"Marry me, marry me, marry me..."
My brain isn't working on any academic level currently. In fact, I can't even succeed in composing my Spanish AS oral, which my teacher helpfully gave me durdurr instructions for doing.
As for reading, I began An Ice-Cream War last night. No doubt that project shall be abandoned by the week's end.
I read somewhere in Sartre that if I am to embrace his notion of universal freedom, I must simultaneously accept responsibility for my actions, a thing which is not about to "happen"
I am currently wrestling with the physical possibilities of vomiting a wedding ring up a friend's anus, to give you an example of the level of brain activity of which I am capable.
The week of t'birthday is always good for scuppering one's vival enjoyment.
10 INPUT A$
20 PRINT "I JUST LOVE EATING" A$
30 GOTO 10
Ricccchhhht, it be time for t'update of t'partay.
Firstwise, I cannot recall in any real coherent detail the event, which suggests that it were great.
Boarding the bus at a time, I sat lethargically, listening to The Doors, and by the time Polski Mateuszzzchchshszh loomed into view I was ready to sleepify. He engaged me in conversation, which may have been about Splintarr Sail or summat, but no matter. Suddenly, we were at Bnaks' hoose, and I cannot remember what happened. We drank a bit, and blaters watched the fut'.
When mans arrived, I was sufficiently inebriated to skip, as I recall, and then entered the lair of Catriona for danceage and guitarage, of which there is video evidence.
There was a period when a number of fellows were in BIG's unnecessary atrium, where I spoke a bit, most certain, and then got kissx0red by Lizzy, I think. I then seized control of th'camera, and fillemed Jon, commenting on his greatness. Then, proceeding towards Graham and the door, I was grasped amid the testes by that plucky transgressor of taste, Ross Hollinsheadworthdale. This same inimical fool then pushed me over, such that I cruised towards poor Graham with all the grace and daintiness of a TD and destroyed him in my momentum. Catriona squealed for her camera's safety, while the rest lamented Graham's borken self. No concern was shown for me.
I next recall doing "naughty stuff" outside, which was conducive to the wailing guitar I then played.
Hmm... memory failing...
There was bnoeage of Lizzy, which was a serendipity of my journeying to the lavatorial district. That, it seems, took away a significant amount of time spent drinking, though I would say that its benefits outweighed the loss. Silence.
Then some things were watched on the screen, and I can't recall more. Best go find some tech support.
One thing I did do was to introduce Matthew to the joys of concealing oneself behind a cunning corner and leaping out at a passer by, accompanying one's physical actions with a horribly bellowed @BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIINNNN
!ONEONMEONENEJMGRKGHRKRTHSFGHKSDFKDBKDFB
I feel it to be necessary that the following anecdote be committed to posterity, for it demonstrates one of the few examples of true greatness on my part:
I was in year 4/5, and a mans in the year above was showing off his mad basketball skills to anyone who would watch. I observe the fool, as he makes a shot of not inconsiderable (litotes 8-)) difficulty. "Skill." he utters with an air of infuriating arrogance.
Seized by some indeterminable desire to pwn, I walk up to this mans and say "No, mate; this is skill:". I proceed to stand with my back to the net a good seven metres away from the wall, and hurl the orange sphere (having procured it from the mans) into oblivion. Cheers erupt (from the crowd which, as I may have earlier overelaborated, consisted of a single person, maybe female, though perhaps not. The ball has, by some miraculous turn of fate, passed through the net, crushing the mans and signifying my complete and utter domination of humankind forever. Sadly, this story swiftly became legend, and so no one ever truly recognized my superiority, but now is come the time for remembrance of this great deed done unto the athletic errorist, when the gods were, for once, on perfect form.
Be it noted also, that "Hustle" is an excellent televisual emission.
I forget how Tood can amuse me; mayhap I shall maintain contact with him in the fut'.
I had been searching many years for that which was to take up the much-coveted crown of cunthood, when today I realized that it has, in fact, been worn for a good year or so already: Nigella Lawson, faintly attractive yet utterly diabolical TV chef extraordinaire, has unleashed upon an unsuspecting world a malodious, noxious and most fearful collection of culinary implements, lovingly emblazoned with some fucking emblem representing how fucking wonderful she is or something. Look to your nearest emporium of the bourgeoisie and cast
your oculoes upon this assortment of agony:
"simply delicious bowls - only £30 each!!! Or, perhaps you would prefer a cutting board? £120, please, you complete and utter imbecile. Oh, and just to show that the swell-set is an equal opportunities bunch, we are offering a budget spoon at £6 for all you poor cunts out there, because we understand how difficult it can be. Be nice to serve up the gruel with."
What upsets me more is that my mother owns a £60 breadbin, direct from this Lawson-endorsed pantology of piss. Though, at least she didn't go overboard and get it with a walnut lid, which would have doubled the price, as well as the number of third world families eating from their mother's corpse this even.
