I remember a time during our youth- when relationships were more about just having someone there, when all that crap was going down in our lives, the most importaint thing was to have someone who was there to listen to you for three hours plus on the telephone. Life was crap, and justifiably so: we were teenagers. Everyone, everything, including ourselves, body and mind, was out to get us. And so we needed someone else, a girl and slash or boy friend, someone we could garruntee would be there, any hour, to lend a sympathetic ear.
Now, we are supposed to be adults. Deal with anything because we all have full time jobs and shuffling paperwork and listning to people complain 24/7 means we are capable to handle anything.
Hah. Hah hah hah hah.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Apples and Oranges...
...go together like bananas and pears. IN A BLENDER.
Which actually makes quite a refreshing fruit drink, if you remove the skins and the pips and the flesh and all the fruit and replace the fruit with Ice Cream and replace the blender with a bowl and add a spoon, unmashed, for your eating with.
It wasn't too hard, especially if you don't actually start with the fruit at all.
Alchemy. Always trying to turn lead into gold. Why didn't they try something a little less challenging? It seems to me that people are always setting their sights a little high, weather out of greed, or often, out of lazyness: set your sights really high and you have the perfect excuse for when it doesn't work. Because it was impossible to begin with. But if you pent your time not trying to turn lead into gold but instead tried to turn fruit into vegetables all you would have to do is produce a tomato and start a discussion, and by the end of it not only would have the tomato changed between the two states during the conversation but you will have probably discovered quantum- no matter whether the tomato is fruit or vegetable, it is allways, at some level, somewhere, a really stupid disscussion that doesn't change it at all.
A metaphor for life in general? Perhaps. I don't really know. But as a metaphor it tastes good on toast. And isn't that all that really matters?
Yes. Mechanics of the universe aside, we wouldn't have many scientists if they forgot to eat.
In other news: The olympics are over. Let us now start the Large Hadron Collider and end the need for journalism.
Which actually makes quite a refreshing fruit drink, if you remove the skins and the pips and the flesh and all the fruit and replace the fruit with Ice Cream and replace the blender with a bowl and add a spoon, unmashed, for your eating with.
It wasn't too hard, especially if you don't actually start with the fruit at all.
Alchemy. Always trying to turn lead into gold. Why didn't they try something a little less challenging? It seems to me that people are always setting their sights a little high, weather out of greed, or often, out of lazyness: set your sights really high and you have the perfect excuse for when it doesn't work. Because it was impossible to begin with. But if you pent your time not trying to turn lead into gold but instead tried to turn fruit into vegetables all you would have to do is produce a tomato and start a discussion, and by the end of it not only would have the tomato changed between the two states during the conversation but you will have probably discovered quantum- no matter whether the tomato is fruit or vegetable, it is allways, at some level, somewhere, a really stupid disscussion that doesn't change it at all.
A metaphor for life in general? Perhaps. I don't really know. But as a metaphor it tastes good on toast. And isn't that all that really matters?
Yes. Mechanics of the universe aside, we wouldn't have many scientists if they forgot to eat.
In other news: The olympics are over. Let us now start the Large Hadron Collider and end the need for journalism.
Friday, August 15, 2008
"The Understanding"
"Women: You can't live with 'em, you can't live without them."
"You said it"
Both drink.
OR:
"Damn Women are crazy. Crazy like foxes! Rabid foxes."
"You said it."
Both drink.
OR the extremely abridged version:
"Women"
"Yup"
Drink.
This converversation happens all around the world, in many different languages, for many different reasons. It is said that a man complains about a woman about once every three minutes, and six times out of ten that woman hears, and punishes him for it. Because they have the hearing of foxes.
I'm sure that women complain about men too- but I've never been privy to such conversations, nor herd them happening. Part of the reason for this is that men do not have the hearing of foxes, but instead are unlikely to hear anything if they are concentrating on something particular. Like breathing. But we've all heard echos of the woman side of the complaint, when we are drunk and something slips, just a shadow of a suggestion, during the shouting match about the state of the bathroom when suddenly some female friend's opinion is suddenly quoted about your before unknown breaches of behaviour (probably past protests were unheard because we were breathing too loud) or the few of us man-folk who have stumbled into the secret coven meetings also known as "ladies night" and not been brainwashed. Often these remarks pass by our notice as we are fighting for sobriety, toilet seat rights or our lives, but at a subconsious level they regester. And this behaviour isn't confined to heterosexual relations either. Steriotypes of wincing, homosexual men with snarky comments and troupes of lebian women in face to face screaming matches probably had basis in fact somewhere.
The consensus is clear. We know you complain. You know we complain. We know that you know that we know you complain. Etc.
The question then arises, why do we do so?
Scroll back to the neanderthal conversation examples at the top of this page. Often a precursor to these discussions is the obsevation that no one really understands the other person. That we are all completely undefinable and therefore any sort of venture into the relms of love, companionship and casual intercourse is going to be as fraught with danger and spectacle as Oddysessussesssf (you know the guy) 10 year journey home. But the boast is often proved wrong. Not many men can fit ten epic years of adventure and longing into three hasty and sticky minutes.
We've had tests: the Freudian and Jungian archetypes, star-sign compatability asessments, the comparing of various body parts to see if they are similar shapes; we've written books: books on anatomy, books on mentality and even books suggesting that we are from different planets. Everyone has an opinion on the matter: your friend, their friend, the overly friendly guy at the other end of the bar. People have been known to take relationship advice from their cats. Little wonder. Cats are a species that have EVERYTHING worked out.
But still, with all the collaboration, discussion and literature on the matter, it still always boils down to this:
"I mean, what the hell are they thinking about?"
"Well, perhaps in your case it is simply a matter of inauspicious stars at time of birth, her tendancy to over romantasize the male as a father figure and your reapeated insistance on trying it from "the rear entry" as I beleive it is colloqually known."
"...what?"
"I mean... yeah mate, I dunno."
Are we really so complicated? Wait for it! The secrets of relationships both intimate and platonic are about to be revealed!!!:
No. Get over yourselves. There are only two vailid theories as to why we have so much trouble getting along with other people.
1:
We're all just fleshy bags of instincts and preferances who construct vast fantasies of themselves to make themselves feel better when spurrned. In truth there isn't alot difference between us in wants and desires but it makes us feel more justified when we speak to a long known friend about why he/she/they were dumped/dumped you if you say that it was because of a crucial incompatability in fundamental life philosophies rather than they kept you awake at night with their night noises and it's hard to be in a caring relationship when you are so tired that you fall asleap in your porridge and find yourself trying to put the milk back in the cat.
2:
Everyone, absolutely everyone, is insane.
Well, wasn't that fun? I should get one of those noble prize thingies.
"You said it"
Both drink.
OR:
"Damn Women are crazy. Crazy like foxes! Rabid foxes."
"You said it."
Both drink.
OR the extremely abridged version:
"Women"
"Yup"
Drink.
This converversation happens all around the world, in many different languages, for many different reasons. It is said that a man complains about a woman about once every three minutes, and six times out of ten that woman hears, and punishes him for it. Because they have the hearing of foxes.
I'm sure that women complain about men too- but I've never been privy to such conversations, nor herd them happening. Part of the reason for this is that men do not have the hearing of foxes, but instead are unlikely to hear anything if they are concentrating on something particular. Like breathing. But we've all heard echos of the woman side of the complaint, when we are drunk and something slips, just a shadow of a suggestion, during the shouting match about the state of the bathroom when suddenly some female friend's opinion is suddenly quoted about your before unknown breaches of behaviour (probably past protests were unheard because we were breathing too loud) or the few of us man-folk who have stumbled into the secret coven meetings also known as "ladies night" and not been brainwashed. Often these remarks pass by our notice as we are fighting for sobriety, toilet seat rights or our lives, but at a subconsious level they regester. And this behaviour isn't confined to heterosexual relations either. Steriotypes of wincing, homosexual men with snarky comments and troupes of lebian women in face to face screaming matches probably had basis in fact somewhere.
The consensus is clear. We know you complain. You know we complain. We know that you know that we know you complain. Etc.
The question then arises, why do we do so?
Scroll back to the neanderthal conversation examples at the top of this page. Often a precursor to these discussions is the obsevation that no one really understands the other person. That we are all completely undefinable and therefore any sort of venture into the relms of love, companionship and casual intercourse is going to be as fraught with danger and spectacle as Oddysessussesssf (you know the guy) 10 year journey home. But the boast is often proved wrong. Not many men can fit ten epic years of adventure and longing into three hasty and sticky minutes.
We've had tests: the Freudian and Jungian archetypes, star-sign compatability asessments, the comparing of various body parts to see if they are similar shapes; we've written books: books on anatomy, books on mentality and even books suggesting that we are from different planets. Everyone has an opinion on the matter: your friend, their friend, the overly friendly guy at the other end of the bar. People have been known to take relationship advice from their cats. Little wonder. Cats are a species that have EVERYTHING worked out.
But still, with all the collaboration, discussion and literature on the matter, it still always boils down to this:
"I mean, what the hell are they thinking about?"
"Well, perhaps in your case it is simply a matter of inauspicious stars at time of birth, her tendancy to over romantasize the male as a father figure and your reapeated insistance on trying it from "the rear entry" as I beleive it is colloqually known."
"...what?"
"I mean... yeah mate, I dunno."
Are we really so complicated? Wait for it! The secrets of relationships both intimate and platonic are about to be revealed!!!:
No. Get over yourselves. There are only two vailid theories as to why we have so much trouble getting along with other people.
1:
We're all just fleshy bags of instincts and preferances who construct vast fantasies of themselves to make themselves feel better when spurrned. In truth there isn't alot difference between us in wants and desires but it makes us feel more justified when we speak to a long known friend about why he/she/they were dumped/dumped you if you say that it was because of a crucial incompatability in fundamental life philosophies rather than they kept you awake at night with their night noises and it's hard to be in a caring relationship when you are so tired that you fall asleap in your porridge and find yourself trying to put the milk back in the cat.
2:
Everyone, absolutely everyone, is insane.
Well, wasn't that fun? I should get one of those noble prize thingies.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Argrah weeble deeb bloob
Came to waipuk on bus yesterday.
Had lunch with grandparents and extended family for grandparents 50th wedding annerversary.
Go back to wellington tommorow at 9am- staying awake now so I can sleep on the bus.
And now a word from my sponsers: The insanity demons.
"We ask you a question: is it insane to walk up to someone and ask them, quite polietly and perhaps holding a frozen fish stick in the manner of a microphone, ask them I do repeat myself but with deliberate effect, ask them if you are insane meaning am I insiane not are you insane because obvio0usly you would know if you were insane or would you for it follows that if I had to ask a complete strnger about the state of my thought jello while waving frozen fish products that you may, I state again, may have to ask someone else if you are insane.
SO ARE YOU/ ME/ MEYOU/ US INSANES?
It is a sobering thought indeed. I really hate this time. I am yes, as sober as I have been in monts, bored tired, finding my coherancy slipping, have just stayed awake to watch a test of rugby OF RUGBY a test of rugby. At 1am. Not alot of sports get mentioned here in this here blog because I do not care.
This is the third time I have listened to the dresden dolls albums today. I like their ability to shout. If there is nothing to shhout at they imagine the things that annoy them, and then shout. I should like to write the little (yet highly explosive) book of anger.
If you're feeling angry, stub your toe, then run down the street until you find that pet that your parents didn't get for your fourth birthday and kick it, with your sore toe, until it (the pet or your toe) bleeds.
Perhaps the little book of madness would be a better option. Anger is a far to considered and rational emotion, don't you agree? X happens, so you do X to Y, or possibly vice versa. Whereas madness is more a X happens and theirfore Y equals a mouse while you exist in a quatum certainty that both eats all the ice cream on the roof of your flat in your night gown screeaming obscenities at the kindergaten below. If mouse equals more than yesterday, you are wearing pants.
