So-Solid

There's a nest of ketmongs not far from where I live. They venture out onto the streets I traverse only to talk loudly to each other about how the 12th minute feels 'like you're an internal organ'. Sometimes they're near-comatose on the pavement, with their loose twitches summoning a new, more rambunctious sound to their collection of feckless drivel.


drugs are generally hilarious.

Jiggy beast.

I know enough about low budget porn to be able to differentiate between low budget porn, and budgetless smut that's been squared to bollocks on a 1.0 megapixel phone camera. I find the latter far more intriguing as there is still a sizable market for it.

Production values and bloimbos drenched in spray-on tan are nothing compared to spelling mistakes on websites and a crushed can of vimto's appearance in 5 pictures of a 7 shot barely-legal-hot-teen-sexy-amateur photoshoot.

Most no-budget porn businesses are run out of shoe boxes, beached caravans and the former Yugoslavia.

See if you can spot potential bookmark material in the 'access free also with this amaziong offer' selection on the scummiest site you can find.

My favourite word is: apricot.

Fashion is out of hand. I give it 3 months before the latest tawdry example of the rap generation sports a lumberjack shirt and a 'tickle me elmo' hanging from a necklace made of fluorescent shoelaces...only to get worshiped for his vision.

Nowadays anyone who isn't dressing like a 1950's embodiment of their dad, or isn't wearing a hot-pink back-pack with a pop-art t-shirt in the name of fashion...

Is a goth, a German on holiday somewhere, or both God forbid.

Pime taradox

The clocks decided to go forward without telling me. I've been an hour behind everyone else all shitting day. My friend and I were planning a brief Tête à Tête, a conversation between mouthfuls of meatball marinara and sprite. We were due to meet at around 2ish, because we'd both agreed that 2ish sounded 'good' and that we would have been able to put our regular sunday tasks to rest by that time.

1pm rolls around and I get ear-raped by the sounds of traffic and a voice down the phone. My friend was wondering where I was...

I told him i was still at home, still clad in make-up and torn stockings, sitting awkwardly on account of the garden gnome I was using as a prostate stimulant. I thought I still had an hour and that my friend had gone off too early and decided to blame it on someone else - something for which he is known. Turns out I was wrong, and I got verbally buggered for not meeting him.

I'm still at home now. I'm taking a break from resetting my time pieces, I was stuck on a watch I've had since I was 15. Resetting old watches is like using your friends computer for the first time, it makes no sense at all, I'm just waiting for someone to materialise and shout at me for breaking it because the 'mode' button masquerades as the 'set' button, but only when you push the fucker hard enough.

I give in.

I was also due to have my first Killzone 2 clan match today but it was cancelled.

arse.

OMFGZ MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE IS DA BEST

"90% of teenagers have turned to rap... the other 10% still listen to real music"
- some fartskull on 'real music'

So why is it when I search for anything game related on youtube, I get Evanescence overdubs on FMV's from the final fantasy series, Rob Zombie or metallica providing the backing track for sniping montages...or the grunting squeaks of some post-emo trashcore shite all over just about any gaming video that isn't one of the above?

I don't search for specific scenes from films anymore, I know they've all been devalued by the guff some greasy haired eye-liner fag has playing over the top.

Don't get me wrong, I think rap and hip-hop is shit too, but it's little statements like the one I quoted above that make me rejoice. I live in a world populated by self-righteous, misinformed arseholes, and I'm not too proud to announce that by typing this entry, i have inadvertently become one as well.

Common misconceptions and the scorning of the verbose.

A guy I knew a few weeks ago stole the lower half of my right leg, I now walk like a penguin in profile, or I don't walk at all. I find I get places faster if I just hover slightly and let the world do the moving.

that aside...

People keep critiquing the way i talk, apparently I sound like a 'college professor' after citing my ability to use polysyllabic terms coherently in an utterance.

a college professor of all fucking things, the honourable doctors in the fields of metal work, hair dressing and health and social care.

