Sleepwalking my way through life

The End

2007-05-03T14:38:00.001+01:00

Hello. I'm Joe, a 15 year old geek from Glasgow. Well I don't think I'm a geek but since that's the general opinion of all my friends I guess I'll go with that. What else? I guess that I can start with what I like.

That was almost three years ago, when I first logged on to Blogger and crafted my first and very badly written post. I thought it was brilliant, funny, and that any moment I would be snapped up by a publishing company. It’s amazing now to look back and see what my style was like, when I shortened words and said “itz” instead of “it’s” (I still shudder inwardly whenever I read that). And that was only in the beginning of my quest to plague the internet. Six hundred posts later and here I am, mission accomplished.

They say that one of the hardest parts to writing a story would be coming up with a good ending. To end a story you need a conclusion, or a cliff-hanger, or a resolution of some sort just to bring the arc to a close. But not always. Sometimes the story can go on forever, with infinite amounts of plot twists and revelations, but the narrative has to end – otherwise what’s really important will be bogged down with too much text. In the sea of words the reader will miss the development, the growth of character. All the metaphors, imagery, word choice will be lost in the never-ending story.

When the narrative runs its course, it doesn’t mean the end of the story. The characters will continue to live their lives. They’ll continue to smile, laugh, cry, hate, live and die – they just don’t need a narrative to tell it anymore.

Hello. I’m Joe, an 18 year old writer from Glasgow. Well, I don’t consider myself a writer just yet, but it seems to be the general opinion of a lot of my friends so I’ll go with it anyway. What else? I guess I can write whatever I like really.

And write I will.

The soft whispers of the night

2007-04-30T14:15:00.000+01:00

There was the soft rustle of bed sheets and the mattress uttered a welcoming groan as I made myself comfortable. The room was dark with the scratching of strange creatures and reverberating thuds from downstairs, but the bed was reassuringly warm. She moved beside me, stretching her arm against my chest and lifting her head to welcome my arm under it. Her head rested in the crook of my shoulder, and I breathed in her bubblegum hair with deep risings of my chest. Socks had been kicked off, and pyjamas hung loosely from our bodies. I breathe in and out and feel her head rise and fall with my breath, and I crack a smile I can’t stop smiling. I slip round behind her, wrapping my arms round her shoulder and kissing the nape of her neck, hearing her let out quick gasps of excited breath as I work my way down to her bare shoulder and back up again. Her skin is velvet smooth and seems to shine despite the lack of light, and as I run a hand from her knee up to her flat stomach (over a pair of stylish girl-boxers) it seems to shine more intensely. She twists round and smiles at me – that smile – and I can see teeth nibbling at her lip as long black hair tumbles over her face. She leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek, the skin on my chest tingling as it touches the skin of her arm, her hand softly caressing my other cheek with fingers dipping slightly into my hair. I can feel her heartbeat through my skin as our legs intertwine and my heart is soon audible, thumping with excitement and lust as she kisses my chest. Her beautifully shining eyes look up at me with a feline twinkle, and the shadow of a devious smile on her lips.

When I wake up I’m back in my own bed, a patch of sun streaming from the unclosed blinds and warming my face. I sit there, unmoving in the blindingly comfortable sun, and take stock of the previous night’s events. Did it happen? Did I imagine it? Was it all pretend? It doesn’t really matter, I thought languidly, not in the end.

I picked up my phone and dialled a long number, waiting patiently for it to be picked up, and when it was I laughed and I smiled.

‘You were right you bastard.’ I said, hanging up.

I put the phone back on my bedside table and let my head become engulfed by the pillow before falling back asleep.

A parting to remember

2007-04-25T12:26:00.000+01:00

“Now,” he said, his upmarket English accent shining through with every syllable, “in English, it’s possible to analyse any text. Whether it be a book, a script for a film, or this…”

He switched on the overhead projector, making the wall behind him light up and a few lines of silhouetted text float in mid air. We read the words slowly before recognition dawned and muffled giggles ran up and down the lecture hall. The lecturer, looking smart in his suit jacket and pinstriped trousers, pulled out a red marker and set to work.

“As always, when it comes to poetry, we mark out how many syllables are in each line; in this one it comes to ten, nine, seven and eight – so we can rule it out as being a sonnet of any kind. However, due to the rhythm we cannot rule out it being a ballad. Now, can anyone well me what we do next?”

The hall was thick with a stunned silence.

“We look at stresses. Starting with the polysyllabic words we can easily determine if there is an organised rhythm. So the only polysyllabic words here are here, here and here,” he said, circling ‘milkshake’ and the two instances of ‘better’. “It’s easy to see that the stress is on the ‘milk’ here, because your wouldn’t get milkshake, and the same for 'better'… but what about this line here?”

He indicated to the third line.

“Would you say it was ‘Damn right’ or ‘Damn right’?” His English accent blatantly obvious at this point “If we follow the pattern, we can see that the poem does follow the pattern of a ballad, as the third line demonstrates: ‘Damn right, it’s better than yours.’”

A few muffled laughs.

“Also, when we’re inferring like this – that’s right, we’re inferring – we can speculate on the meaning behind this poem. It seems to be that this girl makes very good milkshakes, milkshakes that attract a lot of men. And, it seems to be, that she makes milkshakes better than this other girl, who she offers to teach for a charge.”

We all laugh; the lecturer’s naiveté seemingly genuine as he looked at us with his innocently bald head. For a moment I actually thought he believed that the song was only about some girl’s milkshake making abilities, until he started speculating what was meant by milkshake. His gleam of innocence was quickly lost after he gave numerous examples (including felching) as the definition behind it.

Best. English lecture. Ever.

The science of sleep

2007-04-23T12:52:00.000+01:00

I have a Psychology test coming up within the next hour. But, instead of studying diligently, I am being forced to Blog.

I'm having the strangest dreams these days. Little situations and scenes that invade my subconscious and make my eyes dance under their lids. I experience them in complete reality, not knowing their dreams until the sun filters through my blinds and put to light the farce of my late night experiences.

There was an occasion where my brother and I were relaxing on a couch watching Pulp Fiction when we were recruited to find a missing cat. Grudgingly we searched the mansion and found a secret attic full of stuffed cats, when we confronted the owner she pulled out a sleek silver 9mm and popped a cap in Chris' ass, so to speak.

Before I knew it I was on the run, stumbling down Bergen main street in an attempt to flee my pursuer. I lifted an iron bar from the gutter and began hammering at glass door, yelling at them to let me in now. But too late, for when the doors finally creaked open an inch a bullet flew past my head and I shot off at a run.

Suddenly I was in the countryside, running down a long main road. I tried to wave down any and all buses, but they just sped off without giving me a second glance. With hope running out and my gun wielding pursuer closing the gap between us, I stuck out my thumb in the futile attempt to hitch-hike. A blue car, almost magically, skidded to a stop and opened its door. I clambered in, sparks flying from the door as a bullet hit it, and landed amongst a set of antique furniture.

The car drove off and the driver began conversing with me in Spanish. I explained I couldn't speak Spanish and he gave me the dirtiest of looks. That's when I woke up.

Can anyone analyse that for me? Please? Although the late night imaginings provide some form of entertainment, I am beginning to be plagued with their meanings. And they linger for hours, even days, on end in my head, with you fucking pathetic little cunt ringing in my ears as I sit on my couch and try to pierce their meaning.

Yes, Freud specialists are needed.

The settling

2007-04-19T15:18:00.000+01:00

Phone line in the flat is now up and running, now all we have to do is have the internet installed. Ha! I kid. The guy should be around soon enough to set everything up, meaning I no longer have to steal the internet from Uni and mum’s house.

I realise that it’s a bit strange that, after harping on about it for over a month, I haven’t written anything about my new flat. Well the simple answer to that is that I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted everything to be perfectly up and running before I ramble on and on about the freedom and the balcony and the room-so-big-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it. But I’ve decided not to bother with that anymore – if I wanted things to be perfect then I would never be able to write about it.

To begin with; my room. This is what it looked like after my first two days sleeping there.

But after many hours of skilled carpentry and hefty rearranging (finally, all those episodes of Changing Rooms have come in handy!) I am left with this;

(click on any image to enlarge to full size)

Beautiful is it not? I only assembled the desk last night (finishing at the wonderful time of 1am). The desk used to house the old desktop all those years ago, but after that blew up we dismantled the desk and shoved it in the garage, where it sat for a year and a half. Now, when something is out of use for a year and a half, something usually goes very wrong with it. And when I set out all the parts in my room for inspection, I realised there was something very wrong with the desk. There were no screws. The desk top, legs and brace were all there, but not a sign of a screw in sight. I asked Mum if she could search out the necessary parts, and she gave me a small bag with about a dozen different nuts, bolts and screws. So me, with my infinite knowledge of desk making (!), set to work and assembled the desk that my Lapdancer is now resting on. And I achieved this by using five – that’s right five – different types of screws. I’m expecting the poor thing to fall apart any second.

The rest of the flat is really nice too. Since all the stuff was moved in when I was in Norway, Chris had to manage and arrange. He did a good job of it too, with the place not resembling a rubbish tip when I arrived home (my room, as you can see, being the only exception). Bit by bit we’ve been tidying things up, moving this and that here and there, and generally making it home.

The whole experience of living in a flat is very exciting indeed. It’s a whole new breed of freedom that I had never experienced before. There’s no adult supervision (yes, Chris and I are 20 and 18 respectively, but we don’t count as adult) and we have complete run of the house. We can have people round without asking, we can stay out all night if we want to, we can have people fall asleep on our couch and play videogames with the next morning. At the risk of sounding too childish here, it’s just so cool.

I had some friends round at some point in the weekend for a pseudo house party, and we sat back on the couches listening to music and chatting about freckled arses. One of them sat on the couch and periodically gazed around the living room before whispering in awe “my mate has a flat”.

And it’s true. I have a flat. Hell yes.

Simplicity of a sunny day

2007-04-18T13:28:00.000+01:00

The sky was a colour I had never seen before, which is a bold claim for a former art student. Never in my life could I mix enough paint to concoct such a brilliant display of azure, purple, blue, indigo, and sparkling sapphire. Clouds that look as though they had been made from a bizarre hybrid of silk and cotton drifted by, their ice cream shapes floating in a cerulean sea. I could easily become lost in that sky. I’d be happy to let myself drown in that vast expanse of infinite.

The sun tumbled from the sky and landed on a hill of verdant grass and sleeping students, each person languidly laid out in the relaxed sun. Usually Glasgow is a cold place, with the towering buildings casting a shadow over the streets, but not here. In this clearing, this little hill of grass and trees, there was warmth that shone through to the bone.

We were taking full advantage of it. We flocked to the dried up water fountain, to the hardly used wooden benches and even to the precarious ledge that overlooked it all. We sat and we talked and we ate cocktail sausages – for these are things we do when it’s sunny. We smile. We smile more than we smile at any other time in the year, because when the weather is this perfect, even for a singular afternoon, we cannot help but smile. For a fraction of a moment, life’s problems, big and small, seem to flutter away in the breeze – the suns rays filtering through the black clouds hovering over people’s heads, giving them a flicker of light and happiness in a dark time.

I leaned back on the stone steps and lifted my legs off the steps below me. I gently swung them up and down in the serene air and closed my eye, letting the sun sink into my face and rest in the soft tissue around my smiling cheeks. I could feel the cold stone under my hands, little rocks working their way between my fingers, and a bush reached out a branch to stroke my ankle.

It reminded me, suddenly, of my very first day in Norway. Elisabeth and Marie took me on a tour round the village they lived and led me up a huge hill that served as a boundary to a fjord before leading me down the winding road on the other side. At the bottom, when we finally reached it, sat a large yellow hotel that fronted a very small stone beach populated by a few families with their kids waddling into the water – trousers rolled up to their knees and skirts tucked into their underwear. The beach, despite it being tiny, served as the gateway to the wide open fjord in front of us.

It was cold out, but there was no cloud in the sky and the sun shone brightly on the perfectly still water in front of us, except I don’t think I should call it water. It was as if the water had been replaced with nothing, and what I was gazing at was as solid as the tiny rocks moving between my fingers. The coast and the mountains on the far away shore, peaked with perfectly white snow, sat in the depths of the fjord, their summits balancing gracefully on another infinitely blue sky. There was no ripple or disturbance in the reflection, and I felt a small sinking feeling of vertigo.

The sounds that surrounded that beach were musical; the swish of a breeze, the pure ring of children’s laughter, the soft trickle of running water, the slow steady breaths of Marie beside me. These were the types of sounds you find on relaxation CDs, where you listen to calming birdsong or soothing waves to unwind after a stressful day. This was different. With those CDs there’s the ever present knowledge that the stress is still out there, that when you press that Stop button the noise of the cars and the TV and those screaming kids will magically come back. But not there; it was only the relaxing sounds to return to, only the crisp air to breathe, only that eye widening sight to see.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I picked it up, the smile playing even more on my face as I answered. I took a deep breath, absorbing the summer air whilst having that same feeling in Norway; a feeling of complete awe with total relaxation.

If only life came with subtitles

2007-04-16T13:57:00.000+01:00

Lack of updates are due to connection difficulties in my new flat (ie, the complete lack of phone line), but they’re well on their way to being fixed and we’ll have the internet up and running in no time.

-The sun shines happily down on the breezy street; the trees singing and the birds swaying in the near-summer weather. My footsteps are solid and sure as quietly ignore

[Long pause where I delete things and start again]

-Ignorance is bliss, is it not?

Out of sight, out of mind as the old proverb goes. Once upon a time the world sparkled with shining pennies and vanilla ice cream, I didn’t see the broken weeping needle on the ground, I looked away from the beggar holding his Big Issue in one hand and his dripping guts in the other, I blatantly ignored the good old buddy the pal as he dug a knife into his wrist. I was like Lily Allen in my retarded naiveté.

[Another pause. Lets start again.]

It’s like peeling off old wallpaper. Not the new kind that slides off in satisfyingly uniform strips, but the old papier-mâché wallpaper that was glued to the wall in the sixties. This wallpaper looks good to begin with, its intricate flowery patterns and little figures staring out at you – but bit by bit it begins to flake off with little suspicions of scrapes and hints of failure. Soon great gashes will score across the wall, but you ignore them. The wall is still as pretty as it always has been. But then, one day, someone comes along with a giant fucking steamer and tears the whole thing apart piece by fucking piece.

[pause]

I HATE FUCKING BLOGGERS BLOCK.

Closing time

2007-04-08T00:48:00.000+01:00

We are dotted around the dimly lit room, each doing individual things whilst listening to a compilation of slow melodies. I am sitting on the double-bed, the Lapdancer balanced on my lap as I choose the next song in line; Kiwi is beside me, playing with my watch on her wrist and occasionally pulling out her phone to text as she writes another line in her diary; and Elisabeth is on the floor, her attention wrapped up in Foamy (which we introduced to her). We are mostly silent, speaking only in the most hushed of whispers as we sit and wait.

It’s our last night here in Norway. A week has passed since I landed amongst the sparkling fjords, and soon I’ll be climbing a sickly plane to leave them. That’s why we’re silent. It’s our last night together in Norway and none of us really want to admit it. We’re just sitting up, all night, and doing whatever it is we’re doing. There are hundreds of pictures stored on my hard drive that chronicle the past week, each pixel shining with energy and happiness. Now we’re subdued. Not even half as much life shines out of us now.

I’m sad to be leaving. Really sad. I’ve had such a good time, and I really don’t want to leave all those memories behind in the past. I want to make more, and keep living them, and wear out the batteries on Elisabeth’s camera. I want to go to more parties and have more late night discussions and I want to find myself again in these verdant green hills. I want to drink in a log cabin, smoke while looking at the stars, and wake up to find pure and utter silence.

Not too long ago, when asked what my perfect house would be, I described a small lonely wooden house near the edge of a high cliff that overlooked the sea. The house would almost be a bungalow, with the attic being used for my bedroom, and a desk sat in front of large bay windows that held the sea; stretched out in all its glory. I always thought that that place was a myth, that there was no such place in the UK that could fit my specifications, even slightly, but Norway has it. Norway has it everywhere.

This place is fantastic, but my experience is not all due to my surroundings. Elisabeth and Kiwi have been indescribably more amazing than I could have imagined. We’ve grown so much closer in the past week, so at ease and comfortable with everything. I now read their blogs differently, and I know our online conversations will never be the same as they were. They’ve been incredible beyond words. I feel a sharp pang in my stomach when I have the sudden realisation that I won’t see them everyday. They won’t be there with chocolate toast when I wake up or there to attack me with avocado face mask when we’re getting ready or there to chide me when I pull a cigarette out of my pocket at night.

I’ll see them again eventually, but that really isn’t soon enough. God, I’m going to miss them.