I have knots in my hair. I am only three bottles of wine and/or missed showers away from being your steriotypical rating, pantless madman.
Much like every saturday night.
Had lunch with grandparents and extended family for grandparents 50th wedding annerversary.
Go back to wellington tommorow at 9am- staying awake now so I can sleep on the bus.
And now a word from my sponsers: The insanity demons.
"We ask you a question: is it insane to walk up to someone and ask them, quite polietly and perhaps holding a frozen fish stick in the manner of a microphone, ask them I do repeat myself but with deliberate effect, ask them if you are insane meaning am I insiane not are you insane because obvio0usly you would know if you were insane or would you for it follows that if I had to ask a complete strnger about the state of my thought jello while waving frozen fish products that you may, I state again, may have to ask someone else if you are insane.
SO ARE YOU/ ME/ MEYOU/ US INSANES?
It is a sobering thought indeed. I really hate this time. I am yes, as sober as I have been in monts, bored tired, finding my coherancy slipping, have just stayed awake to watch a test of rugby OF RUGBY a test of rugby. At 1am. Not alot of sports get mentioned here in this here blog because I do not care.
This is the third time I have listened to the dresden dolls albums today. I like their ability to shout. If there is nothing to shhout at they imagine the things that annoy them, and then shout. I should like to write the little (yet highly explosive) book of anger.
If you're feeling angry, stub your toe, then run down the street until you find that pet that your parents didn't get for your fourth birthday and kick it, with your sore toe, until it (the pet or your toe) bleeds.
Perhaps the little book of madness would be a better option. Anger is a far to considered and rational emotion, don't you agree? X happens, so you do X to Y, or possibly vice versa. Whereas madness is more a X happens and theirfore Y equals a mouse while you exist in a quatum certainty that both eats all the ice cream on the roof of your flat in your night gown screeaming obscenities at the kindergaten below. If mouse equals more than yesterday, you are wearing pants.
I have knots in my hair. I am only three bottles of wine and/or missed showers away from being your steriotypical rating, pantless madman.
Much like every saturday night.
Monday, July 21, 2008
DEATH
Lets see how quickly I can do this one. I think it might be a post that will have more effect if it is brief:
Saturday landlord came fixed roof: also man came to dry carpet.
Carpet in room was wet from leaking roof. Carpet also mouldy.
Man-Dry-Carpet stepped inside room.
"What the fuck is that? Holy shit, this is some bad mould- do not sleep in here. Seriously, that mould will kill you."
Yes, I have slept in some pretty crappy places in my life, closets, bus stops, in beds with too many people, in beds without people, on roofs: but this is the first time a room in which I have lived in has become so pissed with me that it has tried to end my life. WOOO!
GO DEATH MOULD!
In other news- the room is now fine to sleep in again- it has been demoulded. I we out in celebration, to a
Saturday landlord came fixed roof: also man came to dry carpet.
Carpet in room was wet from leaking roof. Carpet also mouldy.
Man-Dry-Carpet stepped inside room.
"What the fuck is that? Holy shit, this is some bad mould- do not sleep in here. Seriously, that mould will kill you."
Yes, I have slept in some pretty crappy places in my life, closets, bus stops, in beds with too many people, in beds without people, on roofs: but this is the first time a room in which I have lived in has become so pissed with me that it has tried to end my life. WOOO!
GO DEATH MOULD!
In other news- the room is now fine to sleep in again- it has been demoulded. I we out in celebration, to a
Friday, July 18, 2008
Why am I awake?
Gah! Would you look at the time? It's both six am, and four days since I last posted. How come the time is going past so quickly? It's not as if I do much, but the days are falling past into the ether like a substance which is habitually preyed upon by the ethernites. Or whatever. I woke up at two am and finished the book I was reading and found that my brain was doing its buzzing thing with ideas and so decided to write some of them down. Then I decided to write something here without any clear purpose as to what to write about. And that's a story for the history books.
Don't you hate that phrase "would you look at the time"? Whenever someone says it I have the horrible childish urge to say "No, look at it yourself."
Anyway, how about dreams? Always a hot topic, and a window into your own subconsiousness, even if it is a rather grimy window and shows a dirty room with strange things on the shelves gathering dust. It smells like an old ice-cream container that has been washed many times and has mostly been used to store curry. There is an old woman in a rocking chair who appears to be knitting but on closer imspection there is no wool on the needles and the fingers aren't moving. The room contains a complete lack of cat.
...
But yes, my dreams. Haven't had too many lately, probably a reflection of the rather stagnant state I have been in creativity wise. But two have stood out, two which I have had in the four days since I returned to wellington where there is life.
The first was a rather bizzare dream about being chased though the air ducts of an office building by law enforcement officers and young children for undisclosed crimes. I tried to escape via the fire escape but since that escape is made for fire and not people I was caught by a large number of secret police looking people in black hoddies with riot sheilds. I am punished with, and here the style of the dream changes from the mostly realistic if proportionately askew style of the dream previously into a side scrolling video game where I am forced to wear a large dunces cap. I run from side to side as things such as oversized fruit, cows and even people which I am to skewer upon my dunces cap. There was much puree and blood. Dream end.
The other dream which happened the night before requires a small amout of preface: I had been to the bulk food warehouse place where they sell the feedstuffs and the booze cheap. The cheap booze that I had bought was a bottle of absinthe. This green substance of 75% is known to provide the drinker with strange visions, but in the storebought variety the vision creating substance has been mostly removed. Mostly. But still a shot before bedtime can often provide the drinker with some strange a vivid dreams.
So as I went off to bed that night I was well anticipating some excellent and bizzare dreams, clearly remembered in graphic detail and dolby surround sound.
What I got was a dream of a toilet.
It was a very clean toilet, very similar to the toilet in my flat, and very graphic, perfectly detailed in my dreamscape but, when all is said and done, it was a toilet. At one moment in my dream I looked over to the corner of the room where, in graphic detail, there was a cobweb. I went back to looking at the toilet. Nothing else happened.
Now, If I really wanted to spend some time looking at a toilet, there is one very handilly situated in my house. Amazing though it may be, it is not a pastime I send much time on, this toilet gazing.
I really, really hope that that wasn't an accurate representation of my own subconsious. Really.
In other news, now I try to sleep again.
Don't you hate that phrase "would you look at the time"? Whenever someone says it I have the horrible childish urge to say "No, look at it yourself."
Anyway, how about dreams? Always a hot topic, and a window into your own subconsiousness, even if it is a rather grimy window and shows a dirty room with strange things on the shelves gathering dust. It smells like an old ice-cream container that has been washed many times and has mostly been used to store curry. There is an old woman in a rocking chair who appears to be knitting but on closer imspection there is no wool on the needles and the fingers aren't moving. The room contains a complete lack of cat.
...
But yes, my dreams. Haven't had too many lately, probably a reflection of the rather stagnant state I have been in creativity wise. But two have stood out, two which I have had in the four days since I returned to wellington where there is life.
The first was a rather bizzare dream about being chased though the air ducts of an office building by law enforcement officers and young children for undisclosed crimes. I tried to escape via the fire escape but since that escape is made for fire and not people I was caught by a large number of secret police looking people in black hoddies with riot sheilds. I am punished with, and here the style of the dream changes from the mostly realistic if proportionately askew style of the dream previously into a side scrolling video game where I am forced to wear a large dunces cap. I run from side to side as things such as oversized fruit, cows and even people which I am to skewer upon my dunces cap. There was much puree and blood. Dream end.
The other dream which happened the night before requires a small amout of preface: I had been to the bulk food warehouse place where they sell the feedstuffs and the booze cheap. The cheap booze that I had bought was a bottle of absinthe. This green substance of 75% is known to provide the drinker with strange visions, but in the storebought variety the vision creating substance has been mostly removed. Mostly. But still a shot before bedtime can often provide the drinker with some strange a vivid dreams.
So as I went off to bed that night I was well anticipating some excellent and bizzare dreams, clearly remembered in graphic detail and dolby surround sound.
What I got was a dream of a toilet.
It was a very clean toilet, very similar to the toilet in my flat, and very graphic, perfectly detailed in my dreamscape but, when all is said and done, it was a toilet. At one moment in my dream I looked over to the corner of the room where, in graphic detail, there was a cobweb. I went back to looking at the toilet. Nothing else happened.
Now, If I really wanted to spend some time looking at a toilet, there is one very handilly situated in my house. Amazing though it may be, it is not a pastime I send much time on, this toilet gazing.
I really, really hope that that wasn't an accurate representation of my own subconsious. Really.
In other news, now I try to sleep again.
Monday, July 14, 2008
It is now halfway through the morning side of the night...
... and I am getting tired. Which is, in fact, the plan. Tommorow (or today depending on how you look at "time") I shall get up early, drag myself to the bus and then, very hopefully, sleep the sleep of a hundred men and women, post coitus.
It is my seafeguard against the evil of the bus. The evil enters through your eyes and strangels your occular nerve, causing images to last twice as long in your brain. Theirfor, a 3 hour bus trip laeves imprinted on your mind 9 hours of images of the wonderfully empty countryside of new zealand. There are only so many sheep you can count before you run out of numbers and your head explodes.
The reason I am not a maths teacher becomes apparent.
Speaking of teaching, I have to get my A into G as my old primary school teacher used to say, and apply for some releif positions. I've been put as number one on one list, but that's it so far. Although my plan is to reach enlightenment through the next six months by simply keeping my head so empty that something worthwhile will fall into it (whats up there is mildewed and cobweb covered junk or antiques, either way things you don't want to touch for fear of breaking) starving in the process is not part of the plan.
On my way back to wellington tommorow I shall be passing the bus that is taking ex-girlfriend-Uma to her new job in Auckland. I must say, I am starting to feel slightly bitter now about a,b, and the lack of c, and regretful about x, y, and upset over z. (ALGEBRA TO THE POWER OF AWESOME!) But me is thinking that is normal. Can't have an end of a relationship without regret, and since I have been sober since being in the Bay the cold knife of depression/regret has managed to prick the delicate pink skin beneath my insobriety armour.
As soon as I get back to wellington I will give that Armour a good repair at the blacksmiths. For those of you not so good with that tricky bastard Mr. Metaphor, this means I'm going to drunk at the nearest drinking establishment. See how I did that? The armour is booze, and the blaksmiths is... oh never mind. My wit be lost on the lower classes.
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Poo!
I then collapse into a fit of giggles and refuse to do an housework for the rest of the week. A wit like mine, I restate, is a heavy burden not meant for lesser mortals.
Well, now time for sleep. The faster I sleep, the sooner the awful busride be over, the sooner I make an ass of myself while trying to chat up the blacksmithess over a large mug of embers.
Damn it Flan! You broke Mr. Metaphor! AGAIN!
It is my seafeguard against the evil of the bus. The evil enters through your eyes and strangels your occular nerve, causing images to last twice as long in your brain. Theirfor, a 3 hour bus trip laeves imprinted on your mind 9 hours of images of the wonderfully empty countryside of new zealand. There are only so many sheep you can count before you run out of numbers and your head explodes.
The reason I am not a maths teacher becomes apparent.
Speaking of teaching, I have to get my A into G as my old primary school teacher used to say, and apply for some releif positions. I've been put as number one on one list, but that's it so far. Although my plan is to reach enlightenment through the next six months by simply keeping my head so empty that something worthwhile will fall into it (whats up there is mildewed and cobweb covered junk or antiques, either way things you don't want to touch for fear of breaking) starving in the process is not part of the plan.
On my way back to wellington tommorow I shall be passing the bus that is taking ex-girlfriend-Uma to her new job in Auckland. I must say, I am starting to feel slightly bitter now about a,b, and the lack of c, and regretful about x, y, and upset over z. (ALGEBRA TO THE POWER OF AWESOME!) But me is thinking that is normal. Can't have an end of a relationship without regret, and since I have been sober since being in the Bay the cold knife of depression/regret has managed to prick the delicate pink skin beneath my insobriety armour.
