning into the moonlight the night sweeps silver and illuminating pavement in molten sodium light feeding the nightlife of the unlevel youth craving infusions of abandonment. It's a crushing weight of a fifteen tog duvet with white shades of breathy exasperation rolling outward in the same singular silence, an acceptance of all the circumstances of difficulty in return for a separate peace.
Down the length of the evening to the carnival side
In a house where regret is a carousel ride
We are spinning and spinning and spinning and now
It's been brilliant weather here of late, cool and rainy mist in the morning drenching from the heavens opening up into a slate gray-blue ceiling lined with purple saffron and intense orange, almost magma-like as the sun crests spilling outward onto the hills at Loch Lohmond to the west. It happens like this every morning just in time for me to approach the corner of Byres Road past the Botanic Garden, the scent of spring evolving into autumn wandering into the intersection and mixing with the gasoline and oil and pavement of passing cars as they splatter rain water up and onto the cement sidewalks and ornate rod iron fencing guarding the garden entrance. Each and every day I stand there and see the sun slant through the steeple windows of an old gothic church now renovated and filled with a few pubs and dinner theatres, igniting a hallowed part of the world boiling over with magic unlike any other. It's absolutely peaceful amidst the heavy morning traffic with cold air whipping up the back of my coat shivering my spine and hairs along my neck as I hear the music of the city tapping against my feet, a gentle thud of tribal throngs. The land itself exudes something long sapped out from the ground stateside. It's no wonder people seem to seem so unarrogant yet proud when pride itself is in the soil, it gave birth to everything here in a quiet majesty, an indistinct regality that was never reserved for the blue blood alone. A nation of warriors indeed, silently carrying themselves as kings without thrones, a nation of equality amongst the inebriated, dark princes and even darker dames. It's the charm of a sweet drawn out drawl from the foothills of the Smokies, southern drawl slow and sultry, but underneath the hallow feeling of a sacred pulse throbbing in lofty sandstone heights, light ad air yet deep and trembling. Mother's hum as it were. Somewhere a the sheek cat is purring to the slow scratching of the silk soft fur of cheeks and chin. Mother's hum as it were.
The evening too shows golden on the loch stretching its thin legs over the colouring orchard aside my window clad in red and umber orange-brown yellow pluming up from the green undulations extending from the red brick face of old stone side buildings. Waning into the moonlight the night sweeps silver and illuminating pavement in molten sodium light feeding the nightlife of the unlevel youth craving infusions of abandonment. It's a crushing weight of a fifteen tog duvet with white shades of breathy exasperation rolling outward in the same singular silence, an acceptance of all the circumstances of difficulty in return for a separate peace.
17 October 2004
Portrait of the Quim Raw and Abusive
I'm black and blue from the wind and the rain
Said I'm sorry for the lies and the pain
I never ever meant to make you cry
If I could take it back you know I would
I wanna burn up and die
Yeah, this is most likely going to manifest itself in a good il' fashioned vagina bashing, and no not the ones Pat Sajak surely enjoys behind the cameras. I just finished watching The Shape of Things and let me say that it only made me realize on this lovely hallmark holiday that you women suck sooo much. I could site numerous examples, including the trips to the hospital I've made to retrieve dunks from the ER when their so-called "friends" don't show up, but insead I'll just stick with the facts that are easily found. A.) All of you under the age of 30 tend to think that Mr. Perfect is in every way perfect disregarding the whole skew on the idea of perfection. Let's tackle this one from biblical standards. God (if you can call him that, because he's not, I am, but not him, different story/neurosis, don't like it, well just go on and die cos it's all just a fucked up nightmare anyway) created every wretched little sod in his image, no? Soooo, everyone just assumes that means that they're somehow less than him in some aspect because we all know your heads would fucking explode into piles of dog poo if you even began to accept the idea that good and evil and all the other qualitations you place on shite are just one big grat blob. They don't exist. Perfection included. Perhaps, and maybe you'll heads wil explode on this one, perhaps, you'tr made in a so-called god's image in that you are less than perfect and thus in your terms more perfect, ie. this god is completely imperfect by your standards and thus he is perfect in such a way. Sooooo, a Mr. Perfect will have problems and lots of them, but lets not forget, he'll obviously fancy you til youre old, gray, and sagging no regrets. B.) Under the age of 30 you're the least loyal creatures alive. Men who may call you dogs are obviously commenting you at this point because nowhere in your blood is an ounce of loyalty. I'm not in any way suggesting that men at certain ages are any better but I know many more of them that are tried and true to their friends and who more easily love and devote without question or waiver than you poor cunts. And 3.) you're by far the worst jufge of character yet the best manipulators. What's worse is you realize this and do not in any way shy from exercising these inborn abilities to better yourselves financially and such. Sure go ahead, take advantage of the generous nature of some men, but never show them an ounce of kindness. Sure you may not have asked for such things, but that's the point, they're providing your bit of midden arse with something you may need because it's nice and kind and decent. Normal people would repay them in kindness and loyalty and, ahem, friendship. Somewhere along the line I think you all missed that memo and seem to think that such kindness deserves only to be repaed with wrath and ill temperament.