Elisabeth highjack's a blog ++ dirty confessions

2007-04-06T18:21:00.000+01:00

Dear Flumpy

How are you? Everything mighty good and spongy? Glad to hear it. Is this thing working? Am I really guestblogging for Joe? It feels a bit strange, writing for the person you have read for about a year and stalked via MSN, emails and comment spot. This would be the time for you, the reader to think "Elisabeth is not very well preserved" (like pickles). Well, jolly good; I want you to think that, that's the charm. What charm that is I have NO idea, its just charm. Bundled up in the corner somewhere talking about that heathen TV show with Witches with demonboyfriends and babies being all magical. That's charm for you dear reader (now called Flumpy), and I'm in it.

Anywaaay, I have no idea what I am writing, Flumpy. I think I was supposed to write about Joe and Kiwiqueen being in Norway and us smothering his face with avocado, but then you got me babbling about this charm think and now you've just ruined it. I shall not forgive you, go wallop up in tuna or something.

Did you know that in one day we've had 4 seasons of weather here? Sun, Snow, Rain and Wind. One for each season plus plus. I hate it. I HATE it. I do not like to take my coat on because of the heat, then take if of because its so frigging cold and my glasses are so we and covered with rain and now my hair is all messy!!!!!1111 and so on. I hate it, they like it. This crazy stalking Scotsman likes the weather, the fjords, the hills (are alive with music ha ha ha), the little houses on tiny islands etc. The kiwieating "take it easy" girl is also adapting the Norwegian sleeping habits which warms my heart and all that jazz.

So Flumpy sweetie, is this scary you think? 3 bloggers who (almost) have never met, suddenly travels over boarders and painting each others faces with green goo and drinks coffee from a vending machine? Is that scary? Psssh. This is 2007, deary, not 1992.

Im off now, I am not good at writing to my Teddybear; so I'll just live you here, filled with questions about dirty confessions and the rumoured highjacking. I know, I am evil. Just ask Joe.

Toodles! Love ya my lovely sugarpie honeybunch coffeecanoodle!

XxXX
Elisabeth Ice Cream, oh yeah.

Jack the whore

2007-04-05T12:51:00.000+01:00

Things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours:

My desire to own a penguin has increased dramatically.

My music collection has also increased dramatically.

I have marvelled for a full fifteen minutes at the view from someone’s window.

I have discovered that Norwegian people can’t buy hard alcohol until they are 21.

I have discovered that Norwegian people have never tried Jack.

I have discovered that Norwegian people thoroughly enjoy my friend Jack.

I have experienced my first live lesbian kiss.

I, once again, kicked ass in a theological debate.

I experienced my second live lesbian kiss (documented via photos).

I had a very deep and meaningful conversation in someone’s hallway.

I drunkenly rambled about things that I thoroughly wish to forget about.

I have decided to quit smoking before I properly start.

I listened to my first bagpipe duet.

I discovered that foreigners find Scottish accents devilishly attractive.

I discovered that I really really really hate having a hangover.

The Bloggers Three

2007-04-04T15:52:00.001+01:00

The secret is out

2007-04-02T21:26:00.000+01:00

Dudes, I’m like, totally in Norway.

After two whole months of keeping it a secret, I can finally let out a long sigh and tell you all about my dastardly plans over Easter. It began a while back when it was decided that I should meet with my fellow bloggers, KiwiQueen and Elisabeth, and we desperately searched for a good time to accomplish this feat. We agreed that the best time to achieve this would be during the Easter holidays, and while Elisabeth and Kiwi made plans I consulted my university handbook and returned to the conversation with dismay; my holidays were completely different from theirs!

After a few accounts of “oh no” and “NOOOOOOOOOOO”, Elisabeth and Kiwi decided to meet up in Norway without me. I was very upset at this and proceeded to wallow in self pity. It was during my wallowing that a sudden realisation came over me… that there is in fact no such thing as the 31st of April. Overjoyed by the university’s mistake I ran back to the computer to inform my friends, but only Elisabeth was on, and I told her with a flurry of garbled words that I could come to Norway (although I think that she only understood “Norway!” “coming” “woo woo”).

And then an evil idea hatched in my mind.

Kiwi was offline. She hadn’t stayed long enough for me to inform her of the amazing news. Well, my little mind thought deviously, what if she doesn’t find out?

Oh ho ho, I thought, I think you’re on to something there old chap.

That’s because I’m you, idiot.

So I booked a flight that landed a whole day earlier than Charlotte. Elisabeth and I kept the secret from her for two whole months whilst pretending that she was the sole visitor to Norway. It was a lot more fun than I let on.

Two months and two flights later, I arrived within the fjords of Norway, gazing out the window at the scenery below.

I wandered around the Duty Free shop for a bit, picking up my good friend Jack along the way, before being searched for drugs at the gate (later I was told that I ‘fit the profile perfectly’). I stepped out into the airport and was immediately accosted by a beaming Elisabeth, who ran straight towards me and encompassed me in one hell of a bear hug.

Now; a little note about Elisabeth. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of running into her on the internet or on someone’s blog, you’ll know what I mean when I say she’s… exuberant. And I have to admit, this exuberance is not restricted to the confines of the internet – in the real world she is just as bouncy and smiley and obsessed with coffee. It’s awesome.

We exchanged pleasantries (‘Oh my god! You are real!’) and headed home in the car. They took the boring route which resulted in me gazing out the windows in awe at the rolling mountains and verdant trees. And the houses! There are houses dotted about everywhere! Climbing up and down hills, hiding between trees, surrounded by the most silent, still waters; everywhere! They’re made from long slats of wood (mostly yellow) and sport stylish balconies and come free with a homely feel. Looking across the Norwegian landscape is like looking back in time, but modern. And reading this blog is like reading something that makes sense, but is nonsensical.

And now I sit in Elisabeth’s house, leeching off her wireless connection. It’s all kinds of awesome.

KiwiQueen arrives tonight. Elisabeth and I have spent hours planning how to surprise her with my presence. Do I wait with her beside Elisabeth? Do I hang back and wait for her to spot me? Should I wear a moustache and pretend to search her bag?

Only time will tell…

What, no fool?

2007-04-01T17:03:00.000+01:00

Just as a quick one before I head off again. Blogging over the next week may be a bit… more sporadic than usual. But not to worry, I’ll be back in business in no time, and there’ll be a nice bonus to make up for all my down time…

See you around folks.

This devils workday

2007-03-30T03:05:00.001+01:00

The evening was slow, and I languidly clicked from page to page in an attempt to find something. Jules stepped into the room, floating about aimlessly before falling back into the couch opposite me. She picked up a magazine from the coffee table between us – some how to spice up you sex in three days gig – and leafed through it lazily.

‘So how have you been spending these unprofitable hours?’ She asked me, her eyes not rising from the glossy pages.

‘Talking with Elisabeth on writing things,’ I replied. ‘We had a long one sided discussion about vengeance.’

She laughed slightly. ‘How'd that one go?’

‘She failed to understand the beautiful power behind it.’

‘I’m afraid I'll have to agree with her.’ She turned a page.

I sighed ‘I won't try to convince you to my side of it then.’

She tossed the magazine on to the table, leaning forward to look at me more directly.

‘No no, go on. It will amuse me.’

I smirked at her and placed my Lapdancer to the side. I had a challenge upon me. ‘Okay, since you asked for it.’

I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

‘The thing with vengeance is that it's so... good. It holds an entire spectrum of emotion under one very focused canopy. Love, hate, joy, sorrow, animalistic rage, human calculation; it’s such a contradiction of feelings and emotions.’ I counted each point off with my fingers as if listing the number of things I needed for food shopping. ‘It results in murder, but the murder is insanely cold and calculated yet filled with insurmountable passion.’

‘It doesn't have to be cold and calculated though; it can easily be done in a blind fury.’

‘True, but if it’s done right then it’s cold and calculated. And if you want the perfect vengeance, you have to do it just right. You have to wait and wait and let your rage and anger cool off until it resembles a cold shining knife. That’s when you strike and achieve your perfect revenge.’

Jules shifted in her chair, her eyes focused on the table in deep thought. ‘So… vengeance is a good thing,’ she looked up at me, ‘for everyone involved?’

I smiled broadly. ‘Of course not, vengeance is horrible. The whole idea of vengeance is pointless.’

‘Ah, but now you’re contradicting yourself. You just started off with vengeance is good.’

‘I did, and I stand by it. Though, what I’m trying to say is that the emotion, and the act of vengeance itself is intense and amazing, but vengeance is not good for anyone. The reason you even took the vengeance in the first place isn’t going to change – whatever spurned you into abandoning everything else for this goal is not going to fix itself.’

I raised my arm and moved my fingers into a gun position, my forefinger and middle finger acting as the barrel and my thumb mimicking the hammer. With my left hand I loaded six imaginary bullets into the chamber of my gun before snapping the chamber closed with a quick motion. I aimed my fingers straight at Jules who laughed with amusement.

‘You kill the guy,’ I say, and fire off a three bullets into Jules’ shoulder, neck and gut, ‘and he’s dead. And then what?’ I flipped out the chamber and reloaded the three shots I fired. ‘You’re left with all this hatred and sorrow inside you, with no one to aim at.’

Jules nods along slowly, looking me up and down. ‘Okay, so it’s the passion behind it that you’re satisfied by, not the act itself.’

‘Yes and no.’ I reply. Jules groaned and I smiled again. ‘Yes because the passion is indescribable, and no because I am still deeply fascinated in the act. I’m fascinated at what makes a fair vengeance, what is better; a ruined life or a horrible death? I’m fascinated at how, even after you take your vengeance, you aren’t satisfied. You shed all your humanity to wreak your vengeance and the feelings are still there – pumping through your body like an untameable snake.’

‘That's interesting, even though it may appear to be the best most satisfying idea at the time; it turns out to be hollow.’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘That's actually really interesting.’

‘It's become a little obsession of mine.’

'So it's not so much the act itself, but the expression I’m finding interesting. It's such a basic instinct, an eye for an eye, a death for a death, but ultimately dissatisfying. So what does that say? Is the animalistic side of mankind ultimately disappointing? Or is it just man's struggle to appear civilised, better than animals?’ She laughed suddenly, sitting back into the cushion of the couch. ‘See Joe, don't get me started, I'll bore you to death with it.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll get my own back eventually.’

I wonder what I would do if I found myself in that situation; to have my perfect revenge on someone who has wronged me so intensely. I have often had daydreams about it, little fantasies that invade my thoughts and leave me with my heart thumping and my tongue crooning for blood. Would I fulfil these fantasies? Would I look into his eyes with stern determination before bringing a clenched fist down on his greasy face? Would I smile my most genuine condescending smile and make her feel like nothing more than a piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe? Would I put her to shame with cutting remarks and the quickest of tongues? Would I smile as sweetly as possible, shaking his hand before sinking my knee into his solar plexus? Or would I do the most hateful thing I can do and forget all about you – your name, your face, your phone number, your post code, your everything.

Would I? Could I?

Eye for an eye, watch me go blind.

Bit by bit

2007-03-27T01:54:00.000+01:00

As I sat in dismay on my bedroom floor, surrounded by a mountain of junk and several boxes, my mind flitted deliriously back to my birthday when I was having dinner with my family. We were discussing the intricacies of moving house, and I think my cousin put it most eloquently when he said to me;

“You never know how much shit you have until you have to move it all.”

And indeed I did not. I spent many hours rifling through my wardrobe, transferring books and DVDs into large cardboard boxes. Everything sat snugly together, and soon I had three boxes – weighing a ton and filled to the brim – with books, DVDs, CDs, notebooks and sketchbooks. Now came the hard part; the random tat that filled my wardrobe.

It is suffice to say that I’m a little bit of a hoarder. I keep the strangest of objects from the strangest of times. An example of this would be a small quartz rock which I picked up in Wales after I climbed Mount Snowdon. Another example would be the Lego race car I received after completing my week’s worth of work experience. I have accumulated a large amount of knick knacks and (as Phillip K Dick refers to as) kipple over the years – and I have felt the need to store them in the deep dark recesses of my wardrobe.

And so came the agonising decisions. Do I keep my old PlayStation and my library of games? I’ll probably never play the thing again, and all it’ll do is take up space.

But it’s our PlayStation. We used to spend hours on this thing levelling up in Final Fantasy. Remember when we got the golden chocobo?I want to keep it.

But when will I play it?

When you find it again. Come on, it’s good for nostalgia. You know how we like nostalgia.

No. Bin.

Aww man.

This to and fro continued for over two dozen items, including my old school notes and my small collection of Oor Wullie comic books. I was relentless with some items – the 2000 edition of the Guinness Book of Records was dropped into the bin without a second thought – but some sentimental took a great amount of time to mull over.

In the end I found it much too stressful to sort through my old memories, one by one discarding them. So I left my room in a tip. I move in under two weeks, and my room is still entirely unpacked.

Oh dear.

From now on, no more cheese before bed

2007-03-25T23:58:00.000+01:00

-Ok Joe, you can see first

What?

-You can see it first. I trust that you’d understand it

Oh. That’s nice of you. Where is it?

-Over here, behind this door. She would’ve wanted you to see it

Is this where she…

-Yes

Oh.

There was this fantastic emotion welling up inside me. It was as if a waterfall was crashing down into a small glass, filling it up with such speed and intensity, and my chest felt as if it were about to burst, but I tried to remain as emotionless as possible. She led me down a small corridor which ended in a single white door. She leant over and reached for the golden shining handle – my stoic reflection warped by the curve of the handle.

-Are you ready?

Does it matter?

I felt something snap inside me. Some deep down muscle or sinew or something just gave in. She opened the door.

-Well?

Yes?

-Well?

-I’m sorry, what is it?

The door slammed shut and she stormed off down the corridor, a fierce animal scream erupting from her chest. I stared at the reflection of the door handle as my body twitched and writhed out of shape, yet my face remained impassive. I could feel the glass tumbler inside me shatter under the pressure of the waterfall, and the raging river flowed off into nothing.

And I woke up.

Innuendo!

2007-03-23T16:10:00.000Z

"This is why I hate musicians, it's always easier for you guys to get laid."

"What?"

"Think about it. A girl comes up to you and asks 'What do you do?', you tell her you're a musician and then bring out your guitar. She'll be all over you in seconds. Musicians are so much hotter than writers, you and your bloody instruments. What do I have?"

"You have a pen."

"Oh, that's rich. I tell her I'm a writer and I bring out a pen. She'll stare at me for a few seconds before wandering off and finding a musician to talk to."

Pause.

"I think you have a very nice pen."

Lost in the moment

2007-03-20T23:55:00.000Z

Happy Birthday Chris, you old git.

---

She continued to stare. Then she said, ‘Do not doubt your turn shall come, Compé Anansi’s child.’

‘Why do you want him?’

‘I don’t want him,’ she told him. The she said, ‘Why would I want him? I have an obligation to another. Now I shall deliver him, and then my obligation shall be done.’

The newspaper fluttered, and Fat Charlie was alone.
[Extract from Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman]

Startled, I looked up from my book. The barista hadn’t noticed my sudden distress and continued cleaning up the table beside me, unaware of my anxiety. I closed my book and slipped it into my bag. I pulled on my jacket and watched the barista wipe down the table, his black apron flapping in the breeze. I left the shop as fast as I could and drank in the frozen air of Glasgow, shuddering – not from the cold, but from the haunting vision that passed through my head; the black flapping of feathers and the shining twitch of a raving eye.

I walk down the road and take a left to avoid the flock of pigeons in front of me, their eyes watching me as they stabbed their beaks at pieces of bread. I rounded the corner – checking down that alley way – and froze. Perched on a bench in front of me was a solitary black crow.

It cocked its head and shot a look straight at me, those beady eyes blasting through my skin. The oil black feathers ruffled with electricity and the rock hard talons scratched into the wooden bench. The face was impassive – the beak closed in a shining, stoic blade – but it was those eyes that pinned me to the spot with terror; those mad eyes that showed the only intent behind the night black body.

As I stood, paralysed on the spot, it spread its wings wide and took a few steps to balance itself. The crow remained still for a moment, its wings open like a demonic angel – welcoming the pitch black that dripped off every tingling feather. It sprung into the air and flew towards me, the eyes gleaming with malice.

---

And it flew over me. It cawed slightly as it went by, the wings beating a wind that sifted my already messy hair. It landed behind me and scoured an empty crisp packet for the remnants of food. I laughed, shaking off the chill I had felt moments before, and walked on.

I sometimes forget that I need to give myself a break after reading books or seeing films. I find that after I’ve become absorbed in a story, I lose myself in it. I become so wrapped up in the characters, the plot and the imagery that when it’s time to pull out, to return to real life, I become tangled. I tear parts of the story out with me and, for a while, incorporate them into real life.

This why after seeing Mission Impossible when I was a child, I skulked from doorway to doorway hunched over in cautious paranoia. This is why after I watched Fight Club I was relishing my feelings of violent anger and resentment. This is why after I read Do Androids dream…? I felt the crushing hopelessness of meaningless existence. This is why I am sometimes subjected to funny looks when walking down the street.

I’m weird like that.

Emotionally Unavailable Anonymous

2007-03-18T13:59:00.000Z

So I broke up with Jane yesterday. Again.