As soon as I get back to wellington I will give that Armour a good repair at the blacksmiths. For those of you not so good with that tricky bastard Mr. Metaphor, this means I'm going to drunk at the nearest drinking establishment. See how I did that? The armour is booze, and the blaksmiths is... oh never mind. My wit be lost on the lower classes.
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Poo!
I then collapse into a fit of giggles and refuse to do an housework for the rest of the week. A wit like mine, I restate, is a heavy burden not meant for lesser mortals.
Well, now time for sleep. The faster I sleep, the sooner the awful busride be over, the sooner I make an ass of myself while trying to chat up the blacksmithess over a large mug of embers.
Damn it Flan! You broke Mr. Metaphor! AGAIN!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
I have a cat upon me
Yes, yes I do. I want a real cat though: not that this isn't a real cat, but this isn't really my cat. Its my sisters cat, and even though she dont live here anymore she wont let me take him away.
I like cats. They are just slightly more demanding females with slightly less yowling factor. And they hunt mice. The hauteaur factor is definately a plus as well. I have never had relationship anxieties with a cat- I've always known exactly where I stand.
Anyhoo, before this post gets freaky:
Sometimes I read over posts that I have made before, and that sometimes happened again reciently. I have noticed something: I seem to be a lot less bitter about things now than I was, say, three months ago, when I was comparing the circle of life with the circle of nature- two very, very different things. I do happen to wonder weather my angst will com eback again...I mean, In todays society, you are naked without your angst- and there are so many things to be angsty about: politics, relegion, poeple of the opposite sex, poeple of the same sex, lack of food, the eating of too much food, poeple of indeterminate sex, petrol, the eating of too many people... the list goes on and on. So what am I doing not being agnsty? And in Waipuk I canne drink as much as I would like, my relatives would stage an intervention...
Perhaps its because I;m in one of those "between spaces" I like so much. No job, no money, but i'm in a band. Hoorah.
Notice in the list above that no one complains about cats. Well, they do, but it's a short lived complaint. Viva los Cat!
I like cats. They are just slightly more demanding females with slightly less yowling factor. And they hunt mice. The hauteaur factor is definately a plus as well. I have never had relationship anxieties with a cat- I've always known exactly where I stand.
Anyhoo, before this post gets freaky:
Sometimes I read over posts that I have made before, and that sometimes happened again reciently. I have noticed something: I seem to be a lot less bitter about things now than I was, say, three months ago, when I was comparing the circle of life with the circle of nature- two very, very different things. I do happen to wonder weather my angst will com eback again...I mean, In todays society, you are naked without your angst- and there are so many things to be angsty about: politics, relegion, poeple of the opposite sex, poeple of the same sex, lack of food, the eating of too much food, poeple of indeterminate sex, petrol, the eating of too many people... the list goes on and on. So what am I doing not being agnsty? And in Waipuk I canne drink as much as I would like, my relatives would stage an intervention...
Perhaps its because I;m in one of those "between spaces" I like so much. No job, no money, but i'm in a band. Hoorah.
Notice in the list above that no one complains about cats. Well, they do, but it's a short lived complaint. Viva los Cat!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Amazing occurances and Occular disturbances!
Look at the bottom of the last post I made. It seems as if someone reads this humble thing from time to time: and probably, since it has been so long since I've done any solid block of posts, this person, from america, is probably one of the few people who have seen any of the new posts. Holla Dave. Probably. But word will get around and people whom I know will read the blog again, I am sure.
People have told me to publish this thing, but what do all you think, mysterious quiet readers from perhaps beyond our my own easy shores?
Anyway, I'm other news, last post I forgot to relate something quite importaint. Importaint things have a habit of slipping my mind, which makes me such a good teacher.
Anyway again: when I stepped off the bus last night a found that due to a telecommunications malfunction there was noone to pick me up, I sent another of my hard earned text messages and as I waited on the corner for my escort another car pulled up next to the nearby public toilets. Out jumped young lady, as they do, and went into the toilets for the public. So far so good, it's what public toilets are for. But then I hear a shattering sound and out from the public toilets come that same lady I saw going into the public toilets but this time burdened with two rolls of public toilet paper.
Many people, some I even know, will not use public toilets. Of those that do, one of the common complaints is the quality of the toilet paper that one can so easily put a finger through and has a texture not unlike greased baking paper. It may have been done for a prank, and if so, tut tut indeed, someones house is now several meter the worse for low grade dunny paper, but if someone actually had to go into the public toilet and steal toilet paper for their own use...
I'm betting on the former rather than the latter because, after all, this is waipuk.
The other public toilet in wapukurau (yes, we have two!) has been subject to defeacements, beatings and a car running into it. After that last occurance the council decided that they would erect on the site a toilet made of steel and declare in the newspaper that the new "state of the art" toilet of publications was "invincible".
That night the toilet was dowsed in petrol and set alight.
Hurrah.
In other news, today played scabble with mother and grandmother. I got all the vowels. My favourite board: I, I, I, U, U, K, Z.
If you can make a word out of those letters I shall buy you candy. So much candy.
People have told me to publish this thing, but what do all you think, mysterious quiet readers from perhaps beyond our my own easy shores?
Anyway, I'm other news, last post I forgot to relate something quite importaint. Importaint things have a habit of slipping my mind, which makes me such a good teacher.
Anyway again: when I stepped off the bus last night a found that due to a telecommunications malfunction there was noone to pick me up, I sent another of my hard earned text messages and as I waited on the corner for my escort another car pulled up next to the nearby public toilets. Out jumped young lady, as they do, and went into the toilets for the public. So far so good, it's what public toilets are for. But then I hear a shattering sound and out from the public toilets come that same lady I saw going into the public toilets but this time burdened with two rolls of public toilet paper.
Many people, some I even know, will not use public toilets. Of those that do, one of the common complaints is the quality of the toilet paper that one can so easily put a finger through and has a texture not unlike greased baking paper. It may have been done for a prank, and if so, tut tut indeed, someones house is now several meter the worse for low grade dunny paper, but if someone actually had to go into the public toilet and steal toilet paper for their own use...
I'm betting on the former rather than the latter because, after all, this is waipuk.
The other public toilet in wapukurau (yes, we have two!) has been subject to defeacements, beatings and a car running into it. After that last occurance the council decided that they would erect on the site a toilet made of steel and declare in the newspaper that the new "state of the art" toilet of publications was "invincible".
That night the toilet was dowsed in petrol and set alight.
Hurrah.
In other news, today played scabble with mother and grandmother. I got all the vowels. My favourite board: I, I, I, U, U, K, Z.
If you can make a word out of those letters I shall buy you candy. So much candy.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Gah blah blah beh
Busses. Oh how I loathe long distance bus trips. This one was worse that the ole bus trips of yore for some reason: I slept for two hours (yes! less bus to remember!) but then for the final hour and a half my brain did that really cool "well, since I know I'm not to long away from getting off this thing I'm gonna look at my watch every minute and make the time strech out reeeeeeeaaally long" thing. And for some reason, once it got dark, the driver didn't put on the lights so what I did was I sat in the dark, not reading, not writing, just listening to the quiet scritchy sound of someones earphones and play "guess the song". I couldn't.
So now I am in Waipukurau. Why? Why not. I can do what I like. I'm a man now, I have insurance and everything. There is not much to do here that I couldn't do at home, except eat all my parents food, kind of as a "thanks" for supporting my through all these years at uni. And when I say all my parents food, you can be assured that I mean all my parents food, and then I shall knick some teaspoons ahahahahahaha!
I don't mind being back home, as long as I am not here for too long, but one thing I do mind is my parents reliance on the TV. All the time it is on. Tonight, we had a choice between watching Beach Patrol, the american version, wife swap, between an unhealthilly buff familly and a family of dwarves, and corronation street, the only soap opera to have a character be born, age and die in real time and still not have anything of note happen to them. I voted to turn the TV off, but my parents vetoed me and watched beach patrol. A man drove his boat onto the beach and the lifesavers pulled guns upon him. It was the best half hour of my life. Honestly.
So yes, TV sucks, and my parents decided not to have sky anymore so no cartoons for me. Just the hollow, empty expanse of the internet, where intellegent beings have not yet been found.
"Oh, a slight against internet denizens! Haven't heard that one before Flan!"
...
...
...Shut up.
So now I am in Waipukurau. Why? Why not. I can do what I like. I'm a man now, I have insurance and everything. There is not much to do here that I couldn't do at home, except eat all my parents food, kind of as a "thanks" for supporting my through all these years at uni. And when I say all my parents food, you can be assured that I mean all my parents food, and then I shall knick some teaspoons ahahahahahaha!
I don't mind being back home, as long as I am not here for too long, but one thing I do mind is my parents reliance on the TV. All the time it is on. Tonight, we had a choice between watching Beach Patrol, the american version, wife swap, between an unhealthilly buff familly and a family of dwarves, and corronation street, the only soap opera to have a character be born, age and die in real time and still not have anything of note happen to them. I voted to turn the TV off, but my parents vetoed me and watched beach patrol. A man drove his boat onto the beach and the lifesavers pulled guns upon him. It was the best half hour of my life. Honestly.
So yes, TV sucks, and my parents decided not to have sky anymore so no cartoons for me. Just the hollow, empty expanse of the internet, where intellegent beings have not yet been found.
"Oh, a slight against internet denizens! Haven't heard that one before Flan!"
...
...
...Shut up.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Unnaceptable
Two months without doing one of these things. Unnacceptabblleee. So is my spelling. Always has been rather. This post may be slightly worse than usual because, even with my physical being wrapped in layers of clothing and a duvet, it is too cold to move my fingers properly.
Anyway, I guess everyone has been wondering what I have been doing reciently, yes? Well, the list of acheivements is not a short one, but here is a quick overview of my activities:
- finished my last TE
- finished all the assignments that I needed to do to complete my teaching diploma. SHould be getting the certificate of well done ness in the mail sometime soonish
- began a relationship.
- was dumped
- began the relationship again
- have been dumped again.
- drank
- had a few parties
The above list is not in any particular order, but you get the picture. Or a picture. Of the kind that your 3yr old spawn comes home from kindergaten waving proudly and you put it on your fridge even though the colours were horribly chosen and the people have no knecks. Or head. In fact, it is a picture of three blobs with four sticks attached standing beside a square.
Well, what is past is past- won't do us any good to dwell on such matters will it?
Perhaps a more pertinent question: What will I do now?
Well, although it may seem that the world is now the mollosc of my choice and I have obtained many of the knives in which I need to prise open the shell and eat the reciently living contents, I want to sit for a while. I will find myself some releif work at various schools so I do not starve but I don't want to move into full time work yet. I have been, now, in the education system of this country for a full 17 years- I need a break. I am tired. Sleep in until 1pm tired. Tired, in fact, to my bones.
And as they teach you in school, bones are importaint. It is time to drink my metaphorical milk, bandage and sling the fractures that I haven't had time to give due care to reciently. Let the bones rest in me closet.
Hmmm.
Well, anyway, I now have a bit of time upon my hands. I want to go out and see some of those people I havent had much to do with reciently. I want to keep hold of the relationships that I have now, and I don't want to move much. Unfortunately, not all of these are complementary motives. I may, in fact, just have to get off my arse.
In other news: a man sould his soul on trade-me for $3001. Much of my brain power at the moment is going towards get rich quick schemes that can be propogated via the infinate potential of the internet, which, when you think about it, sells tons and tons of nothing much to tons and tons of people everyday. Some of my ideas are good. Many are bad.
FEAR! FEAR A FLAN WITH TIME UPON HIS HANDS! The Flan disaster meter has just been upgraded to mauve! Stay tuned to find out how high it climbs!
Anyway, I guess everyone has been wondering what I have been doing reciently, yes? Well, the list of acheivements is not a short one, but here is a quick overview of my activities:
- finished my last TE
- finished all the assignments that I needed to do to complete my teaching diploma. SHould be getting the certificate of well done ness in the mail sometime soonish
- began a relationship.
