Sleepwalking my way through life: February 2007

Freud would have a field day...

Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The bike was spinning dangerously on one wheel, the occupier teetering in the air in deep concentration. If he twisted an inch in any direction he’d plummet to the earth with a bone shuddering force, and he did not want that at all. The man watched him with a half smile – amazed at the feat being displayed in front of him, but at the same time nursing the uneasy feeling in his stomach. He had seen this biker before.

Another bystander was standing in awe too, and he ran over to the biker as soon as he had finished his trick. The biker laughed behind yellow tinted shades and lifted the rim of his hat – in answer to the bystander’s question – to reveal a healing scab on his forehead above his right eye. The bystander squealed with delight, but the man stood stark still. He recognised the biker, and glanced around nervously, deciding to leave.

He swivelled on his heel, leaving the biker and bystander behind him, and froze in his tracks. She was leaning against a motorbike a few feet away, her arms crossed and her eyes watching him from under the brim of a dark hat. She looked different, but he could tell it was her. The stomach dropped from under him, but he kept composure and watched her too.

A few seconds forced through the tension between them, the wind sifting through their dark hair.

He smiled.

-Don’t I get a hug?

I woke up with a start. Cold sweat clung to my clothes to my skin and I swallowed desperately at a dry throat. After I calmed myself down I sat in silence, wrapped in my bed sheet, before I laid back down and fell asleep.

Going out guns-a-blazing

Friday, February 23, 2007
The point of this essay was to critically discuss the idea that the rich and the poor get what they deserve; and by looking at income, health and various other features along the way I have come to the conclusion that in some cases they do get what they deserve, and in some cases they do not. This may be an anti-climax of a conclusion, but I found trying to define the idea of rich and poor too tasking to complete with confidence, and whether they deserved their financial status or not even harder. It is unfair to lump everyone into two opposing groups and questioning whether they deserve something or not – questioning if someone deserves something demands a personal look into that individual’s life to determine if they have the merit to have what they do. You cannot generalise people who could be so different in nature.

The idea that the rich get what they deserve really depends on how the rich acquired their wealth. Did they come into money quite suddenly? Did they inherit land and wealth from family? Or did they work for their wealth with blood sweat and tears? Whether they deserve it or not must be able to be determined by how they achieved their wealth.

There are three main types of rich people; there are people who earned their fortune through hard work and business moves; there are people who come into wealth suddenly by a lottery win, or a sudden breakthrough with a band; and there are people who achieved their fortune through inheritance and did not work for it at all. The first example is most common in modern day life, with our society dominated by capitalism and the need for people to try and make money; the second one is fairly common too, with the rise of instant success of many music bands and books; and the latter example is still around today, but was much more common in the past with the aristocracy.

It is obvious that the most deserving of these three types would be the people who built their money up from scratch by working and manipulating business and their profession. They have earned their money, and should, therefore, be entitled to the benefits that come from spending it. The second type would also be deserving of their wealth, as they have done something to merit their wealth – even if it is just from buying a lottery ticket. But the final type are the ones who, mostly, would not deserve the often large amounts of wealth they have; people who are born into money do not have the modesty or humility to appreciate their money.

This same idea can be reversed for poor people. How did they fall into their pit of destitution? What are they doing to rectify their situation? There are people who are poor because they lost all their money in debt, there are people who lost it all to drugs, there are people who gambled it away. When looking at statistics it is impossible to discern one from the other, so who is to say that those people deserve and impoverished life?

Without taking a more in depth look at individual people it is impossible to determine whether or not they “deserve” their wealth. In short, I have come to the conclusion that the claim that states the rich and poor get what they deserve to be grossly without merit.

I think that I’m slowly realising that 5am is not the best time to write an essay.

