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.