- was dumped
- began the relationship again
- have been dumped again.
- drank
- had a few parties
The above list is not in any particular order, but you get the picture. Or a picture. Of the kind that your 3yr old spawn comes home from kindergaten waving proudly and you put it on your fridge even though the colours were horribly chosen and the people have no knecks. Or head. In fact, it is a picture of three blobs with four sticks attached standing beside a square.
Well, what is past is past- won't do us any good to dwell on such matters will it?
Perhaps a more pertinent question: What will I do now?
Well, although it may seem that the world is now the mollosc of my choice and I have obtained many of the knives in which I need to prise open the shell and eat the reciently living contents, I want to sit for a while. I will find myself some releif work at various schools so I do not starve but I don't want to move into full time work yet. I have been, now, in the education system of this country for a full 17 years- I need a break. I am tired. Sleep in until 1pm tired. Tired, in fact, to my bones.
And as they teach you in school, bones are importaint. It is time to drink my metaphorical milk, bandage and sling the fractures that I haven't had time to give due care to reciently. Let the bones rest in me closet.
Hmmm.
Well, anyway, I now have a bit of time upon my hands. I want to go out and see some of those people I havent had much to do with reciently. I want to keep hold of the relationships that I have now, and I don't want to move much. Unfortunately, not all of these are complementary motives. I may, in fact, just have to get off my arse.
In other news: a man sould his soul on trade-me for $3001. Much of my brain power at the moment is going towards get rich quick schemes that can be propogated via the infinate potential of the internet, which, when you think about it, sells tons and tons of nothing much to tons and tons of people everyday. Some of my ideas are good. Many are bad.
FEAR! FEAR A FLAN WITH TIME UPON HIS HANDS! The Flan disaster meter has just been upgraded to mauve! Stay tuned to find out how high it climbs!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Thar be a cold wind blowin' off the sheep, cap'nnnnn....
Dot, dot dot.
Woooo, would you look at all those days! Why does it take me so long for me to get around to doing another one of these things when I really quite enjoy them? I really do need someone standing around me with a whip, dressed up like a demon, whose sole responsibility is to whip me every day until I post a blog.
Any volenteers? Oh, come on, I bet it would be really... neat.
Dot dot dot.
But then can you imagine how many whipping demons I would need to get all the tings I need done around the place? We would have the laundry whipping demon, the dishes whipping demon, the whipping demon of eating, the whipping demon of eating right, the twin whipping demons of waking up and of going to sleep, whipping demons dedicated to me walking places, getting to places on time, advioding certain places, remembering about certain places and remembering to forget about other places. And of course, the Meta-whipping-demon dedicated to whipping all the other demons.
Honestly, I just cannot afford all that demon food. I have trouble enough feeding the two or three demons I actually do have... and have you seen the price of whips lately? Lets just say we can be glad cheese is edible and whips are not.
I think whips would taste good.
You know what else tastes good? The idiots on the internet. Now, as we all know, I don't beleive in the internet which makes the fact that I am posting here until you recall the fact that I am a quantum blogger. Anyway, I was not on the internet at this parcticular time, which was just after a rather interesting discussion about the universal nature of music at the school I am currently practicing my craft at (yes, I am doing the teaching experiance thing at the moment, which is why, to all of you who were wondering, why I haven't been out and about lately, and nor have I been too pleased when people have rung or texted with demands of my company in the next ten minutes. more on this rant later in the program) and one of my students got on the internet and looked at a forum which had threads with names like "Creationallism vs. Evolution".
Now, I am sorry Bruce of the Endless Talking Tounge, but no matter how "powerful" a "tool" "ICT" has become, a debate that has been raging for many many many many years is not about to be decided by people of questionable intellegence and arguments like "I prayed and it came tru so the GOD IS RIGHT I"S RIGHT YOU WRONG" or "Science knows all and found none of your god in our genetic code". Also, as has also been noted and should be the topic of someones thesis in the near future, is that distressing phenomenon usually known as: even normally intelegent people become personally insulted by all mindless drivel and sink to the lowest common, maggotesque, denominator.
I propose a new meaning for the acronym "ICT": "I've contracted tourettes"
In other news, today I took the night off work because these 18 hour days are killing me. God on high I hate doing school all day (which on it's own is great, by the way) and then having to sit around and listen to the droning tedium of the washing machines for 4 hours. And its not perfect tedium either, not purgatory or limbo tedium, more an outer circle of hell tedium, where absolutely nothing happens until the moment just after you have stopped waitng and resigned yourself to the fact that nothing will happen. And there's no use telling yourself not to be tricked becasue they know that trick and as soon as you are used to the tedium BAMN! Something happens! But it is a tedious kind of happening, something that isn't all that exciting, something that later on during a lull in the conversation you will suddenly remember and declaim hopefully as a topic of conversation amongst you peers (who you hold in high esteem) but as soon as the words are out of your mouth you realise that you have already talked about this event and that it wasn't a very interesting topic even then. Your words fall into the pit that the conversation has become and make it, somehow, deeper.
Dot, Dot Dot.
And that will do for now, I think. I have decided I am going to build up a varied collection of cheap wine. I have six bottles so far.
Catch you on the side that flips.
Woooo, would you look at all those days! Why does it take me so long for me to get around to doing another one of these things when I really quite enjoy them? I really do need someone standing around me with a whip, dressed up like a demon, whose sole responsibility is to whip me every day until I post a blog.
Any volenteers? Oh, come on, I bet it would be really... neat.
Dot dot dot.
But then can you imagine how many whipping demons I would need to get all the tings I need done around the place? We would have the laundry whipping demon, the dishes whipping demon, the whipping demon of eating, the whipping demon of eating right, the twin whipping demons of waking up and of going to sleep, whipping demons dedicated to me walking places, getting to places on time, advioding certain places, remembering about certain places and remembering to forget about other places. And of course, the Meta-whipping-demon dedicated to whipping all the other demons.
Honestly, I just cannot afford all that demon food. I have trouble enough feeding the two or three demons I actually do have... and have you seen the price of whips lately? Lets just say we can be glad cheese is edible and whips are not.
I think whips would taste good.
You know what else tastes good? The idiots on the internet. Now, as we all know, I don't beleive in the internet which makes the fact that I am posting here until you recall the fact that I am a quantum blogger. Anyway, I was not on the internet at this parcticular time, which was just after a rather interesting discussion about the universal nature of music at the school I am currently practicing my craft at (yes, I am doing the teaching experiance thing at the moment, which is why, to all of you who were wondering, why I haven't been out and about lately, and nor have I been too pleased when people have rung or texted with demands of my company in the next ten minutes. more on this rant later in the program) and one of my students got on the internet and looked at a forum which had threads with names like "Creationallism vs. Evolution".
Now, I am sorry Bruce of the Endless Talking Tounge, but no matter how "powerful" a "tool" "ICT" has become, a debate that has been raging for many many many many years is not about to be decided by people of questionable intellegence and arguments like "I prayed and it came tru so the GOD IS RIGHT I"S RIGHT YOU WRONG" or "Science knows all and found none of your god in our genetic code". Also, as has also been noted and should be the topic of someones thesis in the near future, is that distressing phenomenon usually known as: even normally intelegent people become personally insulted by all mindless drivel and sink to the lowest common, maggotesque, denominator.
I propose a new meaning for the acronym "ICT": "I've contracted tourettes"
In other news, today I took the night off work because these 18 hour days are killing me. God on high I hate doing school all day (which on it's own is great, by the way) and then having to sit around and listen to the droning tedium of the washing machines for 4 hours. And its not perfect tedium either, not purgatory or limbo tedium, more an outer circle of hell tedium, where absolutely nothing happens until the moment just after you have stopped waitng and resigned yourself to the fact that nothing will happen. And there's no use telling yourself not to be tricked becasue they know that trick and as soon as you are used to the tedium BAMN! Something happens! But it is a tedious kind of happening, something that isn't all that exciting, something that later on during a lull in the conversation you will suddenly remember and declaim hopefully as a topic of conversation amongst you peers (who you hold in high esteem) but as soon as the words are out of your mouth you realise that you have already talked about this event and that it wasn't a very interesting topic even then. Your words fall into the pit that the conversation has become and make it, somehow, deeper.
Dot, Dot Dot.
And that will do for now, I think. I have decided I am going to build up a varied collection of cheap wine. I have six bottles so far.
Catch you on the side that flips.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Piction, Parties, and the mother of all desicions + a hangover (special report!)
Oh dear god are you up there why do you do this to us it's like you've put a giant orange in my head and filled it with bees. I drank three bottles of wine last night and then some vodka. Needless to say I feel like arse. But I will say it anyway:
ARSE.
Things. This post wont be majorly coherant.
Went to picton. It was good. Told some Germans they drank vodka. Took a spa bath at 3am naked. Quit smoking because 5 years earlier I had told myself that if I went back to piction I would have met my goals including no smoking and pick up the badge that I left at anikiwa. Long story. Short story: five years after outward bound I hadn't yet met the goals I set for myself and not smoking again seemed like the easiest option at that time. It has been easy. Don't buy cigs= Can't smoke cigs. It's not calculus.
Last night had a flat warming. Very few people showed up. Spasm von Terros and his squeeze who I don't think I have a psudenom for and Uma Icnoyotl showed up for a time. I spent most of the night slurring drunkenly at Uma, who goes to t.col with me, about books which was nice. I do enjoy talking to fellow bibliophiles. When she left I get a little hazy, but apparently I took of my pants, drank some vodka, ate my flatmates beans. Hurrah.
Obviously there will be a more interesting and comical version of events later on, but right now I just feel like poop.
In other news.
ARSE.
Things. This post wont be majorly coherant.
Went to picton. It was good. Told some Germans they drank vodka. Took a spa bath at 3am naked. Quit smoking because 5 years earlier I had told myself that if I went back to piction I would have met my goals including no smoking and pick up the badge that I left at anikiwa. Long story. Short story: five years after outward bound I hadn't yet met the goals I set for myself and not smoking again seemed like the easiest option at that time. It has been easy. Don't buy cigs= Can't smoke cigs. It's not calculus.
Last night had a flat warming. Very few people showed up. Spasm von Terros and his squeeze who I don't think I have a psudenom for and Uma Icnoyotl showed up for a time. I spent most of the night slurring drunkenly at Uma, who goes to t.col with me, about books which was nice. I do enjoy talking to fellow bibliophiles. When she left I get a little hazy, but apparently I took of my pants, drank some vodka, ate my flatmates beans. Hurrah.
Obviously there will be a more interesting and comical version of events later on, but right now I just feel like poop.
In other news.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Poo on everything
So much to do so much to see so whats wrong with taking the back streets? Well, Smashmouth, it has something to do with the insane drunken people who have only just managed to cohabitate in said back streets, alleys and byways and get rather testy about you just barging into their living room.
I am depressed. Why? Oh, because I woke up and it was a fantastic day and I don't have anything much to do today, a bit of writing, some washing perhaps, I could just sit and do my card system for my books or read a book (wouldn't that be a novelty?) cook, play guitar, go for a walk, find a sharp knife and a rocking chair and spend the day whittling away the hours in the sun. But I have awoken to find that I have about as much motivation to do anything as a turnip. A turnip which has been modified with sloth genes to make sure it doesn't try to run away from the cooks knife.
I call these kind of days "dead days" - they are days in which nothing seems worthwhile, it can take literally hours to perform the most menial and basic of tasks and my emotional capabilities are severely compromised. You know how I can barely care about things much anyway? Well, today, talking to me will be like talking to the wall of an upper-middle class garden shed.
It's a day in which I fail courses or take to the bottle at 10am.