Well, I simply cannot bear it; my sleepless nights are partly caused by the knowledge of this, this... onion of a woman and her wanky little saucepans with their 30,000% markup.
Apologies.
I was rejected from Edinburrgghhhghghgh this week, alas, and so I am vacillating between the option of reapplying on that "super UCAS" thing for rejects for a linguistics course, staying on at college for a year, going away or SOMETHING, or packing up and joing the circus. Advice would be received with gratitude, though the circus is looking bright so far.
Riccchht, then, Banks needs to become less of a failure: his merciless skills of alienation, offense and solipsism are currently getting to me: this means that I suffer directly as a result of them being inflicted upon me, as well as indirectly as a result of actually adopting these traits somewhat myself. No great feud do I intend to create; I simply would like to make aware one of my closest friends of his occasionally hurtful behaviour - though be warned, should you put it to me to offer an example of said behaviour, I would probs fail it.
I have another problem currently: I have a great deal of time on my hands, yet I do not use it for beneficial studies or anything, curriculum-based or otherwise. This is because whenever I try to do a thing (i.e. read stuff) I am seized by an all-consuming desire to stare without gorm into thin air. I may use this time for mental exploration, but I cannot really recall any of the actual moments, which points to a phase of either daydream or mental shutdown, both of which offer nothing beneficial. It doesn't help either, that the only moments when I am truly content are when I am with my bestest buds or when I play my guitar (except today, when my middle finger is too battleworn to be used for any kind of emotive playing). I attempted to say this in my previous yarn of an entry, which, unnecessarily plagued with tolstoyevsky quotation, I believe offered little in the way of actual information, but I feel I must communicate fully the complete sense of abandonment in which I now find myself. Cue sample of Fabio Lione spitting "Oh, GOD!". I can see myself objectively at times, and look upon my foolish figure and think "The infantile idiot! He who desires, but acts not... etc.", and then utter a guffaw of relief at the relative irrelevance of my problems from my new-found perspective. But then the smile of my objective self is sent packing posthaste, as it realizes that all the problems which it perceives me to experience are its own problems too, and so it cries, forming another objective self, which continues in a linear regression forever and ever.
Perhaps I have ill-expressed myself, or perhaps you do not grasp this concept, for it is not entirely easy to do so - at least it would not be for the phoolz in my Phi class, but more on them later. So, to iterate my point, though I can try to see myself from an external perspective, and laugh about my worries, I cannot entirely eliminate them from the depths of my mind, and so gradually, the part of me which is reflecting on myself becomes miserable as well.
Anyway, you don't need to read all that, for it is merely the ranting of a soon-to-be 'adult' with too much self-obsession.
Those Philosophy fools, then: these people aren't for real - they waste fourty minutes of my hard-earned, precious, completely free state education with their inability to grasp the idea that there may not be an immediacy to our perception, that we see through the "theatre of the mind", and though what we perceive is real, our perceptions are simply representational of reality, and are not necessarily a direct image. I should be more tolerant, I know it, but I have endured day after day of these people, and today I wished that they would just nod in some vacuous manner, before departing without explanation in order to emigrate to the woods, where they should dwell in squat domiciles made from cherry coke cans cohered with their own bile.
Goodnight.
"The point is to understand everything, to realize everything, every impossibility, every stone wall; not to reconcile yourself to a single one of the impossibilities and stone walls if the thought of reconciliation sickens you; to arrive by way of the strictest logical syllogisms at the most repulsive conclusions on the eternal theme of how you are somehow to blame for the stone wall itself, even though once again it is abundantly clear that you are not to blame at all, and in consequence of all this to sink volutptuously into inertia, silently and impotently gnashing your teeth and reflecting that there isn't even anybody to be angry with, that an object for your anger cannot be found, and perhaps never will be, that this is all a fake, a conjuring trick, a piece of sharp practice, and there is nothing but a morass;nobody knows what, nobody knows who, but in spite of all the mysteries and illusions, you ache with it all, and the more mysterious it is, the more you ache."
I have noticed lately that my life has not consisted of the four elements, nor, indeed, has it consisted of eating and drinking. Instead, my life has been engaged in fancy. Much like, perhaps exactly like, the dude from Notes From Underground, I have invented a life "so that I should at any rate live". It is, of course, too boring to simply exist through inertia (Sartre, indeed, would not be best pleased), but to be a man of action seems, to be blunt, a fucking waste of time. If I am to die, to pass beyond existence, what possible motivation have I for doing anything? For in doing so I will inevitably apply measurement to my Time, and thus make it seem finite. Instead, if the majority of my existence takes place in a metaphysical world, then Time is a lesser import for me. This is why my life, externally would appear to consist of sleep, college and folly pursuit. Wrong would you be to assume this to be the gestalt, for, in these moments of slumber and of folly, I construct vast landscapes of utopian beauty, filling them with everything which matters. This could be at one time my friