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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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

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.

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.

Long time, time for thought!

Three blogs in three months. Wow. THats productive.
BUT WHAT HAS BEEN PRODUCTIVE! TO SEE A COMPLETE LIST OF THINGS I HAVE BEEN DOING, SCROLL THIS PAGE IN A DOWNWARDS DIRECTION!
-Boozing
-Karioke
-Eating raw fish
-Roller Blading
-Eating cooked fish
-Winning almost all the money at poker
-SUMMER ALE!
And thats about it. But it is importaint to not that yes, summer ale is back on the market again. Why is this importaint to note? Because it means that I offically have mo money, and any money that I do procure from various sources shall be immedately spent on that light substance that fills your mouth with the spice of many bees, deposits a warm liquidy tase of golden days witin your spleen and, if you have been drinking in the sun, inserts the compulsion to sit upon the roof tops.
As we all know, I am not a fan of sunshine. I dispise summer and it's underfed, moody child that is spring, I laugh in the face of sunshine (preferably from behind a heavy curtain) and new born animals smell funny. No. No I do not love the smell of puppies. The smell of a poorly formed gastric system.
But summer ale... oh how you delight me, how you make my taste buds flutter in delight! The creamy taste of your drunken emphoria is enough to draw me out of my dark enclosed spaces to squint painfully in the afternoon sun.
So raise your glases, filled with summer ale, and give them to me. I shall be outside more often this summer, me thinks.

In other news, shock events cause scandal within my immediate surroundings! More on that when Highlyflannable returns!

Why do I smell funny?

Becuase I stayed out for a substansial portion of last night drinking. Must shower.
Anyway. Long time since last post, ectera, no not dead, ectera, life much the same, etceterara... back in wellington from teaching placement, that seemed to go well, no trouble, good reports, kids are still disrespectful, good to see that the traditions of schooling have been passed down from Father/Mother/State appointed caregiver to Son/Daugher/Motherless Barstard. Weee.
What will I do tonight? I don't know. Let us find out by spinning the wheel of fortune!
Chunkachunkaghunkachunkachunkachunkachunkachunkchunkchunkchuuuuuuuuunnnnnnkka!
NOTHING!

Teaching Experances, Vol.1

I am back in the Hawkes Bay, back at my old college, which I probably cannot name due to copywirght issues, and I have just spent my first day teaching. Well, observing how to teach. And telling students to settle down. But honestly, it has not been half as weird as I thought it would be. It has been kind of like stepping back into a pair of old shoes. Stinky, full of holes, but comfortably moulded to your feet. It's also pretty amazing the level of respect you obtain just by wearing the tie and "teacher" label. I would like to think it is my presence within a classroom that creates a respectful awe in the students, but I am thinking that it is more likely that they are figuring out who I am. Noone really knows what this "Student Teacher" creature really is, and it is far too early days for me to count my chickens yet. I haven't even seen any eggs. It's all guestimation.
Anyways. I sit in on three drama classes and two english classes. In fact, tomorrow I am doing my first actual "Teaching" thing. I am starting off a lesson for a year 12 english class, period four.
Fun times indeed. When will I know that I have actually become a "teacher"? When I stop using the quotation marks will definately be an indication.

If Julius Cesar were a teacher:
"I came, I glared, I kept the entire class in through interval."

Where do Tuesdays come from, Daddy?

What purpose does Tuesday serve? All it does is seperate the space between the Monday, typically a bad day, and a Wednesday, also a typically bad day for many people. It is breathing space, a small void which, in my opinion, could be better served by being an extra friday (and extra saturday would be too much to hope for). Go on, ask sopmeone what their favorite/ least favorite day of the week is. I bet the awnswer to either will not be "tuesday". If it is, throw fruit at them and call them rude names. You can download both these things, in throwable form, from the amazing internets.

To recap, Tuesday is the bastard son of all times that you just feel too lazy to sex yourself or others. Remember, everytime you complain of a "headache", another tuesday is born.

So really, the moral of the story is, the more you get your bone on, the faster the week goes.

Shin Nibblers

Oh, what time has passeth since I last bessed my flock with apparent wit! What things have happened! What miraculous events and spectactularities!
So many wonderful things have occured! My dancing sandals flap with amusement!
"Have there really been many miraculous ecteras occuring in your life since your last post oh sage Flan?"
...
...
...No.

Well, yes, there has been somethings happen. But I'm not going to say anything about them at the moment. Because I don't wan't to. But to take your mind off things, look around you. Look around you. Just look around you. Have you spotted what we're looking for?
Thats right, the correct awnser is BOREDOM.
BOREDOME, chemical symbol B3m, has manifested itself in the form of me renovating this little page. New photo (Sexy, yes?), new words at the tops and bottom of things, same old disgusting green colour. Because I like you to suffer, and crap green is the best way to do so.

Anyway. Most of the reason that I have been too busy to do stuff here is that I have been training to be a teacher. In fact, soon I shall be going upon my first Teaching Experiance, where I have to teach small people of little maturity the England. Extra In Fact, I shall be doing so at my old college. I hated that place. The only reason I am going back there for four weeks of what I expect to be tourturous tourture is that I can get free board and I know my way around. More about all this jazz later.

The apple does not fall far from the trees my friends, unless that apple tree is growing on a cliff and drops small rocket propelled fruit into the void on windy windy days.

SUPER DONE!

Looking on the intranet, I find that I have pased my last two courses, with and A- and a B.
I am now finished my BA.
I am "Flan Hyperbole, BA"!
Or possibly "BAFlan"
...
This kinda works better with my real name. Anyway, a giant Huzzah and Waley Waley Waley to me!