5 years! After 5 years you would think I'd have been able to drive this demon out, don't you? But no. Still hanging around my shoulder blades, gnawing on my spine. Sometimes I feel like the demon is now a part of me, and that desicion I made years ago to get off the fluox and let my mind be my mind whatever that whould turn out to be just left a little hole for which he could burrow into, put down roots, jack in, ect. He's kind of a part of me. Life would certainly be different if... and thats where we stop. Don't second guess it. Don't rewind the spring and hear the same old jerky melody of unknowable futures.
In other news that doesn't concern my mental state: Tommorow I am going to Picton. On sunday I come back from Picton. I do like the ferry and am happy to have a weekend where I won't be working. Isn't it sad that my enjoyment of such an event will be hampered by the fact that at the back of my mind I will be thinking of the small menial tasks I could be doing at home or the fact that I could simply be hanging out with my flatmate who I managed to see today only because I decided to sleep on the couch so's I could see him. We had a brief discussion before he went to work. Doing some calculations, I can tell you that a good nights rest for both of us will be 8 hours total.
I have to write two assignmants today. God I cannot be arsed. Everything should go take care of itse;f, just for an hour.
I am depressed. Why? Oh, because I woke up and it was a fantastic day and I don't have anything much to do today, a bit of writing, some washing perhaps, I could just sit and do my card system for my books or read a book (wouldn't that be a novelty?) cook, play guitar, go for a walk, find a sharp knife and a rocking chair and spend the day whittling away the hours in the sun. But I have awoken to find that I have about as much motivation to do anything as a turnip. A turnip which has been modified with sloth genes to make sure it doesn't try to run away from the cooks knife.
I call these kind of days "dead days" - they are days in which nothing seems worthwhile, it can take literally hours to perform the most menial and basic of tasks and my emotional capabilities are severely compromised. You know how I can barely care about things much anyway? Well, today, talking to me will be like talking to the wall of an upper-middle class garden shed.
It's a day in which I fail courses or take to the bottle at 10am.
5 years! After 5 years you would think I'd have been able to drive this demon out, don't you? But no. Still hanging around my shoulder blades, gnawing on my spine. Sometimes I feel like the demon is now a part of me, and that desicion I made years ago to get off the fluox and let my mind be my mind whatever that whould turn out to be just left a little hole for which he could burrow into, put down roots, jack in, ect. He's kind of a part of me. Life would certainly be different if... and thats where we stop. Don't second guess it. Don't rewind the spring and hear the same old jerky melody of unknowable futures.
In other news that doesn't concern my mental state: Tommorow I am going to Picton. On sunday I come back from Picton. I do like the ferry and am happy to have a weekend where I won't be working. Isn't it sad that my enjoyment of such an event will be hampered by the fact that at the back of my mind I will be thinking of the small menial tasks I could be doing at home or the fact that I could simply be hanging out with my flatmate who I managed to see today only because I decided to sleep on the couch so's I could see him. We had a brief discussion before he went to work. Doing some calculations, I can tell you that a good nights rest for both of us will be 8 hours total.
I have to write two assignmants today. God I cannot be arsed. Everything should go take care of itse;f, just for an hour.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Do you ever have the dream when...
...you are standing over yourself when you sleep? And when you are watching yourself stand over yourself your eyelids have become translucent so you can see yourself watching yourself and you toss and turn a bit and you get one of those images not unlike standing between two mirrors?
I think it is slightly scarier imagining yourself watching you while yourself when you sleep than imagining someone else watch you while you sleep, because although some complete stranger may be wathing you for strange perverted reasons or waiting for you to roll over so as to apply the poison via the ear in the traditional manner, just think about what what would happen if you woke up and found yourself? Universe implosion is a definate possibility, but having a conversation might be scarier:
"Yawn... oh, I had a dream about this, I though it might happen."
"Why did I make me so crazy?"
At this point I might start choking myself or something
"WHY AM I SO CRAZY! WHY DOES THIS GO ON INSIDE MY HEAD!"
Insert noises of me trying to answer while being unable to breathe. I, meanwhile, start hitting myself in the head.
"Stop hitting myself! ARGRAH"
I will then crawl into the fetal position while simutaneiously making myself a coffee and reading the buisness section of the dom post (its like its written in another language!). I have to go to school, but I hope that I will find time from my heavy schedule of bannging my head softly against a wall and mumbling to myself to do some laundry. It's going to be a nice day.
So, although the world would be a better place if it were populated by me, without the wars and stuff, there is still no gaurantee that the washing will ever get done. I did a load on sunday, but I haven't had the time to put it on the drying rack yet.
And so ends a long, rambly way to tell you about the status of my washing.
Anyway hoo:
People have been asking about my new flat. Yes, I have found one, and, with the approval of my shiny new credit card, the only person I shall soon owe money to will be the bank. But the whole stress of the situation has been gigantic. Teaching? Not as stressful as finding a flat. Peeling a particularly stubborn orange? Not as bad as waking up in the moning and having to contemplate the very real possibility that you may soon have to live out of a storage shed. Waking up in a newtown gutter without your pants? Not as bad as walking up the hill that is wellington and be charged $150 (+gst) for the pleasure. Letting fees. No, you didn't find me this flat. I found it. I found it by getting up at the crack of dawn for the last four weeks a trailing the streets, newspaper and trademe for a democile that didn't require me to sell my soul to satan to be able to afford.
Quirky Fact of the Day: Satan uses the souls sold to him as bath towels, or, on occasion, to wipe the mould from his skirting boards. Lord of Evil and constant Nemisis of Mankind he may be, but he just cannot stand the fact that he may not one day possess the full set of Soul Coloured Bathroom Accesories.
But the flat is nice. my room is of course the smallest one in the flat, but it at least gets some sun. And we have a LARGE living room. I don't need a large room when my work and play space is occupiing a quarter of our lounge where two of my friends who I have known for 8yrs also work and play. Hard. Many an evening has been spent blissfully, drink easy in hand, playing crib and 500, looking over the pretty substancial view of wellington, listening to music. Good time have been had and good times will be had in such a flat me thinks. Oh, and part of our kitchen bench can be moved around. We moved it into the middle as an island slash bar after we got D to move his damn matress out of it.
Oh yes, if you can remember that post of all the psudenoms of my friends, I am living with Calvin Shine and D. Or is his name Prometheis? I'm going to have to look that one up.
In other news: Not lots. Monday and tuesday are 18hr days for me, quite full on and not leaving much room for the simple pleasures. On wednesday the crazy ride again at the valve, and thursday is pretty much a solid block of classes from 8:30 to 5:30. but friday-sunday I only have work, and is as close to a weekend as I get. I plan to cook food and to wash my souls... I mean towels.
Hooray, its another day.
I think it is slightly scarier imagining yourself watching you while yourself when you sleep than imagining someone else watch you while you sleep, because although some complete stranger may be wathing you for strange perverted reasons or waiting for you to roll over so as to apply the poison via the ear in the traditional manner, just think about what what would happen if you woke up and found yourself? Universe implosion is a definate possibility, but having a conversation might be scarier:
"Yawn... oh, I had a dream about this, I though it might happen."
"Why did I make me so crazy?"
At this point I might start choking myself or something
"WHY AM I SO CRAZY! WHY DOES THIS GO ON INSIDE MY HEAD!"
Insert noises of me trying to answer while being unable to breathe. I, meanwhile, start hitting myself in the head.
"Stop hitting myself! ARGRAH"
I will then crawl into the fetal position while simutaneiously making myself a coffee and reading the buisness section of the dom post (its like its written in another language!). I have to go to school, but I hope that I will find time from my heavy schedule of bannging my head softly against a wall and mumbling to myself to do some laundry. It's going to be a nice day.
So, although the world would be a better place if it were populated by me, without the wars and stuff, there is still no gaurantee that the washing will ever get done. I did a load on sunday, but I haven't had the time to put it on the drying rack yet.
And so ends a long, rambly way to tell you about the status of my washing.
Anyway hoo:
People have been asking about my new flat. Yes, I have found one, and, with the approval of my shiny new credit card, the only person I shall soon owe money to will be the bank. But the whole stress of the situation has been gigantic. Teaching? Not as stressful as finding a flat. Peeling a particularly stubborn orange? Not as bad as waking up in the moning and having to contemplate the very real possibility that you may soon have to live out of a storage shed. Waking up in a newtown gutter without your pants? Not as bad as walking up the hill that is wellington and be charged $150 (+gst) for the pleasure. Letting fees. No, you didn't find me this flat. I found it. I found it by getting up at the crack of dawn for the last four weeks a trailing the streets, newspaper and trademe for a democile that didn't require me to sell my soul to satan to be able to afford.
Quirky Fact of the Day: Satan uses the souls sold to him as bath towels, or, on occasion, to wipe the mould from his skirting boards. Lord of Evil and constant Nemisis of Mankind he may be, but he just cannot stand the fact that he may not one day possess the full set of Soul Coloured Bathroom Accesories.
But the flat is nice. my room is of course the smallest one in the flat, but it at least gets some sun. And we have a LARGE living room. I don't need a large room when my work and play space is occupiing a quarter of our lounge where two of my friends who I have known for 8yrs also work and play. Hard. Many an evening has been spent blissfully, drink easy in hand, playing crib and 500, looking over the pretty substancial view of wellington, listening to music. Good time have been had and good times will be had in such a flat me thinks. Oh, and part of our kitchen bench can be moved around. We moved it into the middle as an island slash bar after we got D to move his damn matress out of it.
Oh yes, if you can remember that post of all the psudenoms of my friends, I am living with Calvin Shine and D. Or is his name Prometheis? I'm going to have to look that one up.
In other news: Not lots. Monday and tuesday are 18hr days for me, quite full on and not leaving much room for the simple pleasures. On wednesday the crazy ride again at the valve, and thursday is pretty much a solid block of classes from 8:30 to 5:30. but friday-sunday I only have work, and is as close to a weekend as I get. I plan to cook food and to wash my souls... I mean towels.
Hooray, its another day.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Her heart was as cool as a box of beers
"So you don't think your brain needs cleaning?
Looked behind your stove lately?
See all that food trapped behind it?
ITS LIKE THAT WITH YOUR BRAIN!
EWW!
Hi, I'm Flan, I'm here to tell you about our new special on brain cleaning!
20% OFF IF YOU DRILL YOUR OWN SKULL HOLE!"
Etc.
Yes, the above is not only a nonsensical rant but also a deep and meaningful illustration of how much I hate certain radio adverts. I have been listening to alot of radio at the moment, for 8 hours a day in fact, and the above is the transcription of a radio ad enticing you to get your teeth done (to read the orignial ad, just replace the word "brain" with "teeth"). It is voiced by a woman who sounds like she is just about to fall victim to an anxiety attack. Now I realise Radio is a very different creature to televison, which has it's own stupid advertisments, and radio ads must act in a different way to compensate for the lack of visuals, but this doesn't mean I cannot hate it when it is poured into my ear twelve times a day and then pervert it for my own amusement.
Like the ad which starts off "Wow, thats a flash looking eftpos terminal! Where did you get it?" and then proceeds to list the things that you need to find it. People just don't talk like this.
But I think they should.
INTRODUCING: TALK LIKE A RADIO ADVERT DAY!
The fun and easy way to scary the strangers you meet, today!
Senario: you are at a busstop. Start talking like a radio advert!
You: "Man, I really wish I had a flash industrial sized ice maker"
Stranger: "Who are you and why are you talking to me?"
You: "Really? You got an ice maker supreme for only $89.99 including GST?"
Stranger: "No, what the fuck? I didn't say..."
Y: "A special slushie attachment as well? I must get one! Can you give me a lift?"
S: "We're standing at a bus stop!"
Y: "Of course I want you to take me to Ice Shop Bussiness Suplier 199 Tinakori Road! Or you could take me to my house where we could shop online at dubdubdubdotICESUPREMEdotcom... together..."
At this point, I suspect that the stranger will either run away or tazer you. I take no responsibility for either or any other occurance which results in hilarious pain, but I would like you to email me with the results. If you are still able.
Anyway...
After you get used to the tedium of washing clothes for 8 hours a day at $12 an hour your mind starts doing some very strange things. One of those strange things are the figures of rapidly moving bodies I see out of the corner of my eyes. The other is a tendancy to talk, whisle and sing to myself. I walk through the store when I am bored either whisling "Time is on my side" to see who has seen the movie "Fallen" lately, or muttering under my breath about how I am a chicken. Sometimes I dance. But on the plus side, I have come up with a new idea for a song and for a short story! Huzzah! The creative channels are be comming unglued along with the rest of my sanity!
Me having to pack up my room and clean it ready to move without actually have a place to move to yet doesn't help matters. My last week in this flat is next week.
In other News: I have joined a dating website, cause nothing else is working. The coworker I like still makes the end of the day worth it, though. Lingering eye contact, a swift look over her shoulder... ahh, unrequieted love! Killer of many many theatrical figures.
"You will most probably die
at the hands of my arms
When I go and fly and take over your face
with the blades of my hatredcopter."
Looked behind your stove lately?
See all that food trapped behind it?
ITS LIKE THAT WITH YOUR BRAIN!
EWW!
Hi, I'm Flan, I'm here to tell you about our new special on brain cleaning!
20% OFF IF YOU DRILL YOUR OWN SKULL HOLE!"
Etc.
Yes, the above is not only a nonsensical rant but also a deep and meaningful illustration of how much I hate certain radio adverts. I have been listening to alot of radio at the moment, for 8 hours a day in fact, and the above is the transcription of a radio ad enticing you to get your teeth done (to read the orignial ad, just replace the word "brain" with "teeth"). It is voiced by a woman who sounds like she is just about to fall victim to an anxiety attack. Now I realise Radio is a very different creature to televison, which has it's own stupid advertisments, and radio ads must act in a different way to compensate for the lack of visuals, but this doesn't mean I cannot hate it when it is poured into my ear twelve times a day and then pervert it for my own amusement.
Like the ad which starts off "Wow, thats a flash looking eftpos terminal! Where did you get it?" and then proceeds to list the things that you need to find it. People just don't talk like this.
But I think they should.
INTRODUCING: TALK LIKE A RADIO ADVERT DAY!
The fun and easy way to scary the strangers you meet, today!
Senario: you are at a busstop. Start talking like a radio advert!
You: "Man, I really wish I had a flash industrial sized ice maker"
Stranger: "Who are you and why are you talking to me?"
You: "Really? You got an ice maker supreme for only $89.99 including GST?"
Stranger: "No, what the fuck? I didn't say..."
Y: "A special slushie attachment as well? I must get one! Can you give me a lift?"
S: "We're standing at a bus stop!"
Y: "Of course I want you to take me to Ice Shop Bussiness Suplier 199 Tinakori Road! Or you could take me to my house where we could shop online at dubdubdubdotICESUPREMEdotcom... together..."
At this point, I suspect that the stranger will either run away or tazer you. I take no responsibility for either or any other occurance which results in hilarious pain, but I would like you to email me with the results. If you are still able.
Anyway...
After you get used to the tedium of washing clothes for 8 hours a day at $12 an hour your mind starts doing some very strange things. One of those strange things are the figures of rapidly moving bodies I see out of the corner of my eyes. The other is a tendancy to talk, whisle and sing to myself. I walk through the store when I am bored either whisling "Time is on my side" to see who has seen the movie "Fallen" lately, or muttering under my breath about how I am a chicken. Sometimes I dance. But on the plus side, I have come up with a new idea for a song and for a short story! Huzzah! The creative channels are be comming unglued along with the rest of my sanity!
Me having to pack up my room and clean it ready to move without actually have a place to move to yet doesn't help matters. My last week in this flat is next week.
In other News: I have joined a dating website, cause nothing else is working. The coworker I like still makes the end of the day worth it, though. Lingering eye contact, a swift look over her shoulder... ahh, unrequieted love! Killer of many many theatrical figures.
"You will most probably die
at the hands of my arms
When I go and fly and take over your face
with the blades of my hatredcopter."
Monday, January 21, 2008
The birds and the Bees
At this time of year, with all the flowers growing and the sun shining and the lambs skipping and the skin burning and the release of Motheiths summer ale, people start getting together. I firmly beleiv that relationships move in seasons just like, well, the real seasons. The about four months ago, and for the duration of about two months, peoples blood starts fizzing around, and then they get their mack on. And about two weeks away from the end of winter, the dumpening happens. The true test of a relationship, I think, is getting through these seasons without being affected too much. For a single person like me, the test is observing these seasonal happenings and not getting depressed about those happenings not happening to you, unless you decide to be happening all by yourself, of course. HAPPENINGS.
Anyway, speaking of happenings, what with many of my friends being in relationships and terms like "marrage" being thrown around (admitedly, the only time such word was thrown around was just then, when I typed it, but still, if any of you guys do decide to tie the knot I am best man. If not, I get to be godfather for your helpless sprog. Cause if you don't do these things for me I will get drunk at your wedding, make an arse of myself and invite myself along to your honeymoon with a camcorder and a high speed wireless internet connection) yes, with the thoughts of marriage looming, I decided I had better give my readers "The Talk" before you get all suspisious about where all those little pink clones came from. You know the talk. The one your dad or mother gave you all those years ago.
In my case, my mother got a book out from the libary with diagrams and numbered parts.
In my dads case, he waited until I woke up one afternoon, made me a cup of coffee, and gave me a box of condoms. Both approches were valuable in their own way.
Some people call this talk "The Birds And The Bees".
I have often wondered about that. What do the birds have to do with putting the wee-wee in the hoo-hoo? And bees? What crackhead came up with this shit?
As it turns out, however, the birds and the bees are what we call a METAPHOR, which means to lie creatively so your eight year old son doesn't try it. But how is it a metaphor? Well, I have the truth from a very reliable source (I made it up with MY BRAINS) and shall now impart the truth to you with:
FLAN HYPERBOLE'S TRUTH EXTRAVAGANZA BEHIND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES: EXTRA SPECIAL TRUTHFUL ADDITION OF GREATNESS INSPIRED BY BOREDOM!
For a start, what are the birds, and what are the bees? Well, pretty obviously, birds are females, as this story was made in that time where women didn't have the rights they did today and slapping a man for calling you a bird would have gotten you thrown in the mental house or just a damn good rogering from your man, your master and social better. Also, birds have pretty feathers, which, just like womens clothing, they use to attract a mate. Their sounds have often been called attractive, but also damn annoying when they go on and on and on for no apparent reason in the early hours, the late hours and every damn middle hour. Birds also make eggs, just as human females do. Next time you eat a chicken egg, remember, your aren't eating a small chicken, you are eating chicken menstruation. For these reasons, Birds are Wommen in this story.
Bees, are therefore of course, men. They hang around in packs, have a pack mentality, make lound noises, dress the same (black and yellow for bees, jeans and t-shirts for human males), talk about the same things over and over again, are stupid and have a "stinger". The stinger is very importaint, for it is much of what the bees "buzz" about. So much so that many bees buzz that they wouldn't be bees at all without their stinger. Infact, that they would die without it. This too is very importaint in the story.
In the story, there are also flowers. Flowers are the child support services bacase they do nothing.
The story begings. It is of course a spring day, where, as we have noted previously, the warm air makes the birds sleek down their plumge and the bees stingers tingle. The bees have been with their bee friends all day, drinking necter.
A bee spies a bird across a crowded medow. Their gazes lock. It is love at first sight. They begin a complicated flight where both the bird and the bee try to get nearer each other while at the same time make no move to go closer to each other at all. To the bee and the bird this flight dance is incredibly confusing as neither knows if the other is actually dancing at all or meerly just flying around. To everyone else, however, it is blatantly obvious and they wish the bird and the bee would hurry up and bang so they don't have to hear about it.
Suddenly, either the bee or the bird makes a move. Either the other dancer flys away hurredly, or the two participants of this ritual meet in the middle of this medow which is hopefully a metaphor for a room and not an actual medow where anyone could see.
From now on it gets a bit mechanical. Coitus is on.
The Bees job is to inject his insides into the bird so that sometime later the bird will put forth new life. He does this by way of his stinger, which, after the bird and the bee have made themselves comfortable on a hopefully soundproofed branch somewhere, he pushes into the birds skin. However, because he is a bee as well as a man, his stinger is coated with poison and the resulting orgasmic "pleasure" at completing his act causes a full body spasm in which the bee shits out his internal organs and succumbs to the final sleep. The Bird, who I have often suspected gets the worse end of the deal in this encounter, at least when I am involved, is upset at the indignanty of having an organ pushed inside her, which, by the way, has been severed from the bee. The stinger is now the property of the bird, and by extension, the bird now owns the bee. A pity the bee is now dead. The chance to lament this situation does not last long, however, as the poison left by the bee from his stinger courses through the birds blood stream. The bird too succumbs to death and falls from the branch to rot on the ground.
Nine months later, the miricale of life is witnessed by the flowers who do nothing as about seventy maggots, the deformed ofspring of the unnatural union between bird and bee, explode from the corpse of their parent and begin, slowly, to devour it down to its bones. Soon, the maggots shall turn into flies, the pre-pubescant stage of the bee, and until they develop their stingers most of their time shall be spent eating, pooping and hanging upside down from things.
And the great cycle of life continues.
Wasn't that wonderful? Just think, when your parents told you this story, what they were really telling you was if you stick it in her, or let him stick it in you, you gonna die. As far as metaphors go, I think it is a pretty good one, and has the added bonus of being sickly.
But isn't that what sex is, anyway? I was thinking about it, as I do, and even though I bemoan the fact of its lack in my life, isn't sex gross? Your parents doing it. Eww. Your grand parents doing it. Ewwwww. Even that fat guy from school who used to breath with his mouth open and had bad hygine has probably paid for it by now. Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to stick my junk, or anyone elses junk, in my mouth, and although it isn't essential to the maggot making process but many people do it. In fact, many things in the lead up to and during the creating life process are pretty gross, but as soon as someone else is doing them to you it all works differently.
But then again, like I say, it's been a while for me. I forget things. But I don't forget when you put something inside someone THEY OWN IT. Have fun fucking, fuckers.
In other news: I have been seeing a lot more people who aren't there. It be strange. Oh yes.
Anyway, speaking of happenings, what with many of my friends being in relationships and terms like "marrage" being thrown around (admitedly, the only time such word was thrown around was just then, when I typed it, but still, if any of you guys do decide to tie the knot I am best man. If not, I get to be godfather for your helpless sprog. Cause if you don't do these things for me I will get drunk at your wedding, make an arse of myself and invite myself along to your honeymoon with a camcorder and a high speed wireless internet connection) yes, with the thoughts of marriage looming, I decided I had better give my readers "The Talk" before you get all suspisious about where all those little pink clones came from. You know the talk. The one your dad or mother gave you all those years ago.
In my case, my mother got a book out from the libary with diagrams and numbered parts.
In my dads case, he waited until I woke up one afternoon, made me a cup of coffee, and gave me a box of condoms. Both approches were valuable in their own way.
Some people call this talk "The Birds And The Bees".
I have often wondered about that. What do the birds have to do with putting the wee-wee in the hoo-hoo? And bees? What crackhead came up with this shit?
As it turns out, however, the birds and the bees are what we call a METAPHOR, which means to lie creatively so your eight year old son doesn't try it. But how is it a metaphor? Well, I have the truth from a very reliable source (I made it up with MY BRAINS) and shall now impart the truth to you with:
FLAN HYPERBOLE'S TRUTH EXTRAVAGANZA BEHIND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES: EXTRA SPECIAL TRUTHFUL ADDITION OF GREATNESS INSPIRED BY BOREDOM!