Is this me?:

I'm laidback and trendy, you couldn't get your A-levels. Call me Gerrard, I'll work from a teachers guide and draw crazy pictures on the whiteboard to help you level with me, to help you get on the same wavelength. To help you realise I substitute actual teaching in favour of altering the wording of metaphorical phrases that ultimately equate to 'understanding'. Yeah, I'm here to help you, I'm a Samaritan. I've traded in my dismal future for a slightly more soul destroying one. Let me impart this worksheet's knowledge of child care to you. I'll sit back here in my pinstriped shirt, with my humourous coffee cup and direct any of your queries to a related website.

really?

fuck you.

college is not university, retard.

Easy like a sunday morning.

The journey to the hairdressers is quite short, a brisk walk is all that's really needed to traverse the mile or so trip in its entirety. I went to the hairdressers today, I'll make a note to mention that part first next time, so as not to appear so vague and out of the blue.

On the way, I stopped mid-park amidst the screaming din of tightly funneled exhaust, to watch a tree surgeon scalp branches the width of bread sticks with a device designed for that purpose. He'd noticed I'd stopped to ponder analogies, and slowly let his saw hang loosely from a rope. My eyes had drifted out of focus, but I probably looked like I was staring. The surgeon had made this assumption too, and with the burly chuff of a fat-mouthed workman he bellowed "something wrong, mate?"

"No i was just wondering"

"You what sorry?"

"Is the chainsaw really necessary?" I hoped my slight gesture was clear enough to indicate the growing pile of twigs at the base of what could probably be called his office.

"For cutting trees down, yeah, you could say that, mate. Why? you know a better way to chop branches down?"

"You could bludgeon them to splinters with the fat end of a pot-glazed toddler."

"what?"

"nothing, sorry, carry on." I carried on in the cusp of hindsight, wishing I'd used one of my flawless analogies to further express the wryness of my initial question. 'surely it's like using the spinning engine of a 747 to grate a carrot?' I liked that one, but he wouldn't have understood what I meant.

His friend in the Van had lowered his copy of Zoo by this point, and was probably tutting the word 'ponce' as i walked away.

The hairdressers itself is nice, it smells like hair product. The tone is set by an i-pod playing Lionel Richie songs through a pair of speakers.

The highlight of the event is the hair washing, an attractive woman in a slightly see-through gray top gives what could be construed as a sensual head massage as she asks me questions about my life, and I do my best to avoid a tumescence by keeping my thoughts focused heavily on making my answers as verbose as possible.

Women like intelligence, especially if the women in question don't fully understand what you're saying. Chances are they'll swoon regardless, especially since to them, anything you say that they don't fully comprehend could be a brilliantly worded compliment...technical jargon of the well-versed that merely implies 'you've got a cracking pair of tits, love'.

She thanked my potential niceties with a mint.

The deed of the hair cutting itself comes second place to the inevitable banter that generally takes priority in the proceedings. Talk is usually kept to current affairs, with me usually having to fabricate events in the hope that I'm seen as up to date and down with it. Sadly my tale of Jade Goody having to be rescued after getting her finger stuck under the page of a book was seen as "out of order" and "well harsh" as I learned that she'd recently died of cervical cancer.

The conversation turned to my thoughts and opinions, with my statement that 'people with double-barreled last names are generally the people that annoy me for other reasons' being challenged. I put it down to the pretentiousness of the hyphen, and asked "what kind of monster allows their offspring to live with punctuated surnames?"

"What about Kanye West, you hate him and he doesn't have a punctuated surname"

"no, you're right. But he is a bit of a colon."

Continue? 10, 9, 8, 7...

Sorry, my posts are getting sporadic. I know I'm the only person who reads this blog, but even so, I feel I have a duty to myself to write about things I already know about.

That said, I can't be bothered today, so...




bask in the glory.