This time it was mostly on mutual terms, with only a few upsets on either side. Apparently I’m more of a bastard than I give myself credit (note: am working on that). Well, it was definitely a memorable break-up to say the least.

So yes, I think I’ll stay away from relationships for a while until I’ve figured out what makes me tick. That’s right ladies; I’m still off the market. Don’t worry, It’ll be ok. It’s all right to cry.

I’ll be normal again, eventually. Maybe. Eventually.

Inspiration? Dry as a bone

2007-03-17T02:39:00.000Z

Goals in life:

Write a cult novel(s).

Perform the Ok Go video for Here it Goes.

Own a bookshop.

Write a screenplay/direct a film.

Learn how to read a book/watch a film without analysing the crap out of it.

Speak with such conviction and fluency as the characters from Clerks.

Find a suitable hairdo.

Write better blogs.

When in doubt, blog about blogging

2007-03-13T00:22:00.000Z

A word! I have written a word! Oh, there are more words now. This is good. This is very good. This blogging nonsense is easy as pie! I don’t have bloggers block at all. Yes yes, this is going swimmingly.

Oh.

Crap. I’ve lost it.

And so I bring my fist down on my knee with blazing frustration and I cast aside my Lapdancer with a resenting shove. I sit on my bed, fuming at my inability to write, before I think better of myself and retrieve my beloved computer. The rest of the night is spent scanning page after page of useless junk while the Word document is hidden away out of vision.

I hate it when this happens. When I sit at a computer and all I can feel is the pointlessness of writing another post. Why bother talking about my day at university, do people really care so much about my mundane life? And besides, there’s no point in writing it if I don’t have a clear cut conclusion, or at least a witty remark to finish off with. I should just forget about it and try another night. But I ignore my own advice and try anyway. I slip on my earphones and close my eyes as my fingers hover over the keyboard, swishing to the beat of the music that’s immersing my brain with ideas and my hands with thoughts. I type the first few words, the song building up and the beat quickening, before I find myself a standstill. The music continues to flow into my mind, but seems to leak out through my eyes as I stare hopelessly at the empty screen.

I blame my recent spurt in creativity. Finishing two stories and starting half a dozen more seems to be taking its toll on my blogging ability. An over abundance of energy is being poured into my pen and notebook; energy that, I bet, is being redirected from the chunk of my brain devoted to blogging. Soon the balance will be restored and I will write and blog as regularly as I always have. Or maybe, God forbid, the scales may swing in the other direction and I’ll be stuck with no creative drive but my feed will flood with the amount of posts I’ll be updating.

Going out and getting drunk. The crushingly abundant horrors of university. The warmth of rekindled friendships. Pages upon pages of books. The astounding amount of new ideas forming behind my darting eyes. Insomnia. Relationships. Bad backs. Birthday gifts. Passports. Gut numbing countdowns. There are so many things that I should be able to sit back and pour my heart out about, so many ideas that scream out and wish to drown me in their topical goodness. But (despite this immensely successful breakthrough) I am still suffering from the block.

And until I fix it, I guess that you will have to put up with my sporadic updates and constant whining about university. Hopefully, I won’t be too long.

And since I don’t think my text sent properly – Happy Belated Birthday Dad.

Ink splurge

2007-03-08T13:09:00.000Z

Two new stories and a random brain fart now up on my DeviantArt page.

The Fall of Arda

The Incident

Brain fart

The Fall of Arda may be a tad long (weighing in at almost five thousand words) but I think it's one of my best pieces of writings, character wise. The Incident is my entry for a short story competition in Uni, and I really really like it. And the brain fart is just something I came up with in the throes of non-sleep.

The first two will only be kept up for a period of two to three weeks before I take them down and add them to my private collection. So, if you can spare ten minutes or so, I'd very much appreciate it if you read them and gave as much feedback as possible (don't be afraid to be harsh).

More will probably follow in the coming weeks. I seem to be having wave after wave of decent stories to write about. Stay tuned for dancing junkies and hearts that beat people to death.

Edit: Due to an error at DeviantArt, The Fall of Arda didn't show right. However, you can find it at my wonderful FictionPress account, here.

Bankruptcy, here I come

2007-03-06T21:40:00.000Z

Finally, it’s within sight. After months of planning and gut numbing anticipation, it is finally here. We have a flat.

We had wandered around about a dozen flats, examining the properties with a meticulous eye. How big were the bedrooms, could we fit a freezer in the kitchen, where was that smell coming from? Each carpet was subtly pressed with the toe of my shoe, searching for creaks or unevenness. Each wall was scanned for cracks or damp. Each defect in the laminate flooring was tsked at.

But we have one. Four floors up, four minutes from the supermarket and four seconds from a bus stop (which is a forty minute ride into Glasgow). We have one.

I feel like stepping outside into the cold, icy night and yelling. I feel like tilting my head back, letting my hair fall from my eyes as I fix the moon with a steely gaze, and erupting in a long animalistic roar. My fists would be clenched, my veins throbbing with excitement, as I bellow one singular word.

Freedom.

You spin me right round baby, right round

2007-03-04T00:46:00.001Z

You know, for a second there, I almost forgot about all about it.

Damn.

Drumroll, please

2007-03-01T23:52:00.000Z

Blast from the past

2007-03-01T00:49:00.000Z

A few technical details before we begin. First off, due to technical difficulties beyond my meek understanding, my feed has been down for the past couple of weeks. That has been finally resolved due to the good people at Feedburner, and if you want to re-subscribe then you can do it here (or the RSS icon on my sidebar).

Secondly, I have managed to buy myself a domain name. Two in fact, but due to a mess up in the technical process (it’s always technical errors, isn’t it?) I am only using one. www.littleresearchmonkeyboy.co.uk is the address now. Please update all address books and whatnot.

Have you ever had moments of true nostalgia? Walking through Glasgow on a summers day usually does it for me, or wandering aimlessly up a certain road to look for a certain coffee shop. I love the feeling of nostalgia; the slow fluttering rise in the chest, the satisfying sigh accompanied with the smallest of smiles. My eyes widen as I remember another detail and he skip in my step increases. The detail that was recalled was slight, and it barely meant anything to the bulk of the memory, but it carried such a powerful weight.

Sometimes, though, playing a videogame does all that for me.

One of the greatest features of the Wii is the ability to download games from previous consoles, from the Nes, Snes, N64 and even Sega. I pounced on this feature immediately and downloaded the available classics that stirred my memory banks to its very core. Donkey Kong was the first one to enter my white box of joy – fond memories of playing in the kitchen alongside my brother as we leapt from one mine kart to another. Super Mario World came next, not only filling me with childhood memories of struggling with the first few castles, but reminding me of the time I spent the night at Marie’s house – staying up the entire night in an attempt to complete it in one go. And don’t even get me started on Zelda.

But there’s something, almost as good as nostalgia, that I find brewing within myself at times. It’s a feeling I have when I realise that this night, this moment, is going to fall into a lapse in my memory, only to be reminded of at a later date as a warm, sweet feeling of nostalgia; that someday I will look back on this moment and laugh to myself with a knowing smile.

And so, in the far distant future, I will flip on my – by then, good old – Wii and select Mario Kart 64 to play, and as the song hits the title screen and Mario utters the strangely erotic “Let’s go!” I will smile and laugh and think back, to this night, when I thrashed Jane at racing.

Oh yes.

(Also, this made me laugh until I died. The afterlife isn’t too bad to be honest – just a bit of a slow connection).

Freud would have a field day...

2007-02-27T09:10:00.001Z

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

2007-02-23T05:05:00.000Z

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

2007-02-22T01:33:00.000Z

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!

2007-02-20T01:03:00.000Z

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

2007-02-17T13:21:00.000Z

I'm back, bitches.

Overheard in Uni

2007-02-16T12:49:00.000Z

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!”

“No.”

“What?”

“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?

Pause.

“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?”

“Why?”

“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

2007-02-15T14:22:00.000Z

“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...

2007-02-12T14:03:00.000Z

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

2007-02-06T11:23:00.000Z

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

2007-02-01T15:20:00.000Z

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
Kiwiqueen
Snowfall
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal
Bunny

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

Maybe.

Late night/early morning paranoia

2007-01-28T06:46:00.000Z

For the first time in months I find myself groggily awake at 6am. Damn. Might as well use the time effectively.

It happens to most people at some time in their lives – whether it’s down to a drunken night on the town or a sticky situation involving you to get from A to F in a short amount of time – you have to call a taxi. And if you’re me (which I sincerely hope you aren’t) then you have to call taxis a lot.

I usually have a specific local taxi company that happily carts me around my various destinations. More than once they have ensured that I caught the train on time and quite a lot more than once have they guaranteed that I arrived at work on the stroke of five. Their drivers are friendly; smiling and talkative when you enter the taxi. They retrieve lost items, let you keep the change on a fare or two, and always wish you a nice day. These are friendly taxi drivers. These are taxi drivers you can trust.

But what happens when you’re stuck in the middle of Glasgow at two in the morning? The rain is pouring, the wind is slicing and the happy voice on the other end of your phone is telling you that the nearest taxi is thirty minutes away. Do you huddle in a bus shelter? Do you go back into the bar and pass the time with a few drinks (ever conscious that the taxi could come early and just leave without you)?

Of course you don’t. You skulk round the darkest of corners and wait on the loneliest kerbs for that glowing little light coming down the road. The Hackney cabs.

They are very large, and very very comfortable (especially for me, with long legs), but this comes at quite a price. There are two types of Hackney drivers, both similar in appearance with a toothy, yellow grin and livid scars on bald heads/unshaven cheeks; ones that ask you for a straight payment upfront, usually the approximate amount a private hire taxi would charge, plus ten pounds; and there are ones that tell you about boundary charges and turn on their cash meters with small, shit-eating grin before announcing that, unfortunately (insert regretful look) that it’ll have to be the price on the meter plus a third on top of that.

The first type of driver I have no problem with, I pay him and he drives and I do not have a care in the world about the direction he takes, the second one is the one I have trouble with. I become suddenly aware of the route he’s taking. Every swerve, lane change, brake, and acceleration is noted and critically examined in my minds eye. I stare at the counter as the cost increases twenty pence by twenty pence and I silently mouth calculations whilst counting my fingers. Approximately eighty pence every sixty seconds, meaning an average thirty minute journey would cost twenty-eight pounds (two thousand, eight hundred pence, including the four hundred pence – four pounds – that the counter began on). A third of that would be just over nine pounds, which would make the grand total of thirty-seven pounds, which means oh crap I don’t have enough money.

And whilst I am silently counting and sorting out my money in my head I glance up at the counter, quickly doing a double take. Did that just go faster? Did that twenty pence add itself on faster than the twenty pence’s before it? Is the taxi driver trying to cheat me?

And through all the panic and all the desperation and all the misery I fail to realise that I am actually home. The light flicks on and the driver smiles his gravestone grin from behind the plexi-glass protection. Turns out I had miscalculated the rate and over estimated my fare by over ten pounds, meaning I had plenty of change to jingle in my pockets. I handed over the money, completely bewildered and aghast as he counted out the change. My perception of him was totally wrong; and the man who I covertly glared at, muttered at out of earshot, and overall called a glorified thief, was actually a good guy; a nice guy with no tricks up his sleeve.

I stepped out the Hackney and he drove off, leaving me outside my house in the dead of night with my change in my hand. With dismay, I looked at the coins in my hand and sifted through them with my free fingers before I gave an inward jump for joy. I was right all along, my fears were just and my thoughts exactly on the mark. He short changed me a fifty pence. Bastard.

That's right, I'm back

2007-01-25T01:34:00.001Z

Skritch skritch

It happens suddenly. On the train, during lectures, in the midst of night, when listening to that song; one minute you’re happily idle, and the next minute you’re squirming and fidgeting. You flex your fingers – coiling and unravelling them in desperate anticipation. What is it? Why are you feeling this?

Skritch

Work seems suddenly unimportant; TV becomes surprisingly bland; people begin to talk monotonously; and sleep? The dreaming hours drop away as you are forced to sit up and stare at the glowing screen. Your dark eyes dart back and forth over the screen. Your thumb nail is slowly worn down by your grinding jaw. Your arctic white feet writhe with inactivity.

Skritch

It’s an itch. It’s an itch that’s spreading all through your body. It begins in your fingers, of course, and spreads up your arms and down your torso as it engulfs you whole. Your mind is slowly taken over by it. Slowly. Very slowly. You’re overcome with the itch – it happened so gradually – and every waking moment is spent in temptation of relieving yourself of this itch, this hell. Your finger is ready to drag its nail over the irritation, to silence the need once and for all.

Skritch

I took the pen in hand and wrote a few sentences. Already, as the pen scratched its way over the paper, I could feel the need leaving me.

You're it!

2007-01-23T22:26:00.000Z

This is one of the first times I’ve ever responded to one of these, but after being tagged by the lovely Meredith I decided to give it a go. This one seems fairly humorous to think over (though I did become slightly manic when I couldn’t think of a sixth one… perhaps that should be added as my seventh crazy thing).

Anyway, the point of this little exercise is to think of six things that make you (for lack of a better word) weird. Also I’ve to tag six of my fellow bloggers so they have to go through this horrible ordeal. So I’ll get the tagging out of the way first;

Jules, Aidan, Matt, E, Erin, and Vivian.

Here we go.

1. I love trying out different accents, but I can never hold them for more than ten seconds. They always always always turn into an Indian drawl.

2. I am obsessed with how efficient my route is. I used to make myself breakfast in the morning and curse myself for wasting valuable seconds by not grabbing my bowl and the milk at the same time.

3. I love playing the devils advocate more than I love arguing the point that I believe is right.

4. I am double jointed in all my fingers, my thumbs and my knees. I often let people bend my fingers back, watching as they marvel at my deformity, before I scream out in mock pain and laugh as they jump back in fright.

5. I have MySpace, Bebo, Facebook, and Orkut accounts. I am very ashamed of this.

6. Despite my almost disgust for it, I think that – if done right – smoking looks really cool.

The Spiritualistic Atheist

2007-01-20T03:31:00.000Z

There’s this specific memory that sticks in my mind to this day, a memory that floats to surface whenever I feel a sense of serene adventure, or a calm beginning. It seems like it happened years, even decades ago, but it was only mere months.

It was very late, so late that it was actually considered early; the rising sun silently giving life to the world with a soft glow. I gazed out the window at the incredibly empty streets and kept watch, in vain, for any sign of life. Apart from us, there wasn’t a soul to be seen for miles, with every door, window and curtain shut tight from glorious sight. The car – as silent as the air itself – pulled into the car park and sat itself near the middle, neatly parked between the white lines despite it being the only car in the area. My companions and I stepped out and headed towards the all-night supermarket in the quest for food.

There was a soft breeze in the air, enough to cool me down and enough to create the smallest of sounds on the air. It was so tranquil; the early hours of the morning, everything was empty and unmoving, yet so full of life. Even the supermarket seemed to hum with solitary existence as we walked up and down the empty aisles. A few items later and we were back on the streets.

My companions walked back towards the car with our snacks in tow while I hung back, admiring the vista before me. The breeze blew again and I turned to watch a plastic bag become caught in an updraft and being carried up and up and up into the sky and the world that lies beneath it. And that’s when I saw it; the sky.

This is where I find my words failing me, where I find myself a fool for even trying to describe the sight before me. I want to call it orange, but I can’t. It wasn’t red, it wasn’t carrot, it wasn’t flesh, beige gold, or yellow. I want to say that it was as if a soft fire was dancing on the clouds, throwing shadows in the soft crevasses of the floating blankets, but that does not do it justice. It was as if there was no such thing as darkness, as if this light permeated anything and everything and I wished I could be as lucky as the clouds who were able to bask wholly in it. And still that does not do it justice.

I felt a squirming in my gut. A realisation dawned on me and filled my entire body – head to toe – in tingles; exciting pinpricks of possibility that flooded every sense and muscle. I could do anything. It was possible to do anything. To borrow a phrase from my favourite PostSecret postcard; in that moment, I was infinite.

When I think of that moment in the present day I feel the need to run. I have the tremendous urge to run as fast as I can until my legs fail me, and then I want to run more. I want to achieve something. I want to see something beautiful. I want to create something beautiful. I want to be seen. I want to see the possibility in every moment. I want to make every fucking second count towards something. I want to hold on and never let go. I want to hear true laughter, and I want to truly laugh. I want to be there, to do something. I want to be that guy. Fuck, I want to make something of myself.

But as I stood in that car park, and as I gazed at that sky, all I could do was smile.

72 hours and eighteen candles

2007-01-19T03:46:00.000Z

Saturday 13th : Midnight

We were in the only good club in town, sidling in from the cold and sitting round a scratched metal table that stood inches from the dance floor which was populated with a spectrum of people tossing their hair and shakin’ their thangs. Soon a round of drinks was placed in front of us, and we all raised our glasses in merriment, coursing in unison to a happy birthday.

I was with Maddy, Laura, and their respective boyfriends; celebrating stage one of my birthday bash. Stage one involved a few people gathering at a local club and getting rat arsed in celebration of my eighteenth year still standing. There were more than a few people I knew passing too and fro, and more than once I found myself being accosted with hugs and slurred birthday wishes. Drink after drink was given to me, and bit by bit the world began to spin in the best way possible.

Soon I was up dancing and having shots and laughing and laughing more.

3am

We finally decided to leave; after practically three hours of dancing and drinking. We walked through the down centre, the walls echoing with an eloquent version of Queens Don’t Stop Me Now. I hung back with Hannah, who was completely wasted and lucky to still be standing, and as a result we lost the rest of our group. Maddy and Laura had left the previous hour so I migrated to my usual lets-go-out-and-get-drunk group – the group that were now disappearing dots on the horizon as I steered Hannah away from anyone who would take advantage of her drunken state.

We stood in the taxi queue and phoned our peers, asking where they had disappeared to. Turns out they were a few hundred yards down the street at a chip shop and I promised that we would wait for them to grab a collective taxi home. I hung up the phone and explained the situation to Hannah who drunkenly sighed and climbed into a taxi with two random guys.

I rolled my eyes and climbed in after her.

4am

“Look! Ish him! Ish Mr Brightside!

“I know, you pointed him out in the taxi.”

“He’s a pretty good dancer.”

“He is?”

“Yesh. Wait, where’s he goin?”

“Home. As are you.”

“Wait Joe, wheredyou live?”

“Over there, but I think I’ll walk you home first.”

“Aww, you’re sweet.”

“Thanks.”

Pause.

“My feet are fucking sore.”

“I’m guessing it’s those shoes. The heels are pretty big.”

“You’re right. Oh my feet are so cold!”

“Hannah, put your shoes back on.”

Pause.

“My feet are so fucking sore.”

2pm

“I think I’ll just have a coke-“

“NO!” shouted the mass of people at my table in unison.

I sighed and looked hopelessly at the waitress, “It appears I’m having a Jack and coke.”

My family cheered and laughed before they returned to their menus, chattering amongst themselves. They peered over each others shoulders to see what their neighbour could possibly be picking and I squeezed Jane’s leg. She gave me a weak smile and I smiled back reassuringly. This was the first time she was meeting anyone outside my immediate family, and later on that night she would be meeting my friends for the first time – a double whammy – and she was nervous.

“Toast toast toast!” they all shouted when my drink arrived.

I looked sheepishly at the glass in front of me and reluctantly picked it up.

“I’m a man of few words.” I said, and took a drink from my glass before setting it down.

Everyone booed.

The dinner was fantastic; I found myself brimming over with meat and sticky toffee pudding. I talked with my cousin and his girlfriend for their take on moving house (“Horrible. Horrible horrible horrible. You never realise how much junk you have until you have to lug it to a new flat) until I was nearly asleep with all the food I had eaten.

5pm

Jane and I sat in a bar with my two eldest cousins and their respective partners, trying not to fall asleep with all the food and drink.

6pm

I’m asleep.

11pm

After we visited numerous overcrowded places in Glasgow, we finally settle in The Garage. Jane and I grab a few seats and talk the night away while taking drink after drink. Owen, being my ever handy drinking buddy, came up with the rule that whatever was put down in front of me, I had to drink. This, unfortunately, meant that I downed a drink of the young couple who sat across from us. I gave them a drunken wave and finished their drink with a smile.

Sunday 14th : 12am

I give myself a silent toast to a happy birthday.

2am

The taxi driver laughs again and falls silent as his attention returns to the road. Owen is talking to Sarah on his mobile phone – her drunk at her best friends birthday party – and Jane is asleep on my shoulder. She really hit it off with my friends; talking animatedly to Jeff and Owen even when I wasn’t there. She was the definition of a lightweight when it came to drinking, so a few alco-pops sent her over the edge. And she really enjoyed herself, which I was very happy about.

3am

Jane has a seizure.

5am

After watching old American sitcoms on TV, Jane and I decide to head back up to bed and catch some sleep.

2pm

After seeing Jane off (and receiving a bunch of flowers from her mum for coping so well with the seizure) Chris, Mum and I head to the other side of town to see a flat up for sale. As soon as we arrive we’re told we have to leave due to a booking fault, and we head back home cranky (sadly the house was sold before we could arrange another viewing).

6pm

Meet up with my brother and have dinner whilst talking about the events over the past few days. I had the steak raw and loved it.

10pm

We arrive at the Rock Café in Glasgow and meet with Chris’ friends. Chris implements another birthday rule; that I’m not allowed to buy a single drink. I am pleased at this.

We sit in the bar and have more than a few drinks, talking about tattoos and films and Adam West;

“Nobody messes with Adam We!”

I’m also introduced to the Jager-bomb. A concoction of two shots of Jagermiester and Red Bull. All the members of the table were staring at me when I was given it, and I sipped it gingerly, expecting for my head to explode of my face to fall off or something.

“Oooh.”

Monday 15th : 12am

We move from The Rock Café and head up to Firewater. The conversation on the way was incredibly interesting, but the content seems to elude me right now.

1am

Singing along to William Shatners spoken word version of Pulp’s Common People. By now I am completely rat arsed and listening to the amount of guys that Mark has slept with (and marvelling at how many of them I knew).

We eventually leave and cross the street to go to the very empty Garage.

2am

Dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. And drinking. There’s lots of that too. Whoo! And more dancing. And theatre dancing. That’s dancing that tells a story, bitch.

3am

We’re huddled low down in the street eating boxes of chips and cheese. It’s strangely filling. Thus far, I have spent a total of £3.50 the entire night.

At some point I leap over a fence to reach an alley way. On the way back from my adventure I leap over the same fence, only to find that the fence was actually a gate that swung open as I was holding on to it.

Laughing ensued.

4am

After finally grabbing a taxi, we are home. Chris pays the taxi driver an extra £20 since someone threw up in the taxi (strangely, I didn’t notice it at all). I climb into bed and sleep.

11am

I wake up, look around, and fall asleep.

12pm

Oh god oh god oh god. Hangover. I want to die.

3pm

I make fried egg and toast. It is very very welcome.

5pm

In work, nursing a throbbing head and dying slowly. They give me a card, chocolates and a HMV gift card, so that cheers me up.

10pm

I’m still in work. Since I am now eighteen I stay in work until ten. It means I receive an extra £3 a day for suffering thirty minutes of soul crushing.

Tuesday 16th : 12am

I am sound asleep.

The final count (to the best of my memory):

23 Jack and cokes (approx) (over 10 of which were double)
6 Aftershocks (4 black, 2 silver)
3 Sambuca’s
3 Vodka and cokes
2 Sourz (apple)
1 Vodka and lemonade
1 Vodka and Red Bull
1 bottle of Blue Wkd
1 bottle of Smirnoff Ice (the equivalent to)
1 straight Jack
1 Jager-bomb (double Jagermiester and Red Bull)

1 fucking big headache

Thought of the day

2007-01-15T16:13:00.000Z

A real update of the weekends events will follow. Eventually.

How come in almost every family-based sitcom there is a fat man married to a sexy, nymphomaniac wife?

Cheers

2007-01-13T04:05:00.000Z

Here I am, with a nice big glass of sobering water, wishing myself a very happy eighteenth birthday.

It’s only four hours in, and it’s already the best birthday so far.

Little tidbits

2007-01-10T23:09:00.000Z

I’m back together with Jane. We talked it all out, everything is good between us and I am willing to chalk this up as a teenage misunderstanding. Hopefully my last one.

--

My old manager from work was talking to me the other day, telling me how she has reread a chunk of my blog and was disappointed that I hadn’t made another reference to her or work. So here it is. Oh, she also made a reference to a certain post. Her exact words were something along the lines of;

“One of your entries was a bit… erm, rude.”

Ah, I miss her sometimes.

--

We’re going flat viewing tomorrow. It is very very possible that we have found the perfect flat in which Chris and I can turn into a sty, but there could be a teensy snafoo with the size of the second bedroom (i.e. my bedroom) so we need to sort that out. It’s bloody exciting though.

--

I love the Wii. So much.

--

And my birthday is in three days. Everything is coming together, with people confirming they’re showing up for my weekend drink-fest. I cannot be more excited.

One sheep two sheep three sheep four

2007-01-09T17:58:00.000Z

The corridor was filled with people, each of them pushing past me with a ghostly silence. My companion was talking animatedly with someone over a counter, her hair dancing around her in the twilight as she tried to convey what she wanted. She gave up and looked at me with a sunken face.

Any luck?

No.

In a flurry of frustration, she barged by me and grabbed the first bystander she saw, shaking him violently. Despite her furious face and aggressive manner, he just looked at her with his eyes half shut and jaw hanging slightly open.

¿Donde está Mal?

There was no response. I looked on and shook my head.

¿Donde está, por favor?

His eyes rolled.

¿¡Donde!?

Aquí.

¿Aquí?

I looked up. Here?

The bystander nodded towards the door in front of us; the door that stood out from the rest and now seemed the oh so obvious place to hide the elusive Mal. My companion looked at me excitedly and abandoned the clueless bystander to burst through the door ahead. I followed behind at a walk, smiling happily at our achievement and patting the bystander on the back.

The sun set as soon as I stepped through the door and I flicked the switch on the wall to light up a brightly decorated room. The chandelier cast a golden light over the creamy walls, each decorated with paintings and elegant tapestries. In the reflection of the long mirror I watched the door behind me, made of gold and encrusted with jewels, close with a loud thud. Mal stood in the centre of the room, holding a book in one hand and smiling a knowing smile. My companion was lying on the bed; her hair fell about her shoulders and a slender hand stroked the silk sheets.

The lights cut out and the moon sprang up from behind the curtained windows. My companion stood up, her tanned body illuminated in the moonlight, and stepped up the wall. Her bare feet lightly ran along the wall before she angled up again and reached the ceiling. She stepped over to the chandelier before lying down beside it, curled up in a ball like a cat. Her shining eyes stared at me from behind strands of hair.

¿Y tu?

Mal was up beside her, the book replaced by a glass of gravity defying champagne but the knowing smile remained.

No. Palmer may need me.

And I was on the bed, staring in to space.

¿Cómo puede usted ser seguro?

He always does.

The house shook and I was thrown to the side, falling off the bed and tumbling to the floor. The room tilted and water began flooding in from the window – frothing and bubbling up, absorbing the bed that slid into its depths. I looked up and saw my companion holding on to Mal who was still smiling that damned knowing smile.

¿Qué ahora?

Hmm.

And I woke up.

Just so you know

2007-01-07T02:52:00.000Z

I broke up with Jane.

Aaaaaaaaaaand I am a horrible person.

Movie reference week!

2007-01-06T02:00:00.000Z

Let me set the scene for you.

The white wooden door swings open without a squeak, light glinting off the shining gloss, revealing the room within. The walls are incredibly bare and incredibly beige. The soft carpet is a burgundy colour – some sections lighter than others where sunlight hit – and it is riddled with deep impressions that serve as monuments to the heavy furniture that once rested in them. The drawers and wardrobe stand solitarily, white and silent, as does the radiator – with its few splatters of dried in coke.

And there is a bed, in the centre of the room, not touching any wall, holding a disconcerted boy.

What happened here? Did a disaster hit? Did a malicious force break its way into the room to sweep away any trace of individuality? Oh how I wish I could say it was; how I wish I could live in fear of a monster that caused so much destruction and trauma. But I am sad to admit that all this – what I can only call – devastation was caused by a singular man, and his paintbrush.

All of my possessions had to be hidden in preparation for his arrival; my clothes, my books, my DVDs all had to be piled into the looming wardrobe, just in case they were in his way. I complied with reluctance, knowing that a newly decorated room would provide a quicker sale on the house and therefore a quicker transition to the flat. So, this morning, I hid the rest of my belongings with a sigh and headed downstairs. A few hours later I came back up and found myself speechless at the change that had been forced upon my room. The walls had gone from yellow to beige, the ceiling went from cream to white, and this was the first time I truly realised how empty it was. I heard my breath echo off the walls and I looked on, aghast at what had become of my room.

Everything was so different from my usual mess of a room, but it was the walls that shocked me the most. Beige! The walls – my walls – were beige! I ran a hand over the now dry paint, my jaw hanging open as I felt the smoothness of the wall. The yellow was gone. The happy, cheery, warm yellow that proudly displayed its many scars of fourteen years worth of blue tack and drawing pins, was gone. A dull, lifeless beige took its place. Beige. Even as I say it I cannot believe it to be true. No one will love beige, no one will smile broadly when the sun lights up their beige room. Beige will be liked, beige will be accepted, tolerated, but beige will never be loved.

As the plans for moving out progress and accelerate, I find myself becoming more detached from the house. The bathroom is no longer my bathroom, the kitchen is no longer my kitchen, the seat on the couch is no longer my seat on the couch. I suppose it had to happen at some point, where my room has suddenly become the room where I sleep, where I keep my things. I am wondering with eager curiosity whether or not the feeling of my room, my sanctuary, will ever come back.

Until then, I think I will browse the Ikea catalogue for a nice neat pile of shit to populate my new room.

Et tu Brute?

2007-01-05T00:11:00.000Z

Yes yes, I am totally stealing this idea from Angelique.

Friends, bloggers, countrymen, lend me your ears.

The time has come when I call upon your loyalty, where I ask a singular thing to repay the haphazardly decent posts that I have brought to you over the years. We have shared many laughs, many tears, and many baffled looks throughout our time together, why even now I smile at the pleasant memories that you bring me.

And now, more than ever, I need you. Yes, you. You, who have been with me through thick and thin, I need you to nominate and – when the time comes – vote for me in the 2007 Bloggies.

Be patient with me, for only once have I requested something in return of pseudo-regular updates (and hell, that was for charity).

Go forth my patrons, my partners in internet society! Spread the word of me to all your dearest, and fill my ego to the brink with blogging stardom!

… Please?

Note: I am only suitable for the following categories; Best British or Irish Weblog, Best Teen Weblog, Best Writing of a Weblog, and Weblog of the Year. Of course, this is me not getting too ahead of myself now.

At last

2007-01-03T02:36:00.001Z

After eight very long hours of fiddling, typing, and a horrible amount of pasting, I finally fix my blog.

Due to the change from Old Blogger to New Blogger (formerly Blogger Beta), my humble little site lost its RSS feed and was suddenly unable to hold comments. In simple terms? It got buggered up.

But now I have sorted it all. I went through three different designs – the first one being a bad design and the second one failing at the first hurdle – before I reached this final product. And I have to admit, it isn’t too shabby. There are still a few things I’d like to tweak here and there, maybe design a new header or change the background colour, but so far I’m happy with it. Good thing I was looking for a change in look anyway.

And now I think I’ll go to bed.

Edit: Oh shit. It looks absolutely terrible in IE. Do I have to fix that too? Dammit.

EditII: Things seem to be working fine now, thanks to my extremely amateur hacking skillz. And a thanks for all the help from the technologically genius RSers.

Resolute Urgency of 07

2007-01-02T18:37:00.000Z

I suppose I should jump on the bandwagon here and welcome in 2007 with a dedicated post to celebrate the New Year. But I find myself wondering; what makes this year so different from last year? All my major changes happened in 06 (loss of security, gaining of maturity – ah, it’s fun to rhyme) so what’s left for 07? What will stop it from being a boring year?

Ah, I have a plan this year.

That is correct; for the first time in X years, I have compiled some New Years Resolutions. Of course I do this every year in an attempt to make myself feel better and not lazy, but this will be the first year that I actually take the time and effort to write them down for all to see.

1. Make more of an effort at university. (Yes, an obvious one, but it has to be noted nonetheless).
2. Get in shape. (Once again, another obvious one).
3. Write uncensored in a personal diary. (So I don’t end up going crazy).
4. Make an effort to write professionally.
5. Make more of an effort to maintain friendships.

Those five listed are my major ones; the ones that, since I have now written them down for the world to see, I have to fulfil. There are also a few dozen “unofficial” resolutions, including “blog more” and “reach my eighteenth birthday” (yes the latter was put in so I could proclaim that I had fulfilled one of my resolutions within thirteen days of making it).

And yes, the latter was also to bring up the fact that my eighteenth birthday is in a mere eleven days. Soon I’ll be able to do everything that I’ve already been doing – namely getting drunk – except legally. To be honest I can’t think of any other good reason to be eighteen; voting? Who needs it? At last I can leave the dreaded limbo that is seventeen years and welcome, with open arms, the warm comforting drunken days of eighteen.

2006 was an exciting year, to say the least, and I wonder how 2007 will turn out.

Another ten people

2007-01-02T14:11:00.001Z

A filler whilst I try to break through my bloggersblock.

TRY THIS: Write 10 statements intended towards 10 different people. Write about something you would never say to his/her face or something that you wished you had said when you got the chance, but didn't.

1. We should hang out more. Really. Want to catch a film sometime? Oh oh oh, we should definitely have pizza again. And get fat.

2. We need to drink together again. Soon.

3. You’re truly amazing. You really don’t understand how much you helped me when I needed it. I don’t think I’d be the person I am right now if it weren’t for you.

4. Just get it over with. The more you wait the more you’re torturing the poor boy. If you don’t do it soon, I really really will do it in your place. Honest to god, you baffle me beyond belief. Leave me alone.

5. Stop worrying. You’ll get wrinkles.

6. Sometimes, I’m not kidding. Yeah.

7. Please please please be as nice to me as you have been before. Please? Things will be so much more fun and so much easier if that’s so.

8. Get off me. Now.

9. You have my CDs, and I have your DVDs. We need to meet, catch up and trade things. Besides, I’m wondering how you’re doing.

10. I didn’t want you to move away. I miss your ever ready ear and over the top reactions. We should get together and just talk.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

2007-01-01T01:58:00.000Z

Happy New Year everyone.

Propaganda

2006-12-29T20:44:00.000Z

This is just a test post as I slowly work my way around the Wii's Opera browser. Thus far I have checked up on forums, read a few blogs (Bekka's striking post for one), and watched some videos on YouTube. It's actually pretty cool, but my arm is wearing out and I still have the whole of Hyrule to save.

(i've just noticed that Nintendo have put Hyrule in the predictive text. It made me laugh

The before and after

2006-12-29T02:16:00.000Z

After nine hours of solid cleaning – which spawned four bin bags worth of rubbish, two trips to empty the dust filled hoover, and one cut finger – my room is finally clean. And when I say clean, I mean clean.

Usually, when called upon to clean my room, I make a half arsed attempt at moving things around (I’ll move those books to that corner, and then swap those clothes with those DVDs…) before dusting and hoovering around my rearranged possessions. I would then lie back and marvel at my work, casually ignoring the inch thick dust hidden behind my unused TV. But not today, today I did what is referred to at work as a deep clean.

It started two weeks ago with the wardrobe. I had organised my vast collection of books and DVDs and I tearfully piled my prized magazine collection into the recycle bin. Over eight year’s worth of Nintendo innovation, progress and excitement; all deposited into the cold, blue wheelie bin. The lack of magazines left a large empty space in my wardrobe; the beginning of my epic clearout.

I spent nine hours clearing everything up. I was merciless in my decisions, nostalgic at my finds, and pleased with my arrangement. I was industrial. Plastic bags were rapidly filling with my unneeded junk; trinkets I had picked up at my cousins wedding, an old glass Coke bottle I had kept for nostalgia’s sake, and a small red paper drink parasol that I once saved from an Italian restaurant. I was astounded at the amount of tat that I had accumulated over the years – though I allowed myself to keep the odd few items as guilty pleasures.

At half past nine, after starting work at half past twelve, I sat back on my bed and examined my work. My room was, for lack of a better word, empty. The only things populating the floor consisted of my bag, my slippers and a book, each surrounded by a sea of red carpet. The tops of my drawers were bare, with only the bare essentials kept on their clean white surfaces. The TV has disappeared and has been replaced with empty space, and the walls – once covered in brilliantly selected posters and a selection of my old drawing – were also amazingly empty while sporting the scars of over a decade of use.

My room now looks like it belongs in a hostel; single bed, plain walls, bedside table with a lamp and deodorant resting on the drawers. It just feels so empty. I swear I can even hear an echo in my typing.

This marks the first step in moving out. My newly cleaned out room can now be redecorated, painted with neutral beiges and creams to please potential buyers. After the house is sold up, we can look for flats and – finally – move out. Projected time frame? Chris and I should be out the house and in our very own flat by March. Fingers crossed.

This room may be completely clean, bare, and wholly uninteresting, but when I think of what is to come I cannot help but squeal with excitement.

Wiiiiiiiii!

2006-12-25T20:07:00.000Z

Merry Christmas folks.

Bah Humbug

2006-12-24T22:19:00.000Z

It happens everywhere. Whether it is television, radio or in films; Christmas time always spawns a seasonal special and I am no exception.

The chill outside is thick with a deep grey fog – the flashing blue lights of a neighbours barely visible – but inside I am sunken deep in the warmth of the couch with a glass of Jack in one hand (extra strong, courtesy of mum) and watching yet another film on the TV. The Christmas tree glows softly in front of the window and shelters the shimmering presents underneath.

I think that, whatever age you are, Christmas Eve is the longest day in existence. Despite it only being the Winter Equinox a few days ago, Christmas Eve undoubtedly stretches longer than any day in the year. Hours seem to pass in the space of thirty minutes, and that one Christmas film seems to go on forever; how much longer can Tim Allen stretch out this abysmal excuse of a sequel?

It’s the waiting I can’t stand – the drawn out counting down of the climactic day. I can remember agonisingly long Christmas Eves from when I was younger. I’d stare lethargically out the window trying to will time to move faster (or at least for it to snow a bit) whilst shooing off my mum; yes my presents are all wrapped, yes my bed is made, no I do not want to tidy my room. Time seems to slow to an essential stop – the seconds passing with the slow, rhythmic pulse of the Christmas lights.

And the nights are even worse. I tried to stay up as late as possible with reading and writing and even some drawing until I had convinced myself that I was tired enough to drift off to a peaceful sleep. I laid down my book, pulled the duvet over my shoulder and flicked my light off in a final sighing act; soon it will be Christmas, and all will be well. But no; the next three hours are spent tossing and turning while I nurse the excited pit in my gut.

The child in me runs laps round my head, yipping excitedly of unwrapped presents and full stockings. What did I get? Is it good? Is it big? Do I have to share it? Is it something I’ll “appreciate” but end up hiding in the recesses of my wardrobe? Only time will tell.

Ah, but tomorrow will be all worth it; the frantic – but not too frantic – tearing of gift wrap and the joyous revealing of presents, the surprise when you find something you didn’t expect, and using the well-practised face when you receive another pair of socks. Only mere hours away.

Until then? I sit and ponder if I’ve been naughty or nice this year…

Enter Mephistopheles

2006-12-23T02:20:00.000Z

I hate Bloggers block.

Happy Feet would've been better...

2006-12-20T23:13:00.000Z

A couple sidled in a few rows in front of us. I could see by the light that they were the poster couple for MySpace – the hair, the clothes, hell, even the stance was posed.

“Now these two are fun.” I told her. “They’ve been going out for two weeks and are already hopelessly in love. They’ve had unprotected sex together – numerous times – just to spite their parents who just don’t understand the epic love they feel for each other. Through so much adversary and advice they stick together, because no one has ever felt a love like this before. Meanwhile, he is becoming more and more attractive to her best friend and she’s feeling stronger and stronger lesbian urges. It’ll eventually end up three months down the line with him sobbingly confessing to having slept with the best friend and the girl running off to sleep with the same best friend who turns out to be a lesbian – because they all are.”

“Wow.”

“I know. Someone should write a book on it.”

“So where are they now?”

“I’m guessing the end of month one. You can tell that the reason they’re here is the same reason we’re here. They want some…” I smiled, “privacy.”

The cinema darkened slightly and the projector whirred into life to tell us that we still had enough time to grab a snack. This event should cue the start of the adverts and usher the audience into a revered silence in preparation for the film – but not this time. I sank down in the chair as I listened to the prepubescent audience incessantly chat over the background tracks. There was the sound of childish laughter and “Pervert!” was uttered from somewhere in a mock scream.

The couple a few rows in front stood up and left, a clear look of disappointment and annoyance on their faces.

Jane and I had wanted some private time together – in the dark – and we made the ill choice of going to see The Holiday, which we hoped would be sufficiently empty for some antics yet was filled to the brim with screaming fourteen year olds. It started in with a small group joining us in the back row and bloomed into literally hundreds of them; spreading round the cinema like a plague. They were all there, and I knew every single one of them.

Not literally. I hadn’t gone up to them and learned each and every one of their names, I just knew them all.

There was the leader of the group; the loudest of the already deafening group who looked up and down the row eagerly trying to reassure themselves of their popularity by tuning in to every person who clamoured for their attention.

The first sub-group; gathered around the leader in a self superior group. They talk amongst themselves, deliberately leaving out other members of the group – but when addressed they turn slowly and smugly talk to others.

The second sub-group; pushed nearer the edges of the row and huddled in their own little clique as they plot the eventual demise of the first group and conspire to elect their own leader – who happens to be the current leader’s best friend and is currently in second command. They furtively glance at other members of the group, scouring them over with hatred whilst smiling sweetly to their faces.

And there are the neutrals; who sit sporadically around the row, chatting with anyone who happens to sit beside them. Everybody likes them – but no one too much – and they can easily mingle with any member of the group. They could very very easily form a third sub-group and redirect the current system of power. That is, if they ever felt the need to.

“How do you know all that?” Jane asked, bemused at my knowledge of the screaming children all around us.

“I was one of them, back in my glory days. I know it all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Though, there is one thing missing…”

A darkened figure had stepped up to the group. “Hiya sunshine! Sorry I’m late, I had a bit of trouble convincing this bad boy to come. No, not in that way sweetie, I don’t need to convince him to come that way!”

I smiled. “The token gay guy.”

Ah well.

2006-12-19T09:19:00.000Z

Just so you all know... All your presents are going to be a bit late.

Umm. Very late.

...

Whoops.

Another challenge

2006-12-15T16:27:00.000Z

“I want you and, by extension, me to write about…”

I paused for a moment and tapped the edge of my pen on my bottom lip, looking thoughtfully into space for inspiration of a good topic.

“Flowers.”

I smirked broadly, watching as Jules’ face fell.

“Did I ever tell you about my overwhelming hate for flowers?”

“Then it should be interesting to write about.” I smiled. Jules looked at me despairingly before narrowing her eyes. She sat back in the chair and folded her legs up, resting her feet on the edge of the cushion and bringing her knees under her chin.

“We have twenty minutes to write it.” She clicked her pen open and began writing.

I, on the other hand, stared blankly into space. I was too preoccupied with my thumping headache and the looming Christmas tree to think about flowers. I could hear Jules scratching away with her pen and I was feeling a bit nervous. Tentatively I put pen to paper and thought of the most beautiful flower I had ever seen before I began scarring the paper with my words.

“Done!”

I looked up, Jules smiling evilly at me and waving her paper over her head. She laughed at my inability to write, and I threw my pen at her.

Quick round-up

2006-12-14T02:37:00.000Z

I lie back on my bed, loose springs nudging my back and a comfy pillow welcoming my head, before letting out a deep sigh. The rain pounds a grey light through my window and the trees tilt threateningly outside; a testament to the Scottish winter. I fold my arms behind my head and smirk at the ceiling.

Finally, it has finished. After numerous essays, more than a few late nights, and one class test it has finally finished. Semester One of my first year has officially ended, and I can lie back and relax for a good six weeks as Christmas and New Years roll by. People always tell me how they hate how the days are darker; that the night is taking over the day. I, however, am the opposite. I welcome the darker hours as it gives me the perfect reason to close my eyes and sleep the day away.

I close my eyes and cross my legs, propping my right leg on my left. As a result my mobile phone falls out the pocket and I pick it up languidly to cycle through old messages. The blue glow is almost blinding in the current light, and my eyes narrow to read the messages. I smile and laugh as I see the usual ones, but I stop when I see an unexpected one. My face falls and I slip the phone back in my pocket.

Sal. After the Psychology class test that signified the end of the semester, Dawn and I waited for him to compare marks and exchange Christmas plans, but he never showed up. A quick text later revealed that he was dropping out of university; it wasn’t for him and he was applying for full time jobs instead. He was a short lived friend, and one of my greatest regrets is that I didn’t hang about with him enough when I had the chance. The same is happening with most of my university friends, and I feel the makings of a New Years resolution in an attempt to change that.

I almost drift off to sleep, feeling the dizzying fall into warm darkness, before being woken by a hand resting on my chest. I peer down at it, eyebrow raised. It is close enough to my face that I can make out the lines in the skin – a criss-crossing quilt made of silk and velvet – and the deep red of the fingernails. The hands traces up to an arm which leads to a girl sleeping soundly beside me, her body rising and falling in rhythmical breathing. A strand of hair has fallen out of place, and I sweep it away with a finger. In her sleep, she smiles.

That’s Jane by the way. I feel that this is a good a time as any to introduce her, despite her being mentioned more than a few times before. We’ve been going out for about a month, stealing time together between classes and essays – occasionally during both too. She has a bad taste in music, but she makes up for it in other ways.

I shift over closer to her and slip my arm around her shoulder. She sighs slightly and pushes up against me, lifting her right leg over mine and burying her head in my chest. She has the slightest scent of perfume about her and I absentmindedly run my fingers through her hair as my eyes sleepily scan my room; my posters that have to be taken down soon, my broken clock, and my out of date calendar.

The end of the year is almost here. It’s rushing up on me quicker and quicker these days – eleven days until Christmas and then only another six before the Hogmanay festival in Glasgow. Then before I know it 2006 is gone and I’m left with a whole new year to look forward to. But what about the year that has passed? Singapore, school, breakups, exams, jobs, make-ups, summer, exam results, breakups, University, new friends, old friends, new relationships.

I sigh and shift position, Jane’s hand moving to my lower stomach.

2006. Christ, what a year.

I laugh to myself quietly, and fall asleep.

Testing 1, 2, 3

2006-12-12T02:41:00.000Z

Apologies for the sporadic posting; experiencing bloggers block.

Lit by twilight lies a simple, bare, room with a bookcase full of secrets and the comfiest bed known to man. There’s a rustle of bed sheets in the shadows, and two bodies huddle for warmth beneath thick duvets. I lie back and feel arms wrapped around me, and I sleep and I dream of someone stroking my face and I smile and I dream and there are dark swirls dancing in my eyes before being wakened by a kiss, a furtive whisper, a slight stroking of skin and hair.

I open my eyes to see two looking back at me. I smile, but I’m already smiling, so I whisper in soft tones and lowered octaves. She smiles this time, and I feel the need to smile even more than I’m smiling now. The bed sheets rustle again, and I feel a whole lot warmer. A hand absentmindedly strokes my chest and I laugh and squirm.

I smile and say inaudibly that life is good, isn’t it?

Wii will rock you

2006-12-07T22:55:00.000Z

Smooth. White. Sleek. Shining. Perfect.

I can imagine it now. It’d sit snugly in my hand, not too heavy and not too light, my fingers gently caressing the smooth corners. My arm would hold it steady, holding close to me as I stood ready and willing. There’ll be a button pressed, a blue glow, and things will begin.

Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

There’ll be Styrofoam. Oh yes, there will be lots of Styrofoam – hastily discarded and strewn about the floor along with cardboard, tissue paper and little bags of plastic. Wires will flow from the TV to the box. I will run my fingers over it. I will smell it. I will experience it.

But not for another fifteen days.

Moop.

Tis the season to be jolly

2006-12-05T23:29:00.000Z

“So, what am I getting for Christmas then?”

“You’re getting me for Christmas.”

“You?”

“Yeah. Me wrapped up in a big bow.”

Pause.

“Do you come with a receipt?”

Congratulations

2006-12-01T09:32:00.000Z

Head over to Kiwiqueen’s blog and congratulate her on completing NaNoWriMo with a whole day to spare. Go. Now.

C'est la vie

2006-11-28T20:47:00.000Z

“Ha! And you called yourself innocent!”

She looked at me incredulously. “Excuse me? You’re not so innocent yourself young man.”

“Of course not,” I smiled, “I’m seedy.”

I kissed her.

“I’m insidious.”

I kissed her again.

“I’m ominous.”

Kiss.

“I’m odious.”

Kiss.

“And you’re a thesaurus?”

What are you waiting for?

2006-11-28T00:10:00.000Z

The rain thunders down onto the dark road, bouncing up in flashes of yellow and white before turning into black. I walked patiently down the path, feeling the rain drum rhythmically on my head as it hissed on the ground, accompanying the solid beat of my feet. It washed over my face, running over my water logged clothes and landing in smaller drops on the pavement.

Drink up baby doll.

I breathe in the liquid air and swallow the pure refreshment. A smile creeps on my face and I slip my bag from my shoulder, gripping it tightly in my hand. My knuckles are blazing white and my fingers scream a cold numbness as they wrap around my drenched bag. Everything is so wet.

Are you in, or are you out?

I suddenly break into a run, my feet slamming into the ground and sending sparks of water from the puddles. I run faster, feeling the rain hammer into my face while the wind whips at my skin. I run faster still, swinging my arms and bag in time with my long strides. My trousers cling to my legs and my shirt is one with my soaking skin, my hair flat against my head.

Excuse me? Too busy writing your tragedies?

Cars roar by me, their blazing lights dancing over me for moments before carrying along their way. My shadow runs circles around me as I try to control my breath, willing my legs to go faster and faster. I can feel the cold seeping into my shoes as I race through another puddle; throwing a cascade of water into the air.

Let go.

I run faster.

Just let go.

I turn off the road, leaping over another puddle and landing with a twisted thud. My ankle was wrong, but I kept running. I steered my thoughts away from the pain and increased my speed, faster faster faster. My shadow passed under me, surrounded by flashes of yellow streetlight as I pounded my way below their gaze.

Jump in.