Hooray for masochism

Thursday, February 22, 2007
I hate these moments the most. When the eyes dilate and the heart begins it’s rapid assault to pound you to the ground. The moisture that filled the mouth and loosened the tongue – the tongue that licked grinning, malicious lips – is gone, leaving the small taste of nothing. The stomach drops, and drops, and drops and the insides of the throat feel like a bungee cord at its peak. The hairs on the arms stand and sway and the sounds around are dulled by the vacuum. The gaze you once had fixated wanders and fades and blurs and melds into colours that sparkle with mediocrity. There is a blob. Something is moving.

You stupid fuck.

The blob, swinging in and out of focus, looks offended. But you weren’t talking to it.

You sit back and fall for an eternity into your chair. The leather envelopes and folds and you sink and sink and drown in all the open air. Gravity pins the arms and legs in an unmoving hell. The room spins and the head lolls on to the chest. All is lost. End everything now. Now.

And it stops.

The room swings back into focus, the sounds return to their sharp acuity, and your limbs feel like your own again. The blob is a person, a person with an angry look and darting eyes. Your mouth creaks into a smile and you shake it off, like you always do. You smile and shake and go upstairs and let your hand quiver when you force it through the wall, when you plunge scissors into it.

You goddamn stupid fuck.

I hate these moments, these points of weakness that hold your guts and heart hostage to ravenous animals. I hate the way they sneak up on you, I hate the way they come and go so suddenly and violently, I hate they way the disappear in moments leaving a wake of madness. I hate the way it knows exactly where to hit – the exact weak point in the armour that has taken years to build. I hate when the animal digs its claws into my insides and tears at them with hungry delight.

Sometimes I can’t help but feel disgusted with myself.

Barman! A pint of O- for the gentlemen here!

Tuesday, February 20, 2007
There was the slightest of nips – a small sting that travelled under the skin – and it was in. The clear tube flicked to red and travelled over the bed out of my sight. I looked up to see a benevolent face above me; teeth shining white and laughter wrinkles shining black, eyes like a crystalline sea. It said something, the lush red lips parted in a natural smile, and I nodded as it wandered away, ready to see over another soul.

I flexed my hand gently. My muscles tensed and relaxed rhythmically, following a slower tempo to my heart. I looked around the room – slowly, the light headedness was kicking in – and looked at the beds around me. At least a dozen of them were arranged around the hall, each holding a figure similar to mine in their purple softness. Each figure was doing the same as I; flexing and relaxing their hands.

I let my head rest and I idly gazed at the soft lights hanging from the ceiling. Three for the price of one, I thought whimsically to myself. I am saving three people. I am giving them a fighting chance. Within thirty five days, up to three people may be alive because of me.

Minutes passed as I chuckled to myself at the possibilities. The benevolent face returned and smiled that smile that reminded me of outside. Another sting – the slightest of nips – and I was fine. She spoke soft words and gave me some juice.

Three human beings.

Give blood today.

Oh yes

Saturday, February 17, 2007
I'm back, bitches.

Overheard in Uni

Friday, February 16, 2007
Hopefully, with any luck, my internet will be up and running tonight. Although I know something will go wrong and we’ll end up waiting another week, I cannot help but sit with numb excitement.

“Look, I’m starving. Can we get something to eat when we reach town?”

“We don’t need something to eat when we get to town. We have… these!”



“I did not skip breakfast to sit with you on a train and eat chocolate chip cookies.”

“How about chocolate chip cookies and a sip of my capri sun?


“I’m listening.”


“Spiderman is shit.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, careful about your subject matter now.”

“He’s right, Spiderman is pretty crap.”

“You traitor.”


“So who’s better, Roger Moore or Sean Connery.”

“Timothy Dalton.”

“Who the fuck is that?”


“Anyone want some socks?”


“I’m going to buy some and I’m wanting to know if anyone else wants in on this once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

“On socks?”

“Hey, don’t mess with socks.”

“Socks, like Spiderman, are shit.”

“Oh, you did not just insult my Spiderman socks!”

Ode to John Donne

Thursday, February 15, 2007
“Valentines day, eh?”

He looked up at me, a nervous smile appearing on his face.

“Tell me about it.”