So let this be one of my possible PSA's, men may be easily amused by women and their bodies, but it's in our sexual nature. Don't think that we are merely stupid because we have to follow to an extent this dictated behavior. Nor should you all assume that we are approaching you for a fondle or a fiddle at every moment. The great majority of good men are indeed the quieter ones, much more happily amused by your simple company and conversation than by the jiggle of your bosom. Men of lower form are the type to always approach with cunning and smart lines, and they give us all a reputation to tear down.
In short, watch the movie if you can find it in the states, and then just bash yourself over the head because you probably deserve it. I know at least one of you personally who does but is quite out of reach at the moment.
Said I'm sorry for the lies and the pain
I never ever meant to make you cry
If I could take it back you know I would
I wanna burn up and die
Yeah, this is most likely going to manifest itself in a good il' fashioned vagina bashing, and no not the ones Pat Sajak surely enjoys behind the cameras. I just finished watching The Shape of Things and let me say that it only made me realize on this lovely hallmark holiday that you women suck sooo much. I could site numerous examples, including the trips to the hospital I've made to retrieve dunks from the ER when their so-called "friends" don't show up, but insead I'll just stick with the facts that are easily found. A.) All of you under the age of 30 tend to think that Mr. Perfect is in every way perfect disregarding the whole skew on the idea of perfection. Let's tackle this one from biblical standards. God (if you can call him that, because he's not, I am, but not him, different story/neurosis, don't like it, well just go on and die cos it's all just a fucked up nightmare anyway) created every wretched little sod in his image, no? Soooo, everyone just assumes that means that they're somehow less than him in some aspect because we all know your heads would fucking explode into piles of dog poo if you even began to accept the idea that good and evil and all the other qualitations you place on shite are just one big grat blob. They don't exist. Perfection included. Perhaps, and maybe you'll heads wil explode on this one, perhaps, you'tr made in a so-called god's image in that you are less than perfect and thus in your terms more perfect, ie. this god is completely imperfect by your standards and thus he is perfect in such a way. Sooooo, a Mr. Perfect will have problems and lots of them, but lets not forget, he'll obviously fancy you til youre old, gray, and sagging no regrets. B.) Under the age of 30 you're the least loyal creatures alive. Men who may call you dogs are obviously commenting you at this point because nowhere in your blood is an ounce of loyalty. I'm not in any way suggesting that men at certain ages are any better but I know many more of them that are tried and true to their friends and who more easily love and devote without question or waiver than you poor cunts. And 3.) you're by far the worst jufge of character yet the best manipulators. What's worse is you realize this and do not in any way shy from exercising these inborn abilities to better yourselves financially and such. Sure go ahead, take advantage of the generous nature of some men, but never show them an ounce of kindness. Sure you may not have asked for such things, but that's the point, they're providing your bit of midden arse with something you may need because it's nice and kind and decent. Normal people would repay them in kindness and loyalty and, ahem, friendship. Somewhere along the line I think you all missed that memo and seem to think that such kindness deserves only to be repaed with wrath and ill temperament.
So let this be one of my possible PSA's, men may be easily amused by women and their bodies, but it's in our sexual nature. Don't think that we are merely stupid because we have to follow to an extent this dictated behavior. Nor should you all assume that we are approaching you for a fondle or a fiddle at every moment. The great majority of good men are indeed the quieter ones, much more happily amused by your simple company and conversation than by the jiggle of your bosom. Men of lower form are the type to always approach with cunning and smart lines, and they give us all a reputation to tear down.
In short, watch the movie if you can find it in the states, and then just bash yourself over the head because you probably deserve it. I know at least one of you personally who does but is quite out of reach at the moment.