One of the final frontier's less than stellar events.

My eyes are re-adjusting, I just came in from a seven minute jaunt outside. One of those minutes was spent watching a space station move somewhat unsurprisingly overhead. The other six minutes were spent in less-than-eager anticipation of the aforementioned, hoping its appearance would justify the drop in external body temperature or my prolonged exposure to the metallic pungency of a nearby dog shit.

It took me about 4 minutes to realise how much of a tosser I was for using binoculars in the dark to magnify vessels in low orbit. You're probably thinking: "PAH! that's something a woman would do, you ruddy berk!" and I'd happily share a chortle if it wasn't at my own expense.

Some people were present at Obama's inauguration ceremony, others watched it on tv, seeing as i didn't really care I didn't do either. But at least now, I've witnessed the momentous journey of a slightly orange speck moving quite quickly over the skies of the west-country.

I am humbled.



Also, Tales of Eternia is a pretty awesome RPG, the battle system is rife with potential memes:

OMEGA DEMON CHAOS!

etc.

But I don't really go for that kind of thing myself.

Tuesday saw me lost to my PSP.

Most people put on a front when out in the open air with fellow members of their species. A masque of sorts, a means to hide their humanity from the people who scorn their inherent traits. Some people don't, some people feel uneasy with the shackles society places on their habits.

I hate blatant displays of the human condition. I hate the slap of an opening jaw as a moron shovels another wodge of food into an orifice still caked in pulp. I hate the way fat people breathe like straining pistons whilst bending to lick ketchup from their thigh. I hate people who drink feverishly in constant 20 second intervals, replacing the lid after every re-pressurising smack of the suffocated bottle.
I hate the slack-throats, with their ravenous thirst and fluid capacity culminating to the cataclysmic gwilp of compressed air and drink. The people who breathe whilst drinking too, their lips glued to the plastic neck like a docked octopus and the whoooom as they release resounds like a demented pan-pipe. I hate it all.

In a loud room the only things I hear are the disgusting beast-recalling squelches of a creature with no manners, no self-awareness and most importantly no come-back for when I say:

"Excuse me, I was two streets down when I heard you chewing. A friend of mine brushes his teeth for audio books, he could probably set you up for some exaggerated eating scenes. I could give him a call if you're interested"

They probably don't even realise, they'll live a spoon-biting life of ignorance as people like me seethe.

I ordered Tales of Eternia today.

It was Sunday yesterday, retards roam the streets on Sundays, getting ice creams with their over-empathetic carers. There's nothing genuine about those 'caring' guys either. Socks with sandals, beige shirts, it's all an elaborate ruse, a disguise worn whilst out taking the handicapped for their weekly airing. Needless to say that balloons get lost, ice creams get dropped and wet-wipe manufacturers are kept in business. People say it takes a certain type of person to care for another person, I agree, it's the same type of person who stands on a street corner and holds a sign up indicating the direction of the nearest macdonalds.

I didn't post yesterday because I was too busy wondering about the use of a sentient sign-post in this day and age. Especially since most high-street outlets are adorned with a perfectly efficient means of advertising themselves. It's usually about 12ft above street level, projecting out at a 90 degree angle with shop-specific information (usually a name) printed on it.

It doesn't matter now though, because it's the day after yesterday.


I've been playing a lot of GTA4 recently, especially if two days of consecutive game time qualifies as 'a lot'. I'm gonna make a little list of things I enjoy doing in the game, I'll see if i can add bullet-points, if I can't then I'll use some sort of numeric ordering. Although ideally, I'd like you to think the numbers are bullet-points, because I think numbered lists are quite tacky.


1. Riding the subway. It's weird, when blitzing along the road in some Ferrari look-a-like, Liberty City can actually feel pretty compact. It doesn't really feel like a very big step-up from GTA3 with all 14 of its major roads. I think it's a speed thing, some cars in GTA4 seem to bend and distort space when traveling at speeds in excess of 60mph. Not only does the map become unreadable, but Liberty City itself morphs from a sprawling metropolis into a cul de sac with a co-op and maybe a few competing hairdressers that you can't go into...
It's not until you take things a bit slower, walk places and most importantly use the public transport, that the real scale of the game kicks in. GTA4 has a badass train network, it's got like 8 different lines that all interchange at Easton station. Catching the train on the A8 line from the subway nearest to the apartment in algonquin...and then riding it all the way through broker and back into Easton is outstanding. The sheer size of the game is amazing.
pro-tip: pushing people in front of incoming trains is hilarious, especially when they're on the phone. Or old.

2. Taking a brick into a strip club. There's a strip-club in Bohan with a buggered wall, it provides the devious with an ample supply of masonry that can be used as flak in over-arm projections. I often take my brick into the strip-club and pummel the bouncer with it. The strippers tend to flee at this point, I tend to follow them.
It rained on one occasion, so I followed the semi-naked girl as she jogged along the road. She eventually summoned an umbrella, in my attempt to seek sanctuary with her under the umbrella's protective spread, I knocked her slightly and she stumbled into a motorbike.

3. Running the Gauntlet. There are a few busy roads out and about, I like traversing them with the camera facing away from the approaching traffic. It's quite scary, especially when a its an ambulance that ends up side-shafting you at some ungodly speed. One particular occasion saw me attempting to cross a 3-laner near a junction. An unseen car knocked me a good 50 yards into the path of a Futo which proceeded to mangle Niko horribly.

4. Quelling illicit activity with gravity aided water immersion. I take back what I said about vigilantism, I can see the attraction to it. I like swimming up to groups of people on piers and going all out Namor on them, breaking up any potential drug-deal by pushing them all in the water. This works especially well at the heli-tours place, there's a good 20ft drop to enjoy before they hit the drink there.

5. Using a coffee-cup to beat someone into submission. The pick-up and throw shit idea was inspired, I've scarcely had more fun than picking up a coffee-cup and using it to drop a business man 20ft away. This is great when people are walking down the stairs and their attempts to fight back are only met with further coffee-cups. They die eventually, though, which is a shame. Kudos to Rockstar for filling coffee-cups with lead soup.

6. Pinching pedestrians between precariously positioned parked cars. There's a lot of fun to be had nipping people between bits of the environment and the front of a car. There's also an art to it, you have to nudge the pedestrians just right to have them sliding on the bonnet of the car and then maneuver your vehicle into position without losing the beached git on the hood. This is best done accidentally, after having botched a stunt jump.

I could think of more but this blog post is already quite sizable.

The Manhattan project

I watched Watchmen, I thought it was quite good. I never really rated the source material though.

The film made me think about vigilantism as a whole. I decided to look into it and extracted the below definition from a well-known, often vandalised online encyclopedia:

"A vigilante is a person who violates the law in order to exact what they believe to be justice from criminals, because they think that the criminal will not be caught or will not be sufficiently punished by the legal system."

A vigilante by definition, is exactly what the vigilante works to prevent. It's this contradiction that has me scratching my head and wondering, how do comic writers manage to evoke credibility from these kinds of people? These people are as bad, if not worse than the people they seek justice from.

Most real-life vigilantes live in council estates, they're the fuck-mouthed dregs of society. They drink in fug-filled pubs and scorn immigrants and liberalism, flaunting their lack of education as if it is in itself a liberation from the confines of do-gooder indoctrination. Their short-sighted condemnation of every miscreant in the country merely highlights their lack of forethought...without criminals, they are nothing...their complaints are void and they have to live in their shitty house, with their shitty family until they can blame their shitty lives on someone else.