My ankle fell to the side and I twisted, falling down to the dark below. I skidded to a stop on the flooded ground, wheezing and keeping my head up in an attempt not to drown. I shakily pushed myself up on to my hands and knees, every ounce of me aching and dripping with cold rain, and threw up. I emptied myself onto the street and stood up, using a nearby lamppost to support myself.

There’s beauty in the breakdown.

I was shaking, I ached all over, I felt sick, and a trickle of blood was being washed away from a cut in my hand. It was as if I was coming down – having withdrawal symptoms from some wonderful drug. It hurt to breathe, every gasp feeling as though it would burst my lungs. But I smiled.

Let go.

The sickness was already being washed away, being carried down a drain where it was lost forever. I wiped my mouth and smiled. I am alive, my screaming pain can testify to that, and I am happy. My bag was drenched like I was, and I picked it up with my frozen hands and limped the rest of the way home.

It’s so amazing here.

I was almost sure I would take off this time.

Not a good day.

2006-11-27T09:24:00.000Z

I've slept in, I cannot find a pen anywhere, and my straighteners exploded a few inches in front of my face.

I think I may cry.

Did I mention irrationial?

2006-11-24T14:53:00.000Z

Ten minutes ago I would've written all about the bashing I received in Sociology, how apparently I am part of a gender that are not much more than an unfeeling, childish, violent bastards.

But right now I am having too much fun pretending that a friend's crush is actually gay, with his permission of course.

Ah. Life is very good.

And...

2006-11-23T00:26:00.000Z

Happy Birthday Jules.

Sneak peak

2006-11-21T00:35:00.000Z

When I was younger my parents would take me to the coast to see the ocean and relax on the beaches, but I was never interested in swimming or sunbathing. The first chance I had, I would run off to the jagged cliff edges, jumping over rock pools and sliding down little slopes of scree in eagerness as I reached the looming precipice. My arms would stretch and pull, carrying myself higher and higher up the face. I’d
leap from ledge to ledge or make a risky grab and feel my heart pound with exhilarating intensity. There was a small part of me that knew that I could fall at any moment, that I could plummet down the cliff and lose myself forever.

When I reached the top I would stop and admire the scenery. The world was stretched out below me; my parents lying together on the beach, younger children making sand castles in the sand, and the sea gently lapping at the shore. The sun shone on my face and the breeze cooled my sweaty brow as I lorded over the land at my feet.

But when I had taken in the scenery enough, after I had beamed at everything under my gaze, I would move closer to the edge of the cliff. I would stand on the fringe of my throne, the tips of my shoes hanging over the edge, and I would look over. The land fell away far down into oblivion, into black shadow that hid from the shine of the sun. I would lean over, dangling over nothing as I gazed into the dark. The wind blew and I teetered for a gut wrenching moment before I regained my balance and stepping back breathless, my heart thudding harder than at any point during the climb.

And now, as Edward took the finger of that man and pulled it back with a sickening crunch, I looked over the edge and gazed with wonder at the blackness that I saw.

Jack lives here

2006-11-19T01:52:00.000Z

I would like to add something to my list of geekiness;

Jumping up and own for joy when receiving three advanced volumes of your favourite Manga.

My Dad is over from Singapore this weekend, and we’ve spent the time eating, drinking, eating, drinking, watching James Bond, eating, amazing texting (Rawr), and just so much drinking. For the past two nights I have sat in the bar after closing time with Chris and his friends, drinking down some Jack and laughing at pointless stories of who-wants-to-sleep-with-who.

Also also also I am very drunk right now. Very.

I thank Microsoft for keeping me in track with their Godly spellcheck. And I also realise that I can touch type, and the revelation of biblical proportion has left me very amazed and very dizzy, but that could just be Jack working his magic on me. This is quite a discovery. Whoopie.

I have essays due soon. Three essays in two weeks, and I should be doing them. But I’m not. I’m sitting in bed, drunk, and singing (silently I hope) “ooooh, la la laaa”. Nano should also be a priority, but it isn’t. Kiwi has sailed past the 20,000 mark and (while I am immensely happy for her) I am very jealous. I need to sit and write and write and be happy over the amazingness that I spew from my magical fingers. Hell, I don’t have to be happy with it, I just need it written. Plot holes and all.

But despite the essays, the failing Nano, and the raging headache I’ll have tomorrow, I think things are looking up. University is being fun again, and I can tell that work is going to be less stressful. I didn’t mention, but I had my hours cut – so instead of five days a week, I work two. It’s a fucking big pay cut, but it is more than worth it if I can hang out after class and snuggle up in deep leather couches and brilliantly warm coffee.

I have ten days until this month ends. Ten days to fit in three essays, two online projects and 42,000 words. Ten fucking days. Damn. I say it out loud and things seem hopeless. I have a feeling, no, I know that I won’t finish Nano in time. 42,000 words is impossible in ten days. Especially with essays and university and the fact I’m not entirely sure what to do between the beginning and end. No, Nano is a lost cause for me. I humble myself and renounce my claim that I will do it. I can’t. Sorry.

But

I will continue my novel. I think that the whole point of this exercise was to get a first draft on paper, to get the basic outline out of my head and on solid paper where it stands real and tactile in this world. I have a plot, I have characters, and I know where it’s going. And I will do it in my own time. I will not let it fall to the side as a “I’ll do it next week” thing. I’ll do it. I will.

I think I have become addicted to listening to Modest Mouse and the Eels. It is a wonderful addiction that I do not wish to give up.

Oh dear. I am fairly drunk indeed.

I give up

2006-11-13T23:05:00.000Z

That is it!

Day after day after day I have deleted any and all spam comments that have wandered their way into my older posts (dating back to as far as early 2005). Sex swingers, devirginisers, bi sexual interracial couples who do it doggy style over lesbians, MILFs and foot fetishes; they have plagued my comment section for almost a year. And every. Single. Fucking. Day. I take measures to eradicate all sign of these pests, these Viagra toting, grammar abusing heathens that think I am the perfect candidate for up-skirt double penetration.

Go on! Have them! Go and rape the comment section to your hearts content! I do not care anymore! Hundred upon thousands of you, I beseech you to flood my site with links to bestiality and vomit inspired voyeurism. Honestly, I want it all.

/end rant.

Unsuspecting sleepers...

2006-11-12T02:18:00.000Z

The plan was to go to bed at midnight. The plan was to have a good night sleep and to wake up refreshed and energised to write an essay. The plan was ideal.

Plans like these tend to go out the window at the first opportunity.

And now, two and a half hours later, I sit on my bed wondering on the sexual orientation of my bed. We all hear the calls at night, the seductive whispers of our beds as they beckon us to sleep softly in their protection. But has anyone wondered if their beds have hidden agendas?

I think not.

There's always one

2006-11-11T16:37:00.000Z

“I don’t know what it is about him. He just annoys the hell out of me.”

“Mmm,” I agreed, “maybe something to do with how he states the obvious.”

There was a hyena laugh from a few seats down the aisle accompanied by the slapping of a hand against a thigh.

“How can they stand to be near him? Even from over here he makes my skin crawl.”

“They could be deaf.” I ventured.

“It’s possible, but they should be able to sense… it.”

We both leaned back and tapped our pens absentmindedly on the desk, deep in thought. There was another laugh from down the aisle, and a stray pen flew by our noses. We turned our heads in synchronisation and looked towards the offending being.

“You know,” she said as he settled down and looked blankly ahead, “it’s possible that he’s really just depressed. That he’s putting on this show of bravado and merriment so that no one guesses. Maybe he’s really messed up inside, and the only way he can deal with it is to pretend it’s not there.”

“Boobies!” he exclaimed from down the aisle. The people around him laughed and even the rows in front giggled.

"I have to admit, that was perfect timing." She said beside me.

I let my head fall forward and land with a thud on the desk in front of me. “I think I’ve lost my faith in humanity.”

S&M

2006-11-09T16:18:00.000Z

There’s a soft swishing of metal against metal, the light glinting off the bright silver blade. It twirled around my finger, spinning elegantly and slicing through the air with no effort at all. My other hand was on the table, feeling the cool smooth surface under my palm. Without thinking, with no logic or hesitation, I brought the scissors down in a decisive swipe. It slid into my hand, stopping at the bone and shuddering with force. Blood ran out of the base of the metal, blooming over the back of my hand like a rose before flowing over the edge in little rivers. I kept my hand as flat as possible on the table, focusing on the cold top rather than the burning wound. I smiled a forced smile, my mouth trying to twitch itself into a grimace.

Keep smiling, just keep smiling you fucking bastard. Put yourself all the way through this. You are better than this. Face the fucking facts, and smile like there is no tomorrow.

I pull the scissors out, making a sickening squelch as drops of blood and flesh fell about my hand. The perfect silver is now bloodied, the shine now turned into a deep red glisten. Hot blood drops everywhere, and I keep on smiling.

I keep on smiling.

Except not as messy...

2006-11-09T15:30:00.000Z

It snuck up on me, quickly and quietly when I least suspected it. I was relaxing in the brief ten minutes I had before work began, sitting back in the semi-comfy chair and burying myself in a non-university related book. I was totally unprepared for it; my mind was in a completely separate place when this little beauty came up behind me. It whispered quietly in my ear, a soft whisper that lit up my eyes and made my mouth curve into a smile.

I had an epiphany.

It started on the edge of my mind, hiding tentatively, but sprang into the light oh so suddenly. I looked up from my book, my eyes shimmering with hope. I held the thought delicately in my mind, racing upstairs to my desk before I scratched the idea into my notebook, making sure I did not miss anything out. Recently my Nano progress was slowing to a practical halt, and I was becoming more and more frustrated with my lack of progress. But last night I wrote nonstop for an hour, pouring out ideas into my laptop until sleep overcame me. My character is easier to tackle, the plot begins to make more sense, I can write in a certain style, and I can give something that English students can analyse the crap out of.

It was so… amazing, to finally find something that works. All my frustration and annoyance was washed away in the relief of this little orgasm of an idea. Hell, I might even need a cigarette.

Jules Verne has nothing on me

2006-11-04T19:31:00.000Z

It was pitch black down there. No light could work its way through the twists and turns needed to reach this god awful place. I reached out and inched my way forward, squeezing myself between the rough ground and the solid ceiling. It was surprisingly warm too, despite the cold weather on the surface, and I carefully wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. I couldn’t see a thing, and that made me nervous. I could feel my flashlight in my back pocket, but the power was low and I did not want to risk being left in the dark with no reserve. The darkness was everywhere; it permeated everything – even dulling the sound – to a point where you were unsure whether you were grabbing solid ground or solid darkness. I reached out and grabbed another hold to drag myself across, but this gave way. I squeezed it, feeling the softness, the furriness…

There was something alive down there. I fumbled for my flashlight in a panic, hitting my head off the hard ceiling as I did. I winced in pain and clumsily dropped the torch, my hands flailing wildly for it before it plummeted into the never ending darkness. I grabbed it and twisted the top, the light bursting into life and shining the way ahead. I looked forward, terrified of what lay ahead. But there was nothing. The way was clear, and I could see to the end of the tunnel. I breathed heavily with relief, sucking in the cold air and breathing out again.

I couldn’t breathe. I gasped and choked, but there was something in my throat, something warm and furry. I kicked and writhed, hurting my hands and head off the side of the tunnel. My flashlight fell from my hands and rolled away, leaving me in the horrifying semi-darkness fighting something inside me. Something was holding my ankles, a firm grip around them. I made a rasping sound as I was dragged back the way I came, being pulled out into the open air and to my probable doom. The light blinded me, and it was too cold. I shielded myself from the light and huddled over, still grasping for any breath. I looked up and saw Jules standing over me, a wide grin over her face.

“Finally cleaning under the bed then?”

I rolled over to the other side and hocked up the dust ball.

“Not anymore.” I wheezed.

Happy Halloween

2006-10-31T14:56:00.000Z

First sleep and now food; I seem to be sacrificing one thing after another to keep this place up to date with my mad cap adventures. I am sitting in the two hour gap between classes, filling my spare time with chatting, organising and the occasional glimpse of Family Guy sitting nicely in my DVD player. I should really be writing essays at the moment, but due to my habits of procrastination I find myself writing this instead. Over the next four weeks I will have five essays to write and hand in, I will be attempting Nano, I will be trying to keep the Strathclyde Writers Society up and running (more on that in another post), and I will be trying to keep this blog full of sporadic updates. Not to mention my daily job and the possibility of moving out (the mid November deadline is becoming less and less likely as I type this). Also add the need to go out and become horribly drunk, watch DVDs, read books, have regular meals and manage a good nights sleep to the list, and you can see why this is coming together in one solid paragraph. This is called a structural technique where I mirror the overwhelming amount of work I have with the constant stream of text. No new lines, no breaks. The only way to top that would be to write one really really long sentence with no sign of commas or full stops in sight to resemble the ranting and rambling that my mind is racing through as I fail to comprehend the amount of work that needs to be done in the short amount of time that it needs to be done in. This is good practice for my novel which, despite all odds, is progressing with each new event I think up for it. Yet Nano begins tomorrow, and I feel apprehension before the race begins, the kind that makes you feel as if you’ll buckle under your own weight and collapse half way through. So many fucking essays, so many fucking things to do in one month. Not to mention relationships with friends, enemies, burning bridges and possible dates. One fucking month.

I’m late for class.

Salivating dogs haunt my dreams

2006-10-30T08:20:00.000Z

I am incredibly tired right now, and I know that the entire day will be spent in calamitous yawning which will result in me taking a snooze in the History lecture. I will be groggy and have slow movements and my mind will wander from my books as I guzzle down another cup of coffee (with two shots of espresso this time).

But, despite all that, it feels almost good to stay up until two in the morning, shaving off the last few words to sit inside the word limit. It’s almost like nostalgia.

A final decision

2006-10-28T02:03:00.000+01:00

Nano is inching ever closer, with only a mere three days of preparation left before November rolls around and I take pen in hand. Until now I had thought of it frivolously, regarding it lightly as I thought of how far away November was. But now it isn’t far away; it’s three days away.

I have a few notes scribbled down – hidden in the notebook kept in the recess of my bag – but none of them significant. They merely reflect my lack of imagination as I write and rewrite ideas over and over, each scribble and side note as exaggerated as the last. No plot twists, no story arcs, not even any other characters – only the same five things written over and over.

It’s then that I stop and think. Will I be able to do this? Will I be able to churn out an entire book in a month? I think of the goal to achieve and I let my head fall in defeat. Fifty thousand words seem impossible to do, having to average just fewer than two thousand words a day. It is a hopeless endeavour, and I actually feel quite foolish that I even thought of undertaking it. My hand moves to close my notebook and slip it back into my-

The pen is poised, my hand tensing up as a quick thought runs through my head. My mouth hangs open ever so slightly, my eyes glazing over for a mere moment before returning to life with a flicker of urgency. I scribble notes into the notebook, licking my lip unconsciously as I scan the words I write. I write faster and faster; my hand cramping up in time for me to finish the notes and close the book. I slip it into my bag without checking it, letting ideas dance around my thoughts without hindrance.

It will be hard. With all my essays and assignments for university – not to mention my five day a week job – it will be very hard. But I will do it, and in thirty three days I can promise that I will have a finished novel sitting in front of me. You can damn well quote me on that.

Sweet dreams are made of these...

2006-10-26T16:54:00.000+01:00

The squeaking is so loud, and each box shudders violently as the contents try to fight their way free. There are a few dozen of them, boxes piled on boxes sitting on top of a huge hill that overlooked the city. The wind blows hard and rain begins to fall from the grey sky. Far below, cars slip In between buildings with their lights leaving red trails behind them. The squeaking becomes louder and the boxes rattle loudly, drowning out the noises of the city below.

I shift around and grimace slightly, my eyes squeezing shut.

A man walks up the hill and places a foot on one of the boxes, resting his arm on a tattered knee and surveying the city from under the brim of his top hat. The wind lifted the hat off his head and carried it away from him, but he stuck out his weathered cane and caught it before it flew too far. Long wavy hair spilled out onto his shoulders, the colour as black as night.

I huddled into a small ball. My hand reached out and pulled the blanket around my shoulder, as if it served as protection from what was to come.

His coat was a deep purple, the colour as dark as his eyes. They looked over the rooftops and scanned the buildings that scraped the bottom of the clouds. They were so dark, but there was the smallest glimmer within them, a hint of intent behind the placidness. He twirled the cane between his fingers – the gold tip shining despite the light from the squall – before bringing it down heavily on the box beneath his foot. He smiled.

I smiled.

The front of the box fell open and a swarm of rats flooded out. They stuck together in a large brown mass and ran as fast as they could down the hill. Every other box opened simultaneously and rats poured out of all of them. The hillside was no longer there, it was replaced with a river that flowed mercilessly down into the city below; ready to run through the streets to cause havoc and mayhem everywhere they ran. The squeaks ran together and created a calamitous noise, drowning out even the loudest thoughts.

Soon the last rat was gone, and the man stared lovingly at the city. He took the old top hat and placed it carefully on his head before tucking the cane under his arm. He swivelled on his heel and walked down the other side of the hill, away from the city. He smiled broadly, and the twinkle in his eye grew brighter.