12 October 2004
Polyoestrus Colloquialisms
Tuesday it's raining and I'm pulling on my shoes
I guess I quit believing in the early morning news
A boy orders coffee and he settles down to think
How the women that you love sometimes
Are the water that you drink
If you have ever wondered about Glasgow at night, its simply velvet wandering amdist dulcet tones, even in Goven, the rougher area along Clyde. The Blue Nile is extrmemly accurate in its sonic portrayal of such, just the quiet footsteps of amn against pavement and the sleek words of man against himself. It's a place of music unbeknownst to everyone, except for me of course because I am, simply stated, the awesomest. I've lost my Canuck accent apparently, and its slowly becoming a bit more rambunctious and fiesty. However, I seem to lose it everytime I speak with the Americans, which is quite unfortunately really.
It was quite brilliant the other night when I stumbled along Ashton Lane and found Brel. Now we all know what this place is, so why should I bother explaining it to you sods again. Because it's fun, dur! The pub is a Belgian bar. Namely they serve only Belgian beers and wines, ie Hooegarden, several different varieties at that. Oh its tasty, but I still enjoy the more quiet attitude that surounds Bonham's or the Lock during the weekdays when I can get a pint of Bellhaven for two quid. Oh the things I have time for, you wouldn't believe. Which brings me to my next topic, sheep make the best lovers... just kidding, only the females do. But no, I have a further point. Wait, shite, do I? Yes I DO!
I've entered my second full week of classes. Yeah, that's right, while you poor sods are gettin a click from mid terms I'm busy sitting on my ass not doing a damn thing for my grad classes. Shall we discuss why? Well, I'll give you a hint, everyone except for 20 or so people are under 18. In short, I'm the youngest of the oldest in all my classes, and there are only 4 other 22 year olds, about 16 or so people 24 and older (33 being the oldest and bitchiest) and then 80 some odd little teeny toiny boppers with beaver pelts and floofy skirts for normal garb. Ai, it's rough having to go to classes where I listen to professors go on about material I had in high school and 100 or 200 level courses. But tis what tis, and all that rot. I get along fairly well with my new fangled A4 paper and binder. They only have two-hole punches, and it's eating away at me that there is one less hole for me to insert things into. Sickos. I know what you wis thinking, i ought to give you a slap, but I'm lazy.
I realize that this wis not exactly the humour you were lookin for, but I haven't really come across the best of stories as of yet. Though there is the whole doppelganger phenomenon, meaning I am slowly replacing you all with people here, because suprisingly my mind can only create a limited number of facial configurations (I estimated it to be into the thousands, but permutated it could add up to something like at least 2 million, ballpark). I should just say bollocks to the lot of it and find better rubbish for villainy since it is a desire I will eventually need to explore a little further than I already have. That reminds me... I had a very disturbing dream. Not the type that you would sit and say, "that is complete and utter shite, radge wee midden fucking haunting my dreams, you got bollocks" sort of shite. Well, it is, but not really to the point I would refer to anyone in a dream as psycho. Makes a man wonder what exactly he came upon in his sleep, whether it was a manifestation of subconscious or an exploration of another's psyche, unintentional perhaps, but thorough. I awoke wondering if my conscience finally had a bit of the pagan kicked out of it, I felt moral for a moment, proper fucked in the same instant. I shook it off and moved on with the day, but it still is a bit of rubbish. Being demon spawn just isn't as easy as it looks in the movies, lemme tell ya. So for now all ya radge wee middens and proper cunt gents, cheers.
I guess I quit believing in the early morning news
A boy orders coffee and he settles down to think
How the women that you love sometimes
Are the water that you drink
If you have ever wondered about Glasgow at night, its simply velvet wandering amdist dulcet tones, even in Goven, the rougher area along Clyde. The Blue Nile is extrmemly accurate in its sonic portrayal of such, just the quiet footsteps of amn against pavement and the sleek words of man against himself. It's a place of music unbeknownst to everyone, except for me of course because I am, simply stated, the awesomest. I've lost my Canuck accent apparently, and its slowly becoming a bit more rambunctious and fiesty. However, I seem to lose it everytime I speak with the Americans, which is quite unfortunately really.
It was quite brilliant the other night when I stumbled along Ashton Lane and found Brel. Now we all know what this place is, so why should I bother explaining it to you sods again. Because it's fun, dur! The pub is a Belgian bar. Namely they serve only Belgian beers and wines, ie Hooegarden, several different varieties at that. Oh its tasty, but I still enjoy the more quiet attitude that surounds Bonham's or the Lock during the weekdays when I can get a pint of Bellhaven for two quid. Oh the things I have time for, you wouldn't believe. Which brings me to my next topic, sheep make the best lovers... just kidding, only the females do. But no, I have a further point. Wait, shite, do I? Yes I DO!