I googled 'vigilante' and this was the second hit

I hate thug mentality, I hate how lesser humans rally together for issues that ultimately have no influence on their lives. It's unnatural, it's offensive. A mix of flamboyant posturing and sociopathic ignorance. I do enjoy the drivel the above site preaches, some armchair hard man thinking he can solve the world's problems with glorified witch hunts...Notice the varied outcomes of actual bodily harm that make up the site's border. Quaint, wouldn't you say?

Real-life vigilantes are pathetic rejects of the Dirty Harry generation, a time too young to have experienced the 'better' times they reference in their incompetent overtures. So why isn't Batman comatose on a sofa in a council house somewhere, with a heavily-circled copy of the Sun newspaper lying open next to 6 empty cans of cheap lager?

Because that wouldn't sell comics would it?

Preferred mode of transport: the stroll.

My razor needs a new blade, the last 3 months has seen a notable speed decrease. What was once mach 3, is now about 30 miles an hour. It feels like I'm shaving with a cheese grater, or a Brillo pad made of twisted ring-pulls. I look forward to it though, growing anticipation has me misjudging brush strokes and white-washing the area around my mouth with Aquafresh.

The act itself is worth waiting for, every follicle on my chin and cheeks screaming in protest, demanding that i stop being such a cheap bastard as i crudely harvest my face. It's remarkable, it's like self-harm but condensed. I could market it to the nervous and self-deprecating, a means to feel alive for five minutes without following the path to exsanguination in a bath full of cloudy water.

I need a drink. I've spent most of this afternoon walking a mud-flecked path running parallel to a road. Seeing the same car go past 100 times only to realise that it wasn't the same car at all, but innumerable variations by different manufacturers.

Everything's the same. We pursue convenience only to be trapped by it. There's a sense of absolute, bland uniformity here now and It's depressing.

It almost makes me want to go out and buy a Twix, so i can hate myself for furthering the rampant propagation of 'same'.

Simply because I don't 'do' lyrics.

Breezy today, and gray. At least three streets smelt of pesto, but that's probably unrelated. I overuse fullstops when I'm being descriptive. I'm going for the punchy, over-punctuated style often found in books, etc.

My friend wants me to go up to Leeds on the 14th of April, he's doing the DJ vibe in some club or another. I have my misgivings, however, namely occupying an unknown club and sparking meaningless banter with sub-northeners: 'Hi, I'm friends with the DJ'. They'll probably bottle me, then draw lots on my clothing whilst I sleep soundly amidst shard-glass islands in an ever-growing pool of skull brine.

^ worst-case scenario.

Best-case scenario would see me being a hit with the leading British techno-mongs, scoring with a depressed girl and being vomited on. Then, when my friend's finished his set, we can wade through the numbed throng. Some of whom will be enjoying their 10th '15 minutes' of the night with noticeable insufflation burn. The early hours will be spent in a quiet corner, discussing the 'old days' over pints of something foamy and nut-brown.

can't wait.

Blaze Fielding? You're not foreign are you?

Quick one today, yeah? I'm busy.

I found a mega drive controller in a one of my boxes today. Coincidentally my friend lost his when we were young.

Streets of rage, a veritable yakult bottle of nostalgia milk. I remember playing as Adam on my friend's mega drive, Adam was black, so it was probably controversial back in 1992.

I had a master system, which was the malnourished nephew the mega drive never talked about in public, for fear of having a useless relative tarnish its image. I had the lightgun, though, and rambo, so no-one could tell me anything about pixel count or processing speeds...I could shoot dudes in the fucking mouth if I wanted to. I could also brag about my dust-flap if the bickering got heavy.

But can you remember the boss at the end of stage 2? Bit of a step up from a blue ensemble with a boomerang, wouldn't you agree? He had claws, metal ones...and the enhanced speed that obviously comes from wearing them.

He was the game's reality check, He'd seen how you'd been slowly making your way through the lower echelons of a society gone to the dogs. Making light work of the henchmen with nothing more than a few pieces of fruit and one-use-only disposable knives. Knives, that once thrown, displayed a gravity-mocking trajectory that would probably allow the point a complete circumvention of the globe, ultimately leading to a brutal case of poetic justice as you're stabbed in the back by the knife you threw several months ago.