For a start, what are the birds, and what are the bees? Well, pretty obviously, birds are females, as this story was made in that time where women didn't have the rights they did today and slapping a man for calling you a bird would have gotten you thrown in the mental house or just a damn good rogering from your man, your master and social better. Also, birds have pretty feathers, which, just like womens clothing, they use to attract a mate. Their sounds have often been called attractive, but also damn annoying when they go on and on and on for no apparent reason in the early hours, the late hours and every damn middle hour. Birds also make eggs, just as human females do. Next time you eat a chicken egg, remember, your aren't eating a small chicken, you are eating chicken menstruation. For these reasons, Birds are Wommen in this story.
Bees, are therefore of course, men. They hang around in packs, have a pack mentality, make lound noises, dress the same (black and yellow for bees, jeans and t-shirts for human males), talk about the same things over and over again, are stupid and have a "stinger". The stinger is very importaint, for it is much of what the bees "buzz" about. So much so that many bees buzz that they wouldn't be bees at all without their stinger. Infact, that they would die without it. This too is very importaint in the story.
In the story, there are also flowers. Flowers are the child support services bacase they do nothing.
The story begings. It is of course a spring day, where, as we have noted previously, the warm air makes the birds sleek down their plumge and the bees stingers tingle. The bees have been with their bee friends all day, drinking necter.
A bee spies a bird across a crowded medow. Their gazes lock. It is love at first sight. They begin a complicated flight where both the bird and the bee try to get nearer each other while at the same time make no move to go closer to each other at all. To the bee and the bird this flight dance is incredibly confusing as neither knows if the other is actually dancing at all or meerly just flying around. To everyone else, however, it is blatantly obvious and they wish the bird and the bee would hurry up and bang so they don't have to hear about it.
Suddenly, either the bee or the bird makes a move. Either the other dancer flys away hurredly, or the two participants of this ritual meet in the middle of this medow which is hopefully a metaphor for a room and not an actual medow where anyone could see.
From now on it gets a bit mechanical. Coitus is on.
The Bees job is to inject his insides into the bird so that sometime later the bird will put forth new life. He does this by way of his stinger, which, after the bird and the bee have made themselves comfortable on a hopefully soundproofed branch somewhere, he pushes into the birds skin. However, because he is a bee as well as a man, his stinger is coated with poison and the resulting orgasmic "pleasure" at completing his act causes a full body spasm in which the bee shits out his internal organs and succumbs to the final sleep. The Bird, who I have often suspected gets the worse end of the deal in this encounter, at least when I am involved, is upset at the indignanty of having an organ pushed inside her, which, by the way, has been severed from the bee. The stinger is now the property of the bird, and by extension, the bird now owns the bee. A pity the bee is now dead. The chance to lament this situation does not last long, however, as the poison left by the bee from his stinger courses through the birds blood stream. The bird too succumbs to death and falls from the branch to rot on the ground.
Nine months later, the miricale of life is witnessed by the flowers who do nothing as about seventy maggots, the deformed ofspring of the unnatural union between bird and bee, explode from the corpse of their parent and begin, slowly, to devour it down to its bones. Soon, the maggots shall turn into flies, the pre-pubescant stage of the bee, and until they develop their stingers most of their time shall be spent eating, pooping and hanging upside down from things.
And the great cycle of life continues.
Wasn't that wonderful? Just think, when your parents told you this story, what they were really telling you was if you stick it in her, or let him stick it in you, you gonna die. As far as metaphors go, I think it is a pretty good one, and has the added bonus of being sickly.
But isn't that what sex is, anyway? I was thinking about it, as I do, and even though I bemoan the fact of its lack in my life, isn't sex gross? Your parents doing it. Eww. Your grand parents doing it. Ewwwww. Even that fat guy from school who used to breath with his mouth open and had bad hygine has probably paid for it by now. Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to stick my junk, or anyone elses junk, in my mouth, and although it isn't essential to the maggot making process but many people do it. In fact, many things in the lead up to and during the creating life process are pretty gross, but as soon as someone else is doing them to you it all works differently.
But then again, like I say, it's been a while for me. I forget things. But I don't forget when you put something inside someone THEY OWN IT. Have fun fucking, fuckers.
In other news: I have been seeing a lot more people who aren't there. It be strange. Oh yes.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
acid into, the total cows, yes?
Well, today should be a fun post. I am that stage of drunk where I can still type, but cannot remember my day nor be pissed off at anything. Ah, the powers of alcohol. Making angry people suitable for everyday life since a long time ago.
THis being said, it means I don't really have much to talk about, as being pissed off takes up about 80% of my time nowadays.
I could talk about women, but there is nothing new there. In my life, there aint none.
I could talk about money, but the situation there is much the same as above.
I could talk about emo poetry, but it's all the same eg: I slit my wrists FOR YOU!
And then they don't. Selfish buggers.
I think much of the problem with today is that there are too many people. If you are feeling like life is too much, well, life has had too much of you also. All that global warming, consumerism.... I mean, is there anything more worthy than ending it over a few degrees rise in temeperature that is trying desperately to keep in step with the price of oil. And don't forget that nobody loves you. It's not like there is another X billi0n people out there for you to get it on with you. You might as well hang yourself because one of them dumped you. I mean, what is the chance of finding your one and only amoung all those millions and billions of people? I don't think there could possibly be anyone out there with your exact taste in music.
Oh, it's fun cock-blocking your own excuses.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes...
At the moment I am drunk, eating cackers and pate in bed. Tomorow morning I am going to get the newspaper and go looking for flats AGAIN.
Oh, the joys of life. I remember typing something similar a number of years ago, where I beleive I compared looking for a new flat like eating corn, which is the natural habitat of azazel the angle of death, or something similar. I now have 17 days to find a flat and raise the money that I need to shift from flat to flat and it is... disparaging. Flat prices are on the rise. When I first moved into this flat I thought that $135 was alot to be paying per week for a room. But now, looking through the "To Let" pages and the rental property section of Trade Me I have found that you will be luckly to find a carpark in wellington for $135 a week. My god. I've slept in a carpark, and it just simply wasn't fun. The rabid rats nawing on your ears really make it hard to get comfortable. People say this is because the minimum wage has increased, and since employers have to pay their employees more they have to pass on that added cost to consumers and that pushes the price of EVERTHING up. At the moment I am on minimum wage, and everthing is just as expensive, comparatively, as it used to be. THe good news is that halfway through this year I willl be qualified to teach, which the minimum wage is about $700 a week after tax. The bad news is that until then, everything is going to be shittily, shit arse crap damn bloody soddomy difficult. Le Sigh.
In other news, YOU HAVE YOUR BLOG POST NOW STOP BUGGING ME i would like a pet aphid. Imagine all the things you coulf teach it to do. Like chew leaves.
I wonder if I could make money chewing leaves.
On the plus side, halfway through this year, I should be starting a teaching job which
THis being said, it means I don't really have much to talk about, as being pissed off takes up about 80% of my time nowadays.
I could talk about women, but there is nothing new there. In my life, there aint none.
I could talk about money, but the situation there is much the same as above.
I could talk about emo poetry, but it's all the same eg: I slit my wrists FOR YOU!
And then they don't. Selfish buggers.
I think much of the problem with today is that there are too many people. If you are feeling like life is too much, well, life has had too much of you also. All that global warming, consumerism.... I mean, is there anything more worthy than ending it over a few degrees rise in temeperature that is trying desperately to keep in step with the price of oil. And don't forget that nobody loves you. It's not like there is another X billi0n people out there for you to get it on with you. You might as well hang yourself because one of them dumped you. I mean, what is the chance of finding your one and only amoung all those millions and billions of people? I don't think there could possibly be anyone out there with your exact taste in music.
Oh, it's fun cock-blocking your own excuses.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes...
At the moment I am drunk, eating cackers and pate in bed. Tomorow morning I am going to get the newspaper and go looking for flats AGAIN.
Oh, the joys of life. I remember typing something similar a number of years ago, where I beleive I compared looking for a new flat like eating corn, which is the natural habitat of azazel the angle of death, or something similar. I now have 17 days to find a flat and raise the money that I need to shift from flat to flat and it is... disparaging. Flat prices are on the rise. When I first moved into this flat I thought that $135 was alot to be paying per week for a room. But now, looking through the "To Let" pages and the rental property section of Trade Me I have found that you will be luckly to find a carpark in wellington for $135 a week. My god. I've slept in a carpark, and it just simply wasn't fun. The rabid rats nawing on your ears really make it hard to get comfortable. People say this is because the minimum wage has increased, and since employers have to pay their employees more they have to pass on that added cost to consumers and that pushes the price of EVERTHING up. At the moment I am on minimum wage, and everthing is just as expensive, comparatively, as it used to be. THe good news is that halfway through this year I willl be qualified to teach, which the minimum wage is about $700 a week after tax. The bad news is that until then, everything is going to be shittily, shit arse crap damn bloody soddomy difficult. Le Sigh.
In other news, YOU HAVE YOUR BLOG POST NOW STOP BUGGING ME i would like a pet aphid. Imagine all the things you coulf teach it to do. Like chew leaves.
I wonder if I could make money chewing leaves.
On the plus side, halfway through this year, I should be starting a teaching job which
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
I hate it when saying you'll do something more often means that you actually have to do it.
I think, personally, making promises about things that you don't want to do shouldn't count. Like saying anything to a woman. Don't count.
Look, I haven't the horizontal tango with anybody for...what, two years now? It's not fair to be punished if I'm not doing anything to be punished for. And before you say anything, no, going to watch the pole show at mrs. palmers place ain't no substitute to tango.
Isn't metaphor fun?
Anyways, thought I might write something since I am up at an unreasonable hour, and something actually note worthy happened at work yesterday.
I was hanging about cursing because the laundry was a mess cause they had some sort of "differently abled" person doing the morning shift. This ment that all morning there was only four uniforms ticked of the list, one hundred uniforms being ready to be ticked off the list, coathangers on the floor and the cleaning hadn't been done. I don't know about you, but I can certainly sort uniforms at a rate greater than a peice per hour. Also, to make matters worse, the cd player had given up the ghost, I could only find "solid gold" or "the breeze" on the radio staions and the intercom system was being filled with the same four sickly sweet love songs that, after half an hour, make you feel that you have just been fucked in the ear by a throbbing, phallic sugar cube.
After about an hour, however, something wonderful happened. I smelt gas.
Now, as we all know, what I see, hear or smell, probably only has about a 40% chance of actually being there, just like the met service predictions. And just like the met sevice, the appiritions/predictions only happen if, figuratively speaking, there is a chance that the prediction might rain on the four loads of washing you put out that morning. But after ten minutes of inhaling the possibly phantom fumes, a coworker finnaly came in so I could ask them if they smelt anything. They said yes, so I turned off all the machines, and got the supervisor.
When I got back there, he couldn't smell anything, so I said, hey, come back in ten minutes, it might have something to do with the machines, so I turned them back on, and two minutes later I found myself drowsy and light headded. So yes, turn of machines, find supervisor, gas smell not there, I say I'm gonna sit down cause I'm woozy. He says he's gonna check out a few things.
Now, there are a few things in life that kinda annoy me. Many of them you have found for yourself by reading this page periodically. But allow me to add a couple more:
- not being taken seriously when I report a potentally serious situation. Wise cracks are not an appropriate way to deal with someone who says they've been gassed.
- Sitting in a smoko room for half an hour waiting for both my head to clear (I got a headache after the high-headdedness went away) and for any news eg: was it ok to go back to work? Was anyone being called about this?
- Having to go and find the supervisor after I got sick of waiting, and him telling me that "well, I couldn't smell anything". I told him I was going home. And I did.
You know what I like? Sitting being paid for that half hour in the smoko room. Oh, and entertaining the thought that the thorndon new world will explode. My favourite co-worker wasn't at work so I didn't really care what the hell happens to the place.
Since the smell went away when I turned off the machines I don't think it was actually gas, but one or two of the machines do use "wear goddam gloves when using this" chemicals, so, unfortunately, I don't think the place will actually explode.