I've entered my second full week of classes. Yeah, that's right, while you poor sods are gettin a click from mid terms I'm busy sitting on my ass not doing a damn thing for my grad classes. Shall we discuss why? Well, I'll give you a hint, everyone except for 20 or so people are under 18. In short, I'm the youngest of the oldest in all my classes, and there are only 4 other 22 year olds, about 16 or so people 24 and older (33 being the oldest and bitchiest) and then 80 some odd little teeny toiny boppers with beaver pelts and floofy skirts for normal garb. Ai, it's rough having to go to classes where I listen to professors go on about material I had in high school and 100 or 200 level courses. But tis what tis, and all that rot. I get along fairly well with my new fangled A4 paper and binder. They only have two-hole punches, and it's eating away at me that there is one less hole for me to insert things into. Sickos. I know what you wis thinking, i ought to give you a slap, but I'm lazy.
I realize that this wis not exactly the humour you were lookin for, but I haven't really come across the best of stories as of yet. Though there is the whole doppelganger phenomenon, meaning I am slowly replacing you all with people here, because suprisingly my mind can only create a limited number of facial configurations (I estimated it to be into the thousands, but permutated it could add up to something like at least 2 million, ballpark). I should just say bollocks to the lot of it and find better rubbish for villainy since it is a desire I will eventually need to explore a little further than I already have. That reminds me... I had a very disturbing dream. Not the type that you would sit and say, "that is complete and utter shite, radge wee midden fucking haunting my dreams, you got bollocks" sort of shite. Well, it is, but not really to the point I would refer to anyone in a dream as psycho. Makes a man wonder what exactly he came upon in his sleep, whether it was a manifestation of subconscious or an exploration of another's psyche, unintentional perhaps, but thorough. I awoke wondering if my conscience finally had a bit of the pagan kicked out of it, I felt moral for a moment, proper fucked in the same instant. I shook it off and moved on with the day, but it still is a bit of rubbish. Being demon spawn just isn't as easy as it looks in the movies, lemme tell ya. So for now all ya radge wee middens and proper cunt gents, cheers.
3 October 2004
The Man of La-Munchy
Get me high, you blow my mind
You make my mundane life all worth while
You give me reason, give me rhyme
Do anything for you just, give me a sign
Movie star, dunno where you are
Sod it. Yes it sounds mean, but it's my new favorite thing to say when I'm piss drunk in a pub. It's kind of funny that no matter where I go I manage to find people that greatly resemble people I left behind. I've met a rather large man, though only as young as me and with much more hair and a less crafted taste in alcohol and film, but still, the love of cloves can only point to that other person. And then there's the short blonde, true to her hair color when tipsy, she's got the same build, well nearly so, and the same sort of humor as another person. WEIRD. Just friggin disturbing. More so is the fact that the interplay is almost exactly as that I left behind. The same sort of verbal exchanges and random interjections, not to mention the more than explicit sexual inuendo. It's brilliant. I bought maybe 6 drinks on the night but somehow drank more than 10 myself... I dunno how it happened, I blame it on me buying rounds early on in the evening at around 5 when people first began arriving, and then everyone else buying later on in the evening, around 7, when I was hitting my stride of being completely knobbed. It's a great feeling to pass out at 10 and wake up at noon, and of course no one here thats local thinks a thing of you being totally inebriated because for the most part they are, too. The cabbies still make the quiet conversation, but this time you're more than able to understand on the first go and you make him feel at home because the accent comes out so fluidly much like the drool once youre curled up in bed toasty in the 40 degree room. Too bad that I will probably not enjoy such forays that much this coming term. Much to do most days of the week with classes beginning at 9 most days. And then xmas, well while being my favorite holy day, only because the gifts and snow (yes I'm shallow, get over yourself or just shut your sodding mouth), will be spent with family and then back here trying to lay the ground work for my lambing hours to be done come my spring break. That's right, I don't get to enjoy my month of freedom come march until next year, unless I get otherwise slagged as far as plans go. And finally there's the summer, much like the spring this summer is going to be mostly a thing of enjoyment on a farm. I hopefully will find a brilliant apartment and just stow the lot of shite there while I spend 10 more weeks aside from the 2 I spend lambing in the spring doing things to do with the smart pigs, and the dairy cattle, and something of some sort else. Hopefully this will let me enjoy my next 3 years after in hobnobbing and snogging with the local goddesses as opposed to chopping up the little bleaters and such rot. For those who are coming next year, perhaps a better plan is for one of my holidays when I can be more of a guide in the better ways to spend ones time.