He knew you'd be feeling pretty good about yourself, 'streets of rage? HA, more like streets of piss-easy'. He knew you weren't even aware that pallete-swapping existed in this game, having spent the last 15 minutes punch, punch, knee, kicking your way through an army of denim-clad gingers with grown-out crew cuts.

But then the music drops out, switches and comes in again. A new beat, opening with a menacing siren, quickly spreading out into a Snap!-esque bell-a-thon.

He had you on the ground before the cops could blitz the side-order with the arcing, tube-born fire of too little too late. It's only fire, 'clawry man' probably uses a blowtorch to shave his balls.

There's no real moral to this story, well there is...

Don't let your friend die whilst playing co-op.

The Live®! spot: issue 1.

Controversy this week as A.J. McLean, boy of former boy band Backstreet boys announced on his website that he'd be retiring from the music industry after learning that the anti-rabies medication he has been taking is 'changing him'.


McLean, far-right performing with the rest of band 'new kids on the block' demonstrating the demented gurn of a man gone to shit.

McLean (real name 'Arnold Johan Heimenschitz') 45, contracted rabies 8 years ago after having engaged in bestial congress with a roadie at a show for the marsupial people of Guava. McLean hid the condition for five years, citing a reemergence of his childhood dyslexia as the cause of his new-at-the-time animalistic behaviour. His parents, Eukele and Ulf Heimenschitz refused to comment on their son's condition, but we heard them talking to family friends whilst spying on their kitchen:

"It wasn't until he passed up dinner in favour of chewing a piece of furniture. That's when we knew something was wrong."

Former band mate Justin Timberlake spoke at the height of McLean's transformation 3 years ago: "It wasn't a secret to us, y'know? me and the boys knew something was up, we'd been tight for years. N*Sync was more than just a manufacturment - we was family. A.J. was like my second cousin, we knew each other more than we knew ourselves, yo. I knew he was a different man after Guava, it wasn't just the dehydration either, he smelt a bit like wet dog, so we took him to the vet."

It was that very vet that recommended that McLean visit a doctor. The doctor in this case being Dr. Mark Habijjenyeh, head of the 'Characterising Rabies As a Problem and Funding Advanced Research into Treatments' group, or C.R.A.P.F.A.R.T. Habijjenyeh prescribed Mclean with a revoltionary, and previously untested drug known as 'Poblace'.

After several successful tours, and an album of cover songs that performed moderately well in the former Yugoslavia, Mclean was thought to be on the mend. It wasn't until last Tuesday, that whilst arriving at a Farscape convention in Bourbon, Tennessee, McLean partook in one his most mortifying displays of vulnerability yet, as he fell stupidly from a 3-inch curb and vomited what appeared to be a collection of curious pills lodged in a partially digested kebab. A spokesman for Mclean says that he's had to do all of the star's talking, as McLean can only "(talk) gibberish about polygon density and ears".

Close family friend Jarvis Cocker agreed to do an interview, but upon arriving refused to comment immediately. After his 13th consecutive cigarette, however, Cocker sneered and belched something incomprehensible before pandering out of the room like a eunuch on smack.

While it wouldn't be the first time a pop-star has gone off the rails and blamed it on dodgy meds, It'll be the first time it's happened at a Farscape convention. If nothing else, A.J's current social demise merely highlights with a great poignancy the beast that resides in all of us.

Following this story, Dr. Habijjenyeh stated that Mclean's anomalous behaviour was due to what he called a 'queer batch' of Poblace, and that everything should be okay now. After being questioned as to the future of McLean, Habijjenyeh merely said that "While there are no plans at present to cure the disease, we are looking into more preventative measures."





All pictures and names owned by their respective things. We at The Live®! spot, namely I, Rogero, can not be held responsible for any misinterpretations that may occur as a result of reading the above lies.