Do you think that burning down your place of employment is the most common of employee dreams? I think there's a little arsonst in all of us.
In other news, I went and saw "I am Legend" at the movie theatre. It scared the poop out of me. I also saw the trailer for the new batman movie. That was good looking indeed.
Look, I haven't the horizontal tango with anybody for...what, two years now? It's not fair to be punished if I'm not doing anything to be punished for. And before you say anything, no, going to watch the pole show at mrs. palmers place ain't no substitute to tango.
Isn't metaphor fun?
Anyways, thought I might write something since I am up at an unreasonable hour, and something actually note worthy happened at work yesterday.
I was hanging about cursing because the laundry was a mess cause they had some sort of "differently abled" person doing the morning shift. This ment that all morning there was only four uniforms ticked of the list, one hundred uniforms being ready to be ticked off the list, coathangers on the floor and the cleaning hadn't been done. I don't know about you, but I can certainly sort uniforms at a rate greater than a peice per hour. Also, to make matters worse, the cd player had given up the ghost, I could only find "solid gold" or "the breeze" on the radio staions and the intercom system was being filled with the same four sickly sweet love songs that, after half an hour, make you feel that you have just been fucked in the ear by a throbbing, phallic sugar cube.
After about an hour, however, something wonderful happened. I smelt gas.
Now, as we all know, what I see, hear or smell, probably only has about a 40% chance of actually being there, just like the met service predictions. And just like the met sevice, the appiritions/predictions only happen if, figuratively speaking, there is a chance that the prediction might rain on the four loads of washing you put out that morning. But after ten minutes of inhaling the possibly phantom fumes, a coworker finnaly came in so I could ask them if they smelt anything. They said yes, so I turned off all the machines, and got the supervisor.
When I got back there, he couldn't smell anything, so I said, hey, come back in ten minutes, it might have something to do with the machines, so I turned them back on, and two minutes later I found myself drowsy and light headded. So yes, turn of machines, find supervisor, gas smell not there, I say I'm gonna sit down cause I'm woozy. He says he's gonna check out a few things.
Now, there are a few things in life that kinda annoy me. Many of them you have found for yourself by reading this page periodically. But allow me to add a couple more:
- not being taken seriously when I report a potentally serious situation. Wise cracks are not an appropriate way to deal with someone who says they've been gassed.
- Sitting in a smoko room for half an hour waiting for both my head to clear (I got a headache after the high-headdedness went away) and for any news eg: was it ok to go back to work? Was anyone being called about this?
- Having to go and find the supervisor after I got sick of waiting, and him telling me that "well, I couldn't smell anything". I told him I was going home. And I did.
You know what I like? Sitting being paid for that half hour in the smoko room. Oh, and entertaining the thought that the thorndon new world will explode. My favourite co-worker wasn't at work so I didn't really care what the hell happens to the place.
Since the smell went away when I turned off the machines I don't think it was actually gas, but one or two of the machines do use "wear goddam gloves when using this" chemicals, so, unfortunately, I don't think the place will actually explode.
Do you think that burning down your place of employment is the most common of employee dreams? I think there's a little arsonst in all of us.
In other news, I went and saw "I am Legend" at the movie theatre. It scared the poop out of me. I also saw the trailer for the new batman movie. That was good looking indeed.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Is it wrong that cliking my knuckles while half cut almost gives me an orgasm?
Yes. For the love of god, I hear you cry, yes it is.
So yes, tonight is another night of being suedo-drunk and reading web comics late into the night. I forget why I decided that after, what is it, four months now, it might be a good idea for me to start doing some blogging again, but hey, some of you asked for it. Now here it is. And just like the fairy tales of yore the thing that people think they actually want ends up biting them in the arse. And it ins'nt a normal bite, either. It's a "we've just crossed this bull-mastif with a shark so not only does it exert 20kg of pressure, but it also has three rows of teeth to do so with, some of which will remain lodged in your arse until surgeons come along and remove them with scalpels and, for some reason, a complete lack of anesthetic" kind of bite.
Click, click, click, ahh. It's better than sneezing.
So yes. My life. Most of the persons who read this actually already know about it, because working in a laundry for the daylight hours means that there is suddenly a lot of spare time in conversations to fill, but since part of the reason for this page, apart from making you allsquirm in anguish over my overly graphic descipctions of pain, is so that I have some record of my life that can be used to remind me of how things used to be after the booze-fuelled brain worms of ytinasni devour what little brain cells I have left. I am glad that I had the foresight to create myself a psudenom before I become a teacher, for I beleive that having my students find out about my drunken life might make them a little harder to control in the classroom. For some reason, even though many of new zealands youth cannot in fact put together a coherant sentence half the time, this does not stop them from dropping thinly veiled, and not so thinly veiled, hints about informant that they know, and they want you to know that they know, that you would rather all the other students in the class do not know. Like the fact that while teaching you were living with your parents. Anway...
My life at the moment:
Soon I shall be moving from my residence of the last year, into a flat with Calvin Shine, Hobbs and... the other guy whoose psudenom I have forgotten. Plays a mean elccletric guitar. It shall be a grand time, filled with fully clothed manifestations of testoserone practicing handstands and the art of week long binges. When I do get my teaching degree and teaching job halfway through this year, my salary will be able to accomidate a modest lifestyle of such activities and, hopefully, small things that will make my life more enjoyable, like furniture and a blender for magiritas and morning after vodka-with-fresh-fruit-drinks. Life, I beleive, will be good. Also, the absence of a certain petty as fuck flatmate with whom I have finally lost patience will also be a plus. She's a good girl, but as one of my friends remarked, in the case of flatting, we are like chalk and cheese. I prefer the anology that we are more like horisima and a certain weapon of mass destruction. Or is it wrong to compare the deaths of many and mutations of subsequent generations to my living situations? Ask my conscience. It was last seen in Hawaii.
I had a christmas with my family. That was nice. I received many books, and some bottles of grog, which shows that people know me, and a fair amount of chocolate, which shows that they do not. But you know christmas. Its the thought that counts. And apparently it is a social fo-pah to say: hey, thanks for the thought but did you know that chocolate is often too sweet for my tastes and makes me pee like a boozed fire engine. Then again, my gifts to people were really quite sub par, so I cannot complain. My new years resolution, apart from the one to stop drinking (I haven't been sober since christmas) is to save money when I start getting $700 a week and usesome of that money to get people I actually care about some nice, costly and thoughtful presents. I am of the opinion that the thoughtfulness might be harder to come by than the money, which, as my good friend pointed out to me, I have a good deal of trouble holding onto anyway.
Anyway anyway...
There is a girl at work I like. No one knows this, becase I haven't told anyone. Her name is Shanshan, but I have never greeted her by name, because I don'tknow if I would pronounce it correctly. But most of my day is spent looking forward to when she finishes work, half an hour before I do, and she gives me a radiant smile and I find my face contorting into that same unusual sape and we both kind of stammer out our hopes that each other have a good night and our wish to see each other the next night. It's not much of a conversation, I agree, and you would have thought that after years of life slowly but repeatedly hammering my soul into the calloused thing that it now is would possibly give me more conversational finess in such situations, but it doesn't. Although I tend to take my stammering embarassment as a sign of love at first sight, or something near it anyway. The same thing occurred when I met Satomi for the first time.
Gosh darn and emotions. These aren't even emotions based on anything, but they are the best i've had since my crush on the goth-y boarders coffee girl with pig tails, who seems to have dissapeared.
Is that all? Well, it is probably all you can be bothered reading at the moment. This has been a rather long post, and not all of it filled with side splitting hilarity. So I guess I should probably make it up to you with this famous joke:
Poo.
More next time. I promise it wont be as long comming as it has been previously.
So yes, tonight is another night of being suedo-drunk and reading web comics late into the night. I forget why I decided that after, what is it, four months now, it might be a good idea for me to start doing some blogging again, but hey, some of you asked for it. Now here it is. And just like the fairy tales of yore the thing that people think they actually want ends up biting them in the arse. And it ins'nt a normal bite, either. It's a "we've just crossed this bull-mastif with a shark so not only does it exert 20kg of pressure, but it also has three rows of teeth to do so with, some of which will remain lodged in your arse until surgeons come along and remove them with scalpels and, for some reason, a complete lack of anesthetic" kind of bite.
Click, click, click, ahh. It's better than sneezing.
So yes. My life. Most of the persons who read this actually already know about it, because working in a laundry for the daylight hours means that there is suddenly a lot of spare time in conversations to fill, but since part of the reason for this page, apart from making you allsquirm in anguish over my overly graphic descipctions of pain, is so that I have some record of my life that can be used to remind me of how things used to be after the booze-fuelled brain worms of ytinasni devour what little brain cells I have left. I am glad that I had the foresight to create myself a psudenom before I become a teacher, for I beleive that having my students find out about my drunken life might make them a little harder to control in the classroom. For some reason, even though many of new zealands youth cannot in fact put together a coherant sentence half the time, this does not stop them from dropping thinly veiled, and not so thinly veiled, hints about informant that they know, and they want you to know that they know, that you would rather all the other students in the class do not know. Like the fact that while teaching you were living with your parents. Anway...
My life at the moment:
Soon I shall be moving from my residence of the last year, into a flat with Calvin Shine, Hobbs and... the other guy whoose psudenom I have forgotten. Plays a mean elccletric guitar. It shall be a grand time, filled with fully clothed manifestations of testoserone practicing handstands and the art of week long binges. When I do get my teaching degree and teaching job halfway through this year, my salary will be able to accomidate a modest lifestyle of such activities and, hopefully, small things that will make my life more enjoyable, like furniture and a blender for magiritas and morning after vodka-with-fresh-fruit-drinks. Life, I beleive, will be good. Also, the absence of a certain petty as fuck flatmate with whom I have finally lost patience will also be a plus. She's a good girl, but as one of my friends remarked, in the case of flatting, we are like chalk and cheese. I prefer the anology that we are more like horisima and a certain weapon of mass destruction. Or is it wrong to compare the deaths of many and mutations of subsequent generations to my living situations? Ask my conscience. It was last seen in Hawaii.
I had a christmas with my family. That was nice. I received many books, and some bottles of grog, which shows that people know me, and a fair amount of chocolate, which shows that they do not. But you know christmas. Its the thought that counts. And apparently it is a social fo-pah to say: hey, thanks for the thought but did you know that chocolate is often too sweet for my tastes and makes me pee like a boozed fire engine. Then again, my gifts to people were really quite sub par, so I cannot complain. My new years resolution, apart from the one to stop drinking (I haven't been sober since christmas) is to save money when I start getting $700 a week and usesome of that money to get people I actually care about some nice, costly and thoughtful presents. I am of the opinion that the thoughtfulness might be harder to come by than the money, which, as my good friend pointed out to me, I have a good deal of trouble holding onto anyway.
Anyway anyway...
There is a girl at work I like. No one knows this, becase I haven't told anyone. Her name is Shanshan, but I have never greeted her by name, because I don'tknow if I would pronounce it correctly. But most of my day is spent looking forward to when she finishes work, half an hour before I do, and she gives me a radiant smile and I find my face contorting into that same unusual sape and we both kind of stammer out our hopes that each other have a good night and our wish to see each other the next night. It's not much of a conversation, I agree, and you would have thought that after years of life slowly but repeatedly hammering my soul into the calloused thing that it now is would possibly give me more conversational finess in such situations, but it doesn't. Although I tend to take my stammering embarassment as a sign of love at first sight, or something near it anyway. The same thing occurred when I met Satomi for the first time.
Gosh darn and emotions. These aren't even emotions based on anything, but they are the best i've had since my crush on the goth-y boarders coffee girl with pig tails, who seems to have dissapeared.
Is that all? Well, it is probably all you can be bothered reading at the moment. This has been a rather long post, and not all of it filled with side splitting hilarity. So I guess I should probably make it up to you with this famous joke:
Poo.
More next time. I promise it wont be as long comming as it has been previously.
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