“It will always be the dream.” I murmured, and fell asleep again.

Wish you were here

2006-10-24T00:23:00.000+01:00

After almost a week of searching and scrounging - musing through aisles and flipping from one book to another - I finally find myself in possession of the first Postsecret book.

It was just there. Peacefully sitting between two Andy Warhol books, hidden away like all the secrets it contains. I picked it up carefully and felt the solidity of the book and the smoothness of the cover. It opened easily, and I took a deep breath to capture the scent that wafted from the pages. My eyes ran over the opened page in front of me, and I stifled a gasp. There was something more real in these secrets than on the website. They weren't an image on a website, there was weight and texture behind them; they were real.

And for the first time in a while, I find myself speechless.

XXX

2006-10-19T02:17:00.000+01:00

On a side note, this post is probably not safe for work or for children.

“So… What one do you want?”

The DVDs were lined up in neat little rows in front of us, shining diligently in the light. I was standing with a Certain Friend, looking at each DVD case in turn and trying to pick out a good birthday present. “I’m not too sure…” she replied, her head cocked to one side.

I picked up one and looked at the front cover, examining the display of a man and a woman in doggy style over another man and women – all of them astoundingly naked. “Look, I’ll get you one. Honestly, I will. Just, tell me which one you want.”

“Well, you can’t go wrong with Anal.” A shop assistant chimed in.

The Certain Friend had pulled me into Ann Summers so I could buy her underwear for her up-and-coming eighteenth birthday. We walked up and down the aisles, looking at the various corsets, suspenders and the teeny tiny g-strings (my imagination running wild at each new undergarment I witnessed) before we decided to wander into the back row and take a gander at the ‘unmentionables’.

And thus we stood, amongst Rampant Rabbits and a few dozen kinds of lubricant, trying to figure out what porn DVD to buy. From “Real life Dogging” to “Extreme Wife Swap” and a few dozen in between, including a rather appealing cover involving two topless women. We were spoilt for choice, and one of the assistants roaming around decided to help us out.

“Personally, I’m not one for porn,” she confided, “it just gets boring after a while. I’m for a more… hands on approach.” She waved a buzzing vibrator happily in front of us. The Certain Friend giggled as her eyes followed the penis shaped ornament through the air. I laughed nervously as the assistant waved it under my nose. “Are you wearing an under-wired bra?” She asked the certain friend.

“Uhh… Yeah.”

The assistant pressed it against the under-wired and the Certain Friend laughed with pleasure. “It’s great isn’t it? Really gets to your nipples. It probably won’t work on him though.” She said, pushing the vibrator against my chest.

“I won’t say that it’s not unpleasurable…” I admitted, smirking a little.

For the next half an hour we were taken on a tour round the sex-toy department, hearing the pros and cons of some of their top model; especially the newest of the, famous, Rampant Rabbits.

“Now, see these little buds round the heads?” she indicated the bumps on the (what I can only call) head of the vibrator. “These are amazing. By the time you get this all the way in there and the rabbit meets your clitoris, you’re already in multi-orgasmic territory.” The Certain Friend and I gazed in awe at the pleasure inducing dots. “Though,” the assistant continued, “I’m not allowed to sell you that. We’re only allowed to sell this one to more… experienced vibrator users. It’s kind of embarrassing though, asking people how many vibrators they’ve had.”

“You know, I’m actually quite jealous.” I said. “You girls get all this stuff to play with, and the only variant I get is righty or lefty…”

“Well, most of these items can be used bi-sexually.” The assistant told me, with what I could swear was a wink.

After much discussion, we decided that the “Clit Travel Kit” was the best option for an eighteenth birthday present. It is very easy to use for beginners, and with its five interchangeable heads it guarantees hours of fun. I held it discreetly at my side as the assistant excitedly ushered us over to another section, this one filled with bottles of various potions.

“Hold out your hand.” She ordered me. I held it out and she took a bottle of shining gold gel and squeezed some onto the back of my hand. “Lick it.” She told me, biting her lip slightly as she said it. I tentatively licked some of the sparkling glob before quickly lapping it up. It was delicious. It seemed like the kind of thing you’d use to cover ice cream. The Certain Friend had some too, and her eyes lit up at the taste.

“Oh oh oh!” The assistant exclaimed. “This is also a personal favourite of mine.” She held up a small bottle filled with pink liquid, the label showing “Strawberry and Champagne Dick Lick”. “Don’t blame me for the name, but trust me, it’s delicious.” She made a sideward glance at me, “And if you use it with him along with that travel kit against your cheek, you’ll both have one hell of a time.”

We laughed, and the Certain Friend clung on to my arm, neither of us wanting to correct the nice assistant who was introducing us to a variety of fantasy-worthy things. We decided on the Strawberries and Champagne Dick Lick and bought it along with the travel kit. I slipped the bright red Ann Summers bag into my own bag, hidden amongst my notebooks and various pens. I sat in my lecture with a secret smile at the contents of my bag.

I think that the Certain Friend will have a very happy birthday indeed…

Change of scenery

2006-10-16T13:43:00.000+01:00

The fog hung low and thick, obscuring the scenery so barely a few feet were visible. Everything seemed subdued in the cold grey; even the main road was eerily silent, and that was only a short distance away. My footsteps were dull and lonely, and my hands took refuge in my pockets before the cold could creep up my sleeve. I moved my shoulders around, trying to shift the weight of my heavy bag so it didn’t dig into the muscle so much. I was bringing my Lapdancer to university today, a way to wile down the hours between classes, and I never realised how heavy the damn thing was.

The field behind my primary school was completely enveloped in the grey shroud, with even the large building of the school being hidden by the fog. I walked along the path, gazing as the school slowly came into view; first the ghostly outline, followed by slight details before revealing the shadowy school. It was as if someone had menacingly sketched the school, with darkness penetrating the insides and twisting a once normal building into a horrific mutation. The sun was in the background, but it was so dull and dirty that it looked like the head of an old drawing pin – holding the sketch in place for the world to see. Crows cawed ominously somewhere in the fog, and I quickened my pace.

Central station was packed full of happy families making their way to the airport for the October break. Kids ran to and fro, knocking into old ladies and tipping over suitcases as the squealed with laughter. The parents stood around uncaringly, shivering in the cold and gazing up at the train time table while taking another long drag from their cigarettes. I take my coffee from the vendor and guzzle it down greedily. It was freezing today, and I had foolishly worn my suede jacket which helps nothing against the cold. The coffee ran along my insides and warmed me to my soul. I gulped it down and walked happily into the street, blowing thick clouds of condensed breath in front of me.

The lecture theatres were warm too, and so is the library. I’m having trouble to not drop off while I’m sitting here, typing this. The winter weather is closing in, and I think I’ve found a safe refuge in the halls of the university; where jackets mean nothing compared to the glorious central heating and never ending supply of coffee. Not to mention the fast as lightening connection.

Anyway; I think it’s almost time for class…

Writing to the x-treme

2006-10-14T15:07:00.000+01:00

It is midway through October already. The month seems to be flying by at quite a pace – and for once I am so absolutely desperate to slow it down. In seventeen days it will be November, and with November comes my first ever NaNoWriMo. This began many many months ago, with Angelique and Elisabeth telling me how amazing it was, and how it would be an experience to remember. At the time I happily signed up to their mailing list, joyously letting them know my email address so they could notify me when it was time to sign up. I bubbled with excitement as I thought of what I could write about, how I would do it and how incredible it would be to not only finish a novel, but to start one.

And I forgot about it. Weeks went by and it slipped from my mind completely. That is, until I received a reminder email two weeks ago.

And so, after many minutes of convincing, I have signed up – officially – with NaNoWriMo. I have a few story ideas lined up already, with plot developments and sudden twists in the making, but fifty thousands words worth of it?? Ever since my English dissertation of four thousand words I’ve turned my nose up at essays (“Seven hundred words? I can do that in my sleep.”), but faced with the prospect of fifty thousand words I have a sensation that must mimic how an ant feels against a building.

Along with me; Jules, Elisabeth and Kiwi are having a go at it too.

I think that this will be a lot like the Blogathon, except hardcore.

Wasting away

2006-10-11T12:47:00.000+01:00

It’s so strange; I’m in a computing class, I’m sitting in front of a decent computer, I have unlimited access to high speed internet, and I want to kill myself.

IT101 they call it, but to many it’s known as the slow trip through Hell. We sit for the best part of two hours, learning the complex details of attaching a file to an email, learning what the tab button does, and the oh so confusing process of saving an image to your hard drive. The class is compulsory, so we are forced through seven weeks of this torture in order to pass our first year. But things are becoming more exciting as the class progresses and we learn how to attach clipart to a word document… Oh! And next week, if we’re lucky, we’ll be taught all about spreadsheets!

Hand me my gun please.

Sleep deprived musings

2006-10-11T00:59:00.000+01:00

Lecture, tutorial, lunch, tutorial, lecture, run for train, work, sleep, lecture, tutorial, lunch, tutorial, lecture…

And it goes on; in a sudden and unexpected twist, it seems that this university student is becoming a tad overwhelmed. Although university is turning into the experience I had always imagined it to be, I find myself with little or no time to do anything. If I’m not in lectures, I’m in a compulsory tutorial. If I’m not in tutorials, I’m usually eating or trying my hardest to finish another chapter before another lecture rolls around. And if I’m not eating, reading, or running between buildings, I’m at work; whiling the hours away in front of a task that is so boring that it actually boggles the mind.

Not to mention, between all these busy and exciting activities, I have very little time to blog – which I am beginning to resent. It pains me to see that I have not updated in more than three days; I can almost see the cobwebs forming in the corners and weaving their way round my words (if you see any spelling mistakes, you can rest assured that it is not me but it is the thick cobwebs that are fooling your eyes).

And so I sacrifice sleep to write this. Sleep is a very valuable commodity, seeing how I have to wake at half past seven in the morning, and I usually spend it very wisely. Ten minutes for a shower, five minutes to read up on politics, maybe fifteen on psychology (it is much more interesting and therefore deserved of the extra ten minutes), and this is the first time I have splurged half an hour on one topic.

I met up with Marie today. It was the first we had talked properly in a month, and I actually felt surprised that we didn’t argue. We sat in Starbucks and I wolfed down a sandwich while we caught up on the basic things. We talked and laughed and sat in thoughtful silence, all the while my head was trying to make sense of very confusing things.

I am unsure of my feelings towards the situation at hand. I could pin it down to being a teenager and blame it on the blatant mood swings I experience – but there’s a part of me that’s nagging away and saying it’s not. To say I miss her is an understatement, but it’s how I’m missing her that confuses me. Do I miss her as a girlfriend, or a friend? When we sat and talked, I had no urge to kiss her or hold her hand – and I couldn’t feel anything especially sexual about it, but when I hugged her goodbye and when she smiled that smile at me I felt this pang of regret of a thing that is now lost. And that was it. I thoroughly enjoyed her company, and everything else was mostly said on good terms.

I feel slightly restricted right now; as if revealing my emotions will show me as weak and (god forbid) a pussy. I miss her, and that’s not even the half of it, but I’m trying my very best to move on. It’s hard.

But now, thanks to the repaid seventy pounds that Marie owed me, I can go out with Jack and drown my thoughts in his whiskey goodness.

From red roses to white rabbits

2006-10-07T11:46:00.001+01:00

Check out my new story; From red roses to white rabbits.

This story is dedicated to Laura, as two very belated birthday presents.

This story first began last year when I shamefully missed Laura’s seventeenth birthday. I told her I would write a story for her, and commanded her to give me three words to base the story around.

“Bunnies, red, and roses.”

I set off writing right away, scribbling notes on the train to and fro work. I watched people commute to work all around me, and I picked up ideas from as many of them as I could. Notes were made, but as soon as school started up again I forgot about it; the notebook lost amongst the dozens of leafs of papers that littered under my bed.

Her birthday rolled round again, and I was compelled to begin writing on it some more. I had no spark of inspiration though. I have a few stories going down on paper, but none of them seemed to fit the description she gave me.

And then on the way home from university, as I watched three girls talk on the train, I had a glint of inspiration – one that had nothing to do with my muse – and began writing immediately. A week later, my work was done.

Enjoy.

And it was all in one day...

2006-10-04T16:35:00.000+01:00

You know you’re a geek when you;

- Laugh when your lecturer uses an example of the Starship Enterprise going to “Warp factor twelve”.

- Give a detailed explanation at how Pippin wasn’t actually at the battle of the Black Gate, as he was recovering in Minas Tirith.

- Laugh when the date “1337” is used in history.

- Are unable to hide your look of disgust when someone tells you they’re programming with Java.

- Name your MP3 player (James).

Eventually

2006-10-01T03:19:00.000+01:00

I glance at my watch to check the time and I see the date shining diligently at the side. I pause for a brief moment – jaw hanging slightly open in abandon – before shaking the thought off and returning to whatever menial task I was doing. I keep wondering when I’ll stop doing that to myself; the silent torture from fading memories.

I know it will eventually stop, just as I also know that certain feelings will one day come to a grinding halt. I know that one day the sun will shine, just as it did the day before, and I will smile with no knowledge that anything has changed. The air will be just as cold, the buildings just as tall, the hills just as steep, but that cute looking girl in the third row would become a hell of a lot more attractive.

But until that happens, I can always raise a glass to the memories gone by. I can smile nostalgically at weekend activities, and drink merrily at the irreplaceable memories they gave me. It’s a good thing I’m not one for toasts.

First steps

2006-09-30T03:35:00.000+01:00

Happy Birthday Marie.

The sunlight sat happily on the high rooftops, casting a delicious shade on the streets below – a saviour to those who had to climb the steep hills of the campus. Students sifted through each other, laughing and talking in groups or smiling thoughtfully by themselves, as they crossed each other to reach their next class. I sat amongst it all, resting by the relaxing splash of the fountain and watching the world spin by. I flick the end of my pen and it spins idly round my finger as I think of something to write, looking around me for inspiration to craft and shape into what I want.

University has been riveting thus far. Walking from lecture to lecture, trying to find the right entrance and meeting new people has been nothing short of a blast. I sit back in a coffee shop and sip my cup languidly as I think of another story to write in my thick notebook. It has only been a week, and I feel as if I have found a little niche that I can work myself into.

With the astounding amount of people at university, I feel that I will have enough inspiration to last me a life time. There seems to be an entire spectrum of people and emotions contained in a square mile of concrete and grass, not to mention the variety of personalities in a single lecture hall.

There are so many new places to explore and so many new people to play with.

Joe's big day out

2006-09-25T13:31:00.000+01:00

The train lurched forward and I tucked my leg in as another drunken man stumbled down the aisle. At the end of the carriage he tripped and fell into the group he was with, and we laughed heartily as he tried to pull himself up. I was sitting at a table with Jeff beside me and Owen with his girlfriend, Sarah, opposite. I had met Owen a few times before, but this was the first time I met Sarah. She was a stunning girl with a fantastic smile and bright eyes. They were the type of couple who went perfectly together – and it would be easy to hate them both if they weren’t so nice.

After an hour and a half of arguments on why I should go, Jeff convinced me to come with them. We were going to go to the Glasgow Union, and the plan was to become as rat arsed as possible. From the beginning I was sure that I wouldn’t drink. At most, I would have one or two JD and cokes, but I would remain sober and clear headed throughout the night.

Well, you can tell right now that that did not happen.

The bars were immensely busy, with people clamouring and nudging to get a hand on the drink soaked wood. It took us at least twenty minutes to get the first round; Owen bought us two Aftershocks each (Red and Silver) and I got a double JD and coke. We shuffled off to the side, and I downed the two Aftershocks, feeling the syrup-like drink run down the back of my throat and scorching away my taste buds. After a minute or two of coughing my lungs out, I drank down my JD merrily – not being able to taste it at all has its advantages.

We moved from bar to bar, upstairs, downstairs, the basement; holding hands to stay together through the laughing crowds. Drink after drink was consumed (Black Aftershocks are an experience in themselves) and I felt light headed, and incredibly dizzy. The ground was wet with to many spilled drinks, and I slid to and fro in a pseudo moon-walk whilst laughing at another joke Owen told. Every time I moved my head, I felt as if I was going to topple over and land on the ground with a hilarious thud; but somehow I managed to keep my balance for the entire night.

Everything was so much easier to say, and everything seemed possible. It just felt so good to be in the middle of a blue room, dancing with a stranger to Bon Jovi. It felt fun to have a discussion about how Sarah was way too attractive to take out (as evident by the constant string of guys hitting on her). It felt funny to explain how I was actually going to Strathclyde University instead, and how I was almost like a spy. I was having fun. Everything was nice and happy. I had drowned whatever sorrows I was feeling and was laughing the night away.