"It made my mouth all dirty" sobs nameless celebrity.

In the absence of conventional reading material, I tend to read shampoo bottles whilst on the toilet. The sizable list of ingredients that go into make something as trivial as shampoo is quite startling. How much formic acid is really needed in a means to wash your hair? I'll endeavor to answer that question, and hopefully many others when i go for my second of the day some time this evening.

I just spent 2 minutes scouting out 'hot' 'celeb' 'gos' to make this place a little less 'bluergh' and more 'phat bangsworthy' and 'large'. It should come naturally, especially after my stint with WMF, but it doesn't. I can identify most of the in-crowd, but not why they're 'in'.

My ignorance of the undeservedly famous aside, I can't seem to find anything of worth. Especially not since Chris Brown failed to utilise the 'loose wiring atop 3rd flight of stairs' excuse to wangle himself out of trouble. At least then there'd be potential for an O-J-Jizzle 'The Juice' Simpson style confession novel, penned by Brown under the pseudonym 'Bris Crown'.

There's nothing much--actually, I'm not done with the Bris Crown idea yet, I shall run with it. Below is potential excerpt from the now redundant novel:

"...So me dragd bitch to d crib, bitch wuz unconchis. so I did her yet another severe physical discourtesy to make sure, before I left her, broken, at the bottom of the stairs. Bitchz gum wuz lying at tongue's length from her leaking mouth. I got d hook-up on the poleece, an put sum water roun mines eyes..."

The differentiation between Brown's and the ghostwriter's contributions are clear.

There's nothing (else) to report really...Jade Goody is still terminally ill, Cheryl Cole climbed a mountain, Gary Barlow hired a plane and Lily Allen got her hair cut. I'm wasting my time trying to be down with current affairs because amongst the viscous syrup of lies, the truth shines out like a glistening phallus: I don't care.






**Update** To combat any inferiority I may feel well confronted by a fat-tongue who believes my celebriknowledge is in question, I'll make up my own news, much like every tabloid scrawl in existence.

Obscurity by disassociation and other phrases that I made-up.

I can't help but come over all philo-theo-sopho-logical when mouth-pulping three minstrels. The carnauba wax, often used as a glazing agent, could trigger a small metabolic reaction in one of my glands which in turn stimulates the production of the fabricated chemical: diohydrenalmalhankypopsmythe...a chemical known to be both the cause, and result of over-thinking.

Most people claim to suffer from a mild mental imbalance, an infraction of absolute optimal brain/thought function. Most people use their disemblic 'condition' for endearing purposes, a means to appear more or less human to an audience - a quirk that's far less offensive than shadow limb syndrome or AIDS.

The most commonly abused brain-wrong is 'OCD' a condition popularised by Monk; protagonist of the tv show bearing the same name. The debilitating disease has scarcely seen a more prolific representation of itself since Monk was seen avoiding cracks in the pavement, or, even more harrowing, wearing gloves at a crime scene. What was once thought to be a horrifying condition, separating your subconscious into two or more factions, each whispering maliciously to each other...or being an absolute slave to seemingly asinine compulsions...has been proven wrong. OCD is a condition now suffered by anyone who has a clean room, or desire to catalogue their CD collection in a logical order.

People who are in mental institutions, suffering from alleged OCD were clearly misdiagnosed, as OCD is something 90% of myspace not only lives with - but is actually proud of.

I hope delusional schizophrenia is downgraded to a class C (socially acceptable) mental illness too, then maybe I can tell you about Jeremy.

A clock-work...clock.

In what is now considered to be my personal best; I managed to play ignorant to my alarm clock this morning for a total of 32 minutes.