We returned our attention to the glass cases in front of us – the jewellery enclosed behind them gleaming at us in the light. I leaned to try and have a better look at something, but I quickly pulled my face back from the glass and immediately rubbed off the smudge mark my nose left.

“So what are you getting her?”

I looked back at him, the nervous smile still playing on his face and the slightest sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“I was thinking a necklace or a bracelet or something.” I replied, indicating the sparkling necklaces lain out before me. “I’m not too sure though, how about you?”

He stuck a thumb at the section he was staring at. “I only got one hint; ‘Get me a new ring’. Her old one’s scratched to hell so she wants a new one.”

“I wish I had some kind of hint…”

“Sir?” One of the attendants walked over to my companion, carrying a small tray with a dozen rings lined up. “Here are the engagement rings you were asking for; would you like to step over here to have a closer look?”

I raised an eyebrow. “A new ring?”

He smiled again – a genuine one, no nervousness this time – and shrugged.

“I thought I’d give her a surprise.”

I looked at him in awe as he wandered off to the counter and picked laboriously examined rings. I returned to my choice and after ten minutes I found the perfect necklace and earring combo. As I left the shop with my purchase in tow I saw my companion holding a ring against the light to see it shine.

“Good luck.” I said on my way past. He gave me a nod, and I left the shop to join the multitude of men wandering the shopping centre – looking aimlessly for the right gift.

Happy Valentines day folks.

Back in the day...

Monday, February 12, 2007
An update on my technical situation: Fucked.
Regular contact is being made with the persons responsible, and it seems that I could have regular internet access by this Friday (i.e. another five days) – but you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t get my hopes up.

After staying up to the wee hours of the morning polishing off a word here, a paragraph there, I finally finish my English essay. Staying up until three am trying to squeeze an extra two hundred words out of an already over stretched topic point almost fills me with a sense of nostalgia.

Despite the soul crushing stress and pressure I was under last year, I have to say that – to an extent – I miss writing my dissertation. I even miss it to an extent where I read books and think “Blimey,” (that’s right, I say blimey) “this book would make a fantastic topic for my dissertation.” And I even jot down a plan or two and play with the idea of sending it to my old English teacher for a quick analysis before I throw the sheet away, laughing at my nonsense.

Although I do miss the late night writing sessions (and more than my share of all-nighters) I always love this time the most; this relaxing limbo between essay due dates. This is when I can finally sit back and chill out with my coffee as I plough into a new book, thinking idly that I still have eleven days until my next essay is due, I have plenty of time to sit back and relax.

Of course in eight days time the process will start all over again and I will bury myself in the library trying to learn five weeks of lectures in two days.

Yes, it will be fun.

Technical difficulties

Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Note: This post is actually being written in the comfort of my own home – where I still have no internet – and will be posted the next day during a lecture. Maybe during English or Sociology or something.

Finally, after five days of being without the internet, I lug my Lapdancer into university to leech off their wireless network. Sadly my home is still severed from the world wide web, and I am left with using precious (ha!) lecture time to give a quick update on my current situation.

The ironically pathetic thing is that along with my sudden lack of internet I have a sudden urge to blog. I find myself spending the train ride to uni in a daydream of rants and topics I could explore. I could go on for hours about passports and debit cards and the astounding amount of books I need to read. But no. I am cruelly blocked off from my favourite and most used outlet, forcing me to retreat into written word and other offline ways of expressing my frustrations.

With any luck, the internet back home will correct itself within a few days and all will be back to normal. Also, with any luck, my back won’t snap under the strain of carrying the Lapdancer to and fro university every day (even though I love her/lust after her in every possible way, even I cannot deny that she is a heavy lass).

Oopsie daisies

Thursday, February 01, 2007
Due to a technical error (nothing to do with me this time), I will be offline for an undetermined amount of time. Blogging will be sporadic at best, so you’re going to have to try and get by without me. I know. It’ll be hard.

Check out the following for good musings while I’m away.

Banana Theory
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

Also, due to a bizarre twist of events, things around here could be changing. Soon. Eventually.