Today I am going to have an omlett.
Do you ever get the feeling that you whole life is just one great big omlett? You break a few eggs, mix in some random activities that you have lying around the place, grate on a whole lot of cliched cheese and what you are left with is either a good meal or a very stupid metaphor.
I hate metaphors that try to explain life. Life is not a box of chocolates. I see a distint lack of cellophane and gooey centers. Life has a hard, brittle center filled with hunger and a need of money and it chips your teeth. Life is also not a joss stick. I do stink, but the stench wont go away no matter how many windows I open. Life is also definately not a used car. Why? Because. just because.
Life for me has been filled with countless, countles games of Worms 3D and near countless bottles of cheap, cheap wine. So perhaps, life for me is slimy and filled with toxin. Close, but not quite. Always beware those who try and pigeon hole experences. They suck.
Blood transfusions my Jehova cry. And we dont want a crying Jehova now, do we?
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Days
It's a show called 'the days'... and the name of the family is 'Day'! AHAHAHAHA! I WET MYSELF LAUGHING!
On saturday I am going to be a pirate. There will be other people there, as it will be a partying occasion. But most notably there will be a keg.
Keg. The word sends shivers of anticipation down any alcoholics spine. I have been to a keg party only once before. It lasted 6 hours. I threw up. At the end of the night it ended up being just me and three other buddies passing the keg hose back and forth in a vain attempt to finnish it before comatosing. We didn't manage it.
But now it is happening again. I have starved meself of alcohol since monday in anticipation of this unholy celebration of some mexican festival held in graveyards. It will be great.
I am the offspring of Satan and a Huntley and Palmers water cracker. Fear my mightly interlect and pasty flaking skin!
On saturday I am going to be a pirate. There will be other people there, as it will be a partying occasion. But most notably there will be a keg.
Keg. The word sends shivers of anticipation down any alcoholics spine. I have been to a keg party only once before. It lasted 6 hours. I threw up. At the end of the night it ended up being just me and three other buddies passing the keg hose back and forth in a vain attempt to finnish it before comatosing. We didn't manage it.
But now it is happening again. I have starved meself of alcohol since monday in anticipation of this unholy celebration of some mexican festival held in graveyards. It will be great.
I am the offspring of Satan and a Huntley and Palmers water cracker. Fear my mightly interlect and pasty flaking skin!
Saturday, October 22, 2005
The nusance of mucas.
Doing nothing is only fun when you are doing it to avoid other things. Pushing myself around the living room floor on my back is fun when the other alternative is your 'dead writers who didn't amout to much' lecture, but not so much fun when you realise that you are supposed to be in the best shape you will ever be in your life and that alcohol rots your teeth.
There is a big difference between fun and nessicary, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the divide grows ever larger as you get older. Cleaning the flat? Not fun, but nessicary. Throwing yet more rotten eggs over the flat and into unexpecting backyards? Hours of fun in minutes! How about cleaning out that orange stuff from the fridge? Proably a good idea before the landlord comes around, but wait, makeing dirty words out of fridge magnets fills a place inside that has been empty since birth. Reading this, you proably wonder why I get out of bed in the morning. The awnser is simple: It smells.
But the truth of the matter is this: if everyone was like me, there wouldn't be an overpopulation problem, the ozone layer would still be intact and there would be less violent crime.
So vote for Flan. He bribes you with cookies.
There is a big difference between fun and nessicary, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the divide grows ever larger as you get older. Cleaning the flat? Not fun, but nessicary. Throwing yet more rotten eggs over the flat and into unexpecting backyards? Hours of fun in minutes! How about cleaning out that orange stuff from the fridge? Proably a good idea before the landlord comes around, but wait, makeing dirty words out of fridge magnets fills a place inside that has been empty since birth. Reading this, you proably wonder why I get out of bed in the morning. The awnser is simple: It smells.
But the truth of the matter is this: if everyone was like me, there wouldn't be an overpopulation problem, the ozone layer would still be intact and there would be less violent crime.
So vote for Flan. He bribes you with cookies.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
New Age, New Demographic.
A month after my last post proudly proclaiming my lack of things to do I have been unable to post because of being swamped by things. I have had essays to leave untill the last night before botching, I have had video games to play. I have been to parties, been to town and been in bed, all as exciting as the last. I have witnessed the phemonomon (well, you spell it you bastard) of 'flying cauliflower' and pelted neighboring houses wit 6 month old rotten eggs. It has been a futctis month indeed.
But now I am 20. My teenaged years are over. Responsibility is poised to drop on me like an enraged tree monster. No more sitting on the couch drinking beer eating pizza and playing tekken repeatedly, trying to beat my time attack score. Yesterday, being 20 made me go out and apply for a job. My well founded aversion of working for money made me ring up the place of employment and proclaim that I proably wasn't indian enough to work in this dairy, sorry.
I am old. OLD. And what is wrong with reading and elderly bloggers rants on sex? Everthing really, so thats why I will not rant on that particular subject. But while I was filling out my resubscription to 'Playboy' at the breakfast table this morning I realised something.
I am no longer 18-19. No.
Now I am 20-25.
Perhaps the next five years of my life are going to be so boring that they deserve to be lumped together by one homogenious check box. Playboy thinks so anyway.
Today I will play 'Breath of Fire IV' and Twister untill my thighs burn.
Fun in your bum!
But now I am 20. My teenaged years are over. Responsibility is poised to drop on me like an enraged tree monster. No more sitting on the couch drinking beer eating pizza and playing tekken repeatedly, trying to beat my time attack score. Yesterday, being 20 made me go out and apply for a job. My well founded aversion of working for money made me ring up the place of employment and proclaim that I proably wasn't indian enough to work in this dairy, sorry.
I am old. OLD. And what is wrong with reading and elderly bloggers rants on sex? Everthing really, so thats why I will not rant on that particular subject. But while I was filling out my resubscription to 'Playboy' at the breakfast table this morning I realised something.
I am no longer 18-19. No.
Now I am 20-25.
Perhaps the next five years of my life are going to be so boring that they deserve to be lumped together by one homogenious check box. Playboy thinks so anyway.
Today I will play 'Breath of Fire IV' and Twister untill my thighs burn.
Fun in your bum!
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