It was at three am that things started turning around. My legs could barely support me, and my head felt extremely heavy. I sat by the cold breeze of the window ledge and tried to compose myself, but my head felt heavier and heavier, and my eyes began to close. I fell asleep for about a minute before a fellow patron shook me awake and directed a glass of water into my hand. I drunk it down greedily, trying to wake myself up to enjoy the rest of the night. I stumbled over to where the other three were talking and tried to join in the conversation whilst hanging off the bar. I stared at them, blinking a few times, before;

“I think I might go home now.”

Jeff looked at me, her eyes wide with shock. “Why? What’s up? You can’t leave now.”

I was going to answer her, I was going to give her an epic speech of how much fun I had had, and how I was now feeling tired so I should retreat to my humble abode where I will sleep the rest of the amazing night away. But I didn’t. Instead, I lifted my finger, covered my mouth, and walked as fast as I could out of the bar.

There were no toilets on that floor. Fuck fuck fuck, get upstairs, less chance of you falling down them. Fuck, when were these so high? Shit shit shit shi- oh, nice girl with short skirt! Hello nice girl with short skirt, I was in the middle of something and now… Oh yeah. Fuck fuck fuck toilet need to get to it NOW. So many fucking doors.

The cubicles were full, so I ended up emptying myself in one of the urinals. It was horrible and black, as if I was throwing up an oil rig, and I had to step back in case I got splash back on my shoes. After roughly thirty seconds of throwing up, I felt fine. I was on top of a spinning world again and could take on anyone and anything. Owen came up to make sure I was ok, directing me to clear up and pace myself when drinking from now on. I smiled and followed him downstairs again, to rejoin the fun.

At five am we decided to leave. The original plan was to stay right through until morning, where we would get a complimentary breakfast and massage, courtesy of the union, but Sarah needed to work in the morning, and even I was going through another bout of tiredness. So we called a taxi and walked down to the Byars Road and wait for it. The wind was cold, so I donated my leather jacket to Sarah, who was only wearing a low cut top (and they say chivalry is dead). Unfortunately, the taxi didn’t arrive for another hour and, as a result, I now have quite a bad cold, but gentlemanly actions are more important than health.

The taxi ride was quite, with Sarah and Jeff sleeping in the back beside me and Owen dozing in the front. Mr Blue Sky by ELO came on and I sung along while I gazed at the dark orange sky out front. I was sober now, and already laughing at myself for what I said mere hours previously. The taxi pulled up at my house, and I sneaked in quietly before sinking into my bed – asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I had an amazing night, and it has convinced me of the merits of being one of the drunken crowds for once; instead of being the sober guy aloof them all, I was with them, laughing and drinking and dancing. Heartfelt discussions with almost strangers, with pity and jokes thrown into the mix, not to mention the constant stream of shots.

Yeah, I had fun.

Finally, cheap cinema tickets!

2006-09-23T02:13:00.000+01:00

And on a totally unrelated note, I am so damn jealous.

“Numbers two twenty five and under, over here!” Her voice would have echoed, but the mostly empty hall was filled to the brim with hissing chatter. The line shuffled forward a few steps and I eyed my ticket nervously before glancing over my form again. Everything was fine and in place, just like it was five second earlier. I looked at my ticket again, subconsciously biting my lip.

“Number two thirty nine!”

I strode forward and sat down on the hard backed chair, trying to smile convincingly at the lady across from me. She took my form, looked it over and typed rapidly on her keyboard. Her face was illuminated by the screen, and the light flashed several different colours in quick succession before she handed back my form with a smile. I was then shuffled off towards the other side of the hall where a long queue had formed in front of two people. I craned my neck and watched as new students exchanged details with the two people on the desk, and I saw the occasional flash of credit cards and cheques. After a life time I reached the front.

“Name and date of birth?”

I told him.

“Ok then, do you have any word back from Saas about funding your course fees?”

“Uh no, not yet. Is that a problem?”

“No no no.” he said, “not at all. Now… That’ll be seventeen hundred pounds please. You can pay it all right now or pay in three instalments of two sets of five hundred pounds and one of seven hundred. You can pay via credit card, debit card, cheque, or sexual favours.”

It took me a few moments to process the information that he had given.

“What?”

The girl beside him laughed and he smiled at me. “Don’t worry about it. Just have your Saas details for us by November and it’ll all be fine.”

I wandered away from him, bewildered.

The exit was in sight, but what stood in between was four sets of cameras and four people merrily saying “Cheese!” and sitting straight in chairs. I was directed into the first seat and squirmed uncomfortably in front of the video camera pointed between my eyes. I kept my eyes locked on the lens as I handed over my registration form; I had this horrible premonition of a photo with squinted eyes and a trickle of drool from a twisted jaw. I contemplated aiming a seductive look at the camera, but common sense kicked in and I froze my face into a generic smile.

A few minutes and a blinding flash later, I stumbled out into the daylight of Glasgow City Centre. I slipped the Bible and Psalm book – sneakily given to me in my blinded state – into my bag and pulled out the small card from my pocket. My picture sat happily in the bottom left corner with the rest of the card reading in bold “University of Strathclyde – Law Arts and Social Sciences”.

I slipped it into a recess in my wallet, smiling smugly at my achievement. Hell yes.

Regurgitating 500 year old philosophers

2006-09-22T03:40:00.000+01:00

“I know in darkness I will find you giving up inside like me.” Fletch quoted, holding his headphones ot one ear.

“How poetic.”

“Darkness; it’s a metaphor.” He said, ignoring me. “He says as the sun is born the sun shall die. Darkness is him talking about the death of the sun, which leads to the death of everything; therefore death.”

“No.” I said in mid yawn. “You’re forgetting something. He says as the sun is born the sun shall die, and every day will end as it began or something. He’s saying that darkness is the only certainty. Darkness doesn’t come and go, it’s just there. And besides, he says he finds comfort in it and I don’t think he’d find comfort in death.”

“Oh snap.” He got up and walked to the window. “I forgot, you’re an English major.”

I laughed. “Damn straight. Never mess with a guy who has a pass in Advanced English behind him.” I stretched out and suppressed another yawn. It was late, and I should have really been in bed. Fletch remained by the window; the yellow streetlamps reflecting off his unmoving glasses. “But anyway, it's still open for discussion.”

“I used to fail at metaphors and their meanings. But to be honest, how I see it is how it is for me. It’s the truth as I see it, so for me it is the truth and my individual conception of the song.”

I clicked on to a different page on my Lapdancer. “Like I said earlier, to each his own.”

“Yeah, but it’s probably the reason that I was no good in English.”

I looked up at him, still staring out the window. “Apparently there are no wring answers in English. My English teacher told me that.” I paused for a moment, looking at the screen, “You know, right before she failed my essay. I don’t know, maybe some answers are righter than others.”

“I don’t like that they teach a definitive answer to a question which itself really has no definitive answer. A definitive answer has no question, that’s subjective. And if you think about human existence, then there is no right answer to everything; only whichever answer is decided by the most people or by the people with the most power.”

“Two plus two, there's a definitive answer to that.”

“Kind of, but not really. Only because mathematicians at first said two shall represent one and one of the same together and 4 shall represent one and one of these two's.” He began walking around the room, his hands and face becoming more animated as he continued. “Two doesn't really exist; you cant hold it, touch it, smell it, hear it-”

“But you can represent it.” I say, but he doesn’t hear me.”

“So if it doesn’t exist, how can it 2 of it exist to make 4, which also doesn’t exist?”

“But you can represent it.” I repeat.

“It still doesn’t exist. It is a representation, you’re right about that. But it doesn’t exist. A thought, on the other hand, is the only thing you can say exists, because no matter if everything around you is fake, you need to exist to experience that thought, even if the thought is put there by someone else.”

“Fletch, it’s one o’clock in the morning!”

“Shh,” he said as he stopped and turned to me, arms open as if welcoming the sudden realisation. “So the existence of anything else is insignificant, only the property of the thought is insignificant. Say it being a number, there is no proof that what you are thinking is real or not; just that you are thinking it.”

He stopped, a smile on his face and his eyes gleaming with the light of an epiphany. I looked up at him with bewildered wonderment.

“And you have just convinced me of the merit of "I think, therefore I am"”

He set off round the room again, waving his arms happily, “The subject of a thought is insignificant, but in order to have this thought you must exist. The thought itself can be false, it can be an illusion but its existence cannot be an illusion, because if the thought did not exist, then you would not exist to have it. A thought needs to exist somewhere, thus it exists within your mind; your mind is you. Thus you must exist. Right?”

“Fletch, it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning!”

And this, ladies and gentlemen, spurred a three hour long philosophical debate that climaxed at the conclusion that non-existence exists, and that 1a+0=1a.

One foot out the door

2006-09-17T22:53:00.000+01:00

And so it has begun.

The argument has stretched out for over a week now; with each day starting in calm peacefulness and ending in vehement anger. Things would be fine at first, we share a joke over a cooked breakfast, before things become unsettled, someone snaps at someone else, and before anyone realises what’s happening, we’re in a full scale argument. Things have become progressively worse over the past week, until they reached the climax that has brought me to a shuddering halt.

I am moving out of the house.

Or, more accurately, I am getting kicked out of the house. Mum has had enough, and she feels that it is necessary to throw me and my brother out on our rear ends. Soon.

We had been discussing something similar to this for a while though. The original plan was to sell our house and have mum buy two flats in its place (one for her and one for me and Chris). We’d sell the house soon after the New Year and move into the flats for spring. Mum would help us finance and manage our flat, and we’d pay rent to her. This plan has since gone out the window.

She hasn’t given us a date yet, but I assume it will be pretty soon. Websites are already being scoured, and budgets are already being worked out in my head. I may have a slight scowl on my face as I scan page after page, but that is due to the shock of the situation. Inside, however, I am almost elated.

Ever since I considered moving out, this is what I imagined. I wanted to have my own place and live on my own two feet. I want to work to pay the bills, I want to come and go as I please, I want to live my own life. The offer from mum was the closest thing I could get to it; our own place, but with a little help. Freedom with strings attached. The current situation, no matter how sudden, is much more appealing.

Earlier today I sat at the bus stop reading a book. The rain was coming down and people ducked low under umbrellas and bus shelters to stay dry. A bus pulled up in front of me and a few people jumped on, shaking their wet heads as they stepped onto it, and I felt the sudden urge to join them. I had a hankering for adventure, and I wanted to ride that bus to the last stop and get out. I wanted to wander and explore unknown areas and to say that I conquered them.

It seems that I didn’t have to stray far from home to find an adventure.

Big decisions

2006-09-16T23:40:00.000+01:00

The reflection of the light ran along the silver blade, splitting in two near the end to demonstrate its sharpness. She held it aloft, spinning it effortlessly round her nimble finger as she used her other hand to examine my head. Her eyes – an electric blue – darted over my head and she brought down the scissors with a decisive snip. A lock of my fringe floated down before my eyes, drifting away in the breeze before it landed softly on the floor. Before I knew it, hair was falling from the sky and all I could hear was clipping in my ears.

My regular hairdresser was away on holiday, so her protégé was cutting my hair. Although this would normally lead to panic at her ability to cut my hair in the exact way I want it, I was actually quite glad. I wanted something new, something completely different from what I had before. So I sat down, shut my eyes tightly and let her do her work. Luckily my crossed fingers were kept hidden under the cover.

An hour later I walked out of the hairdresser with a quirky little smile. The wind was blowing hard and I felt slightly elated that I no longer had to worry about the state of my hair. I glanced at a reflection of myself in a shop window and had to do a double take. It was so… short.

University begins in just over a week. A whole new life awaits me; new classes, new people, new experiences. I thought I might as well find myself a new identity to go along with it; one with short hair and a leather jacket. And (eventually) his own place. And killer abs.

World; make way for Joe.

When we don't talk about sex...

2006-09-16T18:14:00.000+01:00

Originally written last night.

The office is warm, and I wake up with the pang from my can of coke. The talk between my team has died down and I try not to lose my mind in the monotony of work. Click click read click read click type type type click and print; before I know it, I’m lost in a forest of unreturned letters and national insurance numbers. I work a few cases – or more, time ceases to exist in the tax credits forest – and I am brought back to reality, my ears perked at the sound of my name.

My manager and the girl who sits beside me are laughing and talking enthusiastically. I sit between the two, so any discussion they have usually involves me ducking down low, but this time I sit up straight. They were talking about my blog.

Within ten minutes of their discussion, my website was emailed around the team. At the meeting that followed I was forced to explain myself in front of the congregation, how I had not (repeat, not) mentioned any names at all and had only made two references to my manager. I also had to confirm that I do not (repeat, NOT) stalk my manager and write fantasies about her wearing kinky underwear.

Welcome to the calibre of conversation at the tax office.

Not the good kind of wasted

2006-09-10T22:04:00.000+01:00

Check out my new story; Justice served.

And another wasted weekend has passed. Soon the clock will roll over to Monday where I will sleep the day away until I feel bad enough and decide to do something. I will trudge downstairs and sit with my Lapdancer and listening to the TV chorusing in the background. Eventually I will make an effort and get something to eat, where I decide between a thirty minute wait for chicken or a two minute wait for Pot Noodle.

Pot Noodle wins hands down and I slump into my couch and convince myself that my day isn’t being wasted while I stare mindlessly at Two and a Half Men. Time ticks on and I stare at my languidly as I decide whether to walk to work or call up a taxi. This, I am sad to say, is the most difficult decision of my day.

I arrive at work early and sit at a table by myself. My pen scribbles away some notes on a small notebook; taking down ideas and events that I could write about later. At five we all stand up and shuffle to our desks where I spend the next four and a half hours being bored, being insulted, insulting people and laughing at mindless chatter. At half past nine I pack up my bag and walk home in the cold dark. I hurry, but I don’t know why.

Back home I retreat upstairs with a glass of coke and a snack. I sit on my bed and browse the internet in the hopes to find something entertaining. I have hollow conversations with people on MSN and stay up to the wee hours of the morning just because I can. I refresh pages, read random sites and, eventually, go to sleep. The next day I wake up, and the cycle starts over again.

When did this happen? When I did I become this meaningless slob? I hear the summer exploits of some of my former best friends and my gut rumbles with jealously. While some people were out with friends and having a good time, I was doing nothing. I was on my fucking computer.

It has been worse ever since Marie left; now even my Saturdays have succumbed to the depressive lack of movement. I wistfully neglect my bookmarked cinema listings and hastily click on webcomics and blogs instead. Since I am now in a very ambiguous friendship with Marie, I hardly ever go out with her. I hardly talk with her, and when I do it’s usually filled with pleasantries and general conversation. I feel like I’ve been placed on the back shelf in her life and plastered with the label “occasional annoyance” as she lives her own life, without me in sight. I, however, am still trying to climb out of my hole of wallowing and self pity.

I feel that, with the expulsion of this little rant here, I should jump into action and call up some friends to organise a get-together where we can talk and laugh and I’m not alone; but I’m not going to. I am going to nurse this god awful feeling in my gut as I choke down another ten second meal, watch That 70’s Show and wonder when university will start.

Gyme? What's a Gyme?

2006-09-08T11:27:00.000+01:00

Three flights of stairs. I looked up at them with a feeling of hopelessness. After tackling the two miles from my house at a fast paced walk, I was expected to climb three flights of stairs on top of that? I grimaced and began my weary journey up the steps, lugging my bag along with my shoulder. I pushed through the door in front of me and walked into the gym, brushing a bead of sweat from my brow.

The first time I stepped into the gym I had found it so… sterile. The treadmills were lined up uniformly in front of a mirror, as were the stepping machines, and an assortment of strength building machines were dotted in between. Everything was so new and modern; a computer system kept track of my exercise regime while a special key activated each machine. A personalised message flashes up on the screen, welcoming me to my workout and asking me for allotted times. You would jog on the treadmill for the set time of eight minutes before the screen cheerily directed you to the next machine for a workout.

This all came as a shock to me. I expected a dirty place, the machines greasy and covered in grime. The mats would be stained to match the walls, which themselves would be yellowing with age and damp. The machines would be old, bolts and screws visible and rusted weights. In one corner there would be a cracked mirror and some scales, and in another there would be a lone punching bag, swinging ominously from a rusted chain. A middle-aged fat man would run it; unsightly stains down the front of his once white vest and a few dark chest hairs poking over the neckline. The regulars would be huge; lifting large weights silently in deep contemplation. There would be one who was different, who jumped from machine to machine with loud gusto; a Brad Pitt lookalike who was quick on his feet with cunning in every step.

But my imagination, spoiled with seedy and violent films, could not prepare me for a broad smiled greeting with sparkling braces. She led me happily round every machine, showing me how it all works, and left with a skip in her step. I was awestruck. There were no hulking men, no oddly stained mats, no gruff-but-friendly owner; the place was filled with overweight business men and bored housewives. They moved from one machine to another, never breaking the air-conditioned silence between them. I nervously kept my head down and started up the treadmill, ignoring them as they were ignoring me.

When I stepped into the gym I also had the preconception that after one session I would be done. My stomach would have tightened and my arms widened, meaning I could walk down the street with little insecurities about myself. There would be some jogging involved, of course, with a songs about tigers and eyes playing triumphantly in the background as I climbed those three flights of stairs.

Needless to say, I was wrong.