My alarm clock is analogue. A primitive creature of cogs and gears, it is not strong on 'people how' and as such, does not know when to take a break from its duty. Once the alarm starts, it won't stop until an hour passes or you (in most cases 'I')stop it. A beast of routine is my alarm clock, a feverish slave to compulsion...and you'll have to excuse my impending anthropomorphism, but Mr. Alarm, you are an arse. (a human arse, if the 'mr.' wasn't clear enough)

Being late is a hassle, mainly because the late accumulates further late, so you can never be X minutes late if X is equal to the original quantity of late. My 32 minutes grew another 25 in the time I spent being late, that's a total of 57 minutes.

"Almost an hour late" <--- words. Words spoken by the person expecting me at least 57 minutes earlier. Needless to say I'm in a bit of bother as i type, but that's the least of my worries...

For 32 minutes this morning I was subjected to noise torture and I have absolutely no recollection of it...nor can i possibly fathom the impact it'll have on me sexually.

Going in with a triumvirate, going out with an off-the-wagon 'milf' with gravity scars.

TPWWTW"T" has recieved an unprecedented amount of input from me today, with this addition bringing the total post count to a mammoth: 3. Take my seeming enthusiasm with a pinch of seasoning, however, as it is Sunday.

Sunday is, to me, as it is to many people; a day automatically wasted regardless of what you do. Any task started, completed or abandoned on a Sunday becomes a Sunday task. A task on par with gardening, painting a bathroom or making an unusual sandwich. Despite a task's potential, if it is a Sunday child in birth or death, it will receive the same conversational 'downroar' as any of the aforementioned.

You're looking at a Sunday task, in fact, if you've gotten to this sentence by way of logical progression, you're reading my third of the day. In truth, despite its outrageously catchy name, I don't expect TPWWTW"T" to interest me for much more than a week.

That said, I would like to raise a question in a way that would imply that I have more than one reader...

Do you automatically graduate to MILF status if you've served more than 20 years in the Porn industry?

I'm just wondering if attaining the title of MILF should be based on sexual attraction, or something a person has earned through work - like a pension plan. I'm leaning more to the latter, simply because I personally don't find some MILFs attractive.

Watching women who's facial plastic has semi-melted after years under merciless studio lights, or being able to see the gap between newly stretched breast-skin and the beginning of an implant....does almost nothing for me.

your mum, however...

Art as it should be: moving, but in a relevant way.

Naturally, the most pressing issue in my life right now is the correct orientation of this prose-page* as i wish for it to be as pleasing to the eye as it would be to the prostate...assuming the page was cylindrical, wipe-clean and made of material that would give slightly, but maintain its overall shape when devoured by an unforgiving daisy.

Keen analysts will have noticed that so far, I've gone for an unobtrusive, baby pink and blue on white approach. Of course, I'm taking cues from just about everyone who thinks combining blue and pink really shatters the boundaries of perceived human creativity. With that in mind, I alone cannot take credit if you respond to my word-screen* in a manner similar to this:






*I've decided that people who over use the word 'blog' are not the type of people i wish to be associated with...as?...whatever

For the benefit of you.

Just so you know; I'm not new to Blogger, I know the rules. So if you prowl the thickets of the site like a demented flasher, ready to pounce sweatily onto posts laced with faux-naive drivel penned by an 'innocent' with a vagina slack enough to know that being coy only highlights the extreme irony in her life....well, I'm sorry, friend. Try Livejournal.

I know Blogger.com enough to know that Blogger.com is decidedly more 'urban' than most blog-outlets, and that any introspective posts or ideas will be shunned heavily. Any threat of real emotion will be quelled almost instantaneously by a battalion of bloggers armed with 'lil' prefixes, and the ability to interchange letters and numbers at will.

I'm just saying, derogatory insinuations aside, that here you'll find references to Sneaker-culture and mixtapes will outweigh italic-strewn monologues glorifying bullet for my valentine. So again, if you came looking to find angst, puberty issues or a general disdain for orthodontic appliances - you're a berk, and you should know better.

I'm just going to write about things.

All that aside, my name is mentioned somewhere underneath this.