As for my current form of entertainment seeing as I tend to get isolated by the whole "I don't know you so I'm not going to bothering contacting you" thing (though the few that I live with that do this are in no way people I'd enjoy a regular visit from per se, they, too, are similar to people I've known and long since lost contact with due to their egos becoming very similar to the metlife blimp), it tends to come from my preordained media center called my laptop and mostly takes the form of episodes of Invader Zim (great cartoon, brilliantly thought out) and a wonderful show called Coupling (better than Friends because the comedy is far superior). Trust me, watch Coupling at least once, preferably the later episodes like season 2 or 3, you'll get hooked and understand. They sell the DVD's for christsake, just go buy them ya prats. And although back in the states you bollock-driven cods are eating dinner, I here must abed, with of course my girlie girl, who's far better looking than all of you. Don't doubt it. You can never know the beauty my imagination can create. But oh, you will, when I rule the world! (Pinky & the Brain theme plays in the background)!!!!!!! <-- extra thingies for emphasis of super cool more betterness
You make my mundane life all worth while
You give me reason, give me rhyme
Do anything for you just, give me a sign
Movie star, dunno where you are
Sod it. Yes it sounds mean, but it's my new favorite thing to say when I'm piss drunk in a pub. It's kind of funny that no matter where I go I manage to find people that greatly resemble people I left behind. I've met a rather large man, though only as young as me and with much more hair and a less crafted taste in alcohol and film, but still, the love of cloves can only point to that other person. And then there's the short blonde, true to her hair color when tipsy, she's got the same build, well nearly so, and the same sort of humor as another person. WEIRD. Just friggin disturbing. More so is the fact that the interplay is almost exactly as that I left behind. The same sort of verbal exchanges and random interjections, not to mention the more than explicit sexual inuendo. It's brilliant. I bought maybe 6 drinks on the night but somehow drank more than 10 myself... I dunno how it happened, I blame it on me buying rounds early on in the evening at around 5 when people first began arriving, and then everyone else buying later on in the evening, around 7, when I was hitting my stride of being completely knobbed. It's a great feeling to pass out at 10 and wake up at noon, and of course no one here thats local thinks a thing of you being totally inebriated because for the most part they are, too. The cabbies still make the quiet conversation, but this time you're more than able to understand on the first go and you make him feel at home because the accent comes out so fluidly much like the drool once youre curled up in bed toasty in the 40 degree room. Too bad that I will probably not enjoy such forays that much this coming term. Much to do most days of the week with classes beginning at 9 most days. And then xmas, well while being my favorite holy day, only because the gifts and snow (yes I'm shallow, get over yourself or just shut your sodding mouth), will be spent with family and then back here trying to lay the ground work for my lambing hours to be done come my spring break. That's right, I don't get to enjoy my month of freedom come march until next year, unless I get otherwise slagged as far as plans go. And finally there's the summer, much like the spring this summer is going to be mostly a thing of enjoyment on a farm. I hopefully will find a brilliant apartment and just stow the lot of shite there while I spend 10 more weeks aside from the 2 I spend lambing in the spring doing things to do with the smart pigs, and the dairy cattle, and something of some sort else. Hopefully this will let me enjoy my next 3 years after in hobnobbing and snogging with the local goddesses as opposed to chopping up the little bleaters and such rot. For those who are coming next year, perhaps a better plan is for one of my holidays when I can be more of a guide in the better ways to spend ones time.
As for my current form of entertainment seeing as I tend to get isolated by the whole "I don't know you so I'm not going to bothering contacting you" thing (though the few that I live with that do this are in no way people I'd enjoy a regular visit from per se, they, too, are similar to people I've known and long since lost contact with due to their egos becoming very similar to the metlife blimp), it tends to come from my preordained media center called my laptop and mostly takes the form of episodes of Invader Zim (great cartoon, brilliantly thought out) and a wonderful show called Coupling (better than Friends because the comedy is far superior). Trust me, watch Coupling at least once, preferably the later episodes like season 2 or 3, you'll get hooked and understand. They sell the DVD's for christsake, just go buy them ya prats. And although back in the states you bollock-driven cods are eating dinner, I here must abed, with of course my girlie girl, who's far better looking than all of you. Don't doubt it. You can never know the beauty my imagination can create. But oh, you will, when I rule the world! (Pinky & the Brain theme plays in the background)!!!!!!! <-- extra thingies for emphasis of super cool more betterness
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