Seaweed

Oh, the upstairs brain jello is percolating nicely. I keep on seeing people out the corners of my eyes, but really it is just junk. Actual junk or brain junk? I don't know. In these kind of situations I don't really think it makes much of a difference.
Speaking of people, I am now back in Wellington. I went home of r a couple of days to see the parents and eat food and do a bit of detox. I entered a story in a short story competition. I won't find out about that for four months.
Speaking of people, why won't people contact me? One person in particular. Of couse, this thinly veiled attempt for meaningful human contact will probably be seen through instantly by said person, provided she still looks in on this page every now and then. The question is whether this is a badly coded shout out or simply just a cathartic purging of what is bothering me. It might be both.

It's hard to see through the shadows in the jello.

And if THAT isn't simutaneously the strangest and most emo comment you've heard today then, well... I want to read that comment.

With the passion of a dying sun. Whatever that means.

All alone again...

My flatmate has just goneback to the ole hometown for a while, therefore leaving me COMPLETELY ALONE for a few days. What will happen to me without anyone keeping my mind off my horrible lonelyness? Want to place bets?
One buck will get you three on the bet of me turning to Satan dark lord and master in an attempt to populate my house. With the souls of the undead. But at least they will keep me company.
One will get you eight in the bet that I go stir crazy a do absolutely everything I can do, such as read all the books on next years reading list, whitewash the walls and fix the leaky tap which keeps me awake at night.
One will get you twenty eight if you be that I will remain completely sane, or even become more sane.
Same odds for me obtaining spiritual enlightenment.
If, however, you decide to bet that I shall become a drunken wreck while watching scrubs in my dressing gown and not showering, well, you will have to pay me for ever dollar you bet. becuase, come on, betting means you have to risk something. Otherwise it just isn't fun.

Now I am going to go to the supermarket, to hopefully stave off the odds of me starving to death, but unfortunately raising the odds of me burning the house down or asphixiating myself through gas stove cooking mishaps.

Another day

Another whiny post about how little I do, or at least the fact that all the things I do seem to be remarkably similar to all the things that I have done before with very little...muh. Word that means change, but more eloquent.
Man, I wish I'd never seen Groundhog Day. Sometimes that movie seems like my life, but I AM GETTING OLDER!
Ok, more positive stuff. Gotta re-write some stories for the competition which has its deadline at the end of the month. Good fun. Got helpful feedback from my co-partner in this endevour. She had actually sat down and done close readings of my stories.
Close readings.
My stories.
This is pretty much like a dreamy thing come true. If someone likes your crap enough to read it that thoroughly, well, it's like random people walking up to you and saying "Damn, I wish I was as hot as you."
And since the latter probably wont happen to me, I better just get writing, huh?

Yup. Huh. Huh. Yup.

ANd now it is done!

Thats right! The forth sign of the apocalypse! Flan has a degree!
...
It's alright, I swear I won't use my new powers for evil.
You can come out from under the bed now.
Well, seriously, I won't know whether I have obtained my degree or not for about a month, but I felt pretty good comming out of my exams, and my internal marks were pretty damn good also. I really font think there is anything to fear this time round. Also, I have to pass this time round, otherwise my parents will kill me and then my grandparents will dig me up and use me as a scarecrow. Oh,you think Im joking? My grandmother can be pretty damn scary.
Sometimes it keeps me up at night... all that white poopie...
Anyway, in other news, some of my friends are graduating tommorow, and my cuzzie is having a celebration for finally tunring 21 on saturday in which me and the band shall be performing. Good times. Good times indeed.

Untill then, I am going to read web comics.

Almost done part2.

Well, it has been along time since I last posted, and I would like to say it was because I was studying dilligently. And I will say it. I have been studying diligently. And now I have just proven myself to be such a fucken liar. Clinton wasn't this much of a liar. I might as well get up on a podium and annouce that "I did not have sexual relations with that bottle of wine and her 12 sexy alcohol cousins." But it was all oral, nothing carnal. Oh, I am going to hell.
Oh, a Clinton joke! soooo who knows how long ago. Well, yes, I don't keep up with current events. At all. So old things that absolutely everyone knows about will have to be my comedic staple.
Anyway, in current Flan events, tommorow is me final exam, hopefully for ever. Instead of studying, I drank the last of the beer hanging around my room and have been reading a webcomic called "Questionable Content." Apparently, hanging around a coffee cafe will get you women. I should hange around cafe's more often... hang on, I fucken work in a cafe! I should be covered in hootch by now! Instead I am a burned out shell of a man who wears his jeans to bed because the effort of putting them on in the morning seems futile and I am afraid I will wake up too angsty to pull on pants one morning and end up in prison for indecent exposure. And prison is one place you don't want to be without pants.

Ah, I forget how fun this is. Anyway, tomorow, in celebration of my rapidly approching barmitsfa into the world of adulthood, I shall be at B4 from 5pm onwards. Assemble, minions! I shall be drunk and in the need for pool playing!

Almost done...

Time, oh, it's running out, soon I shall be out and about, in the big wide scary world, I shall be teaching both young and old, but first there's exams, and a millon other plans, that fist I must execute, before I start a major commute, first to karori's teaching school, then to places in New Zealand's rural, or perhaps to major cities, It's so scary sometimes I think of quitting. The workloads immence, after I commence, and soon you might not see me, as often as you'd like it to be. But before then you should take this chance, to ring me up and have a rant, for when July 13th rolls around, I shall simply have to go to ground.

Its exciting and scary in equal mesure, along this path I hope to find pleasure.