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.

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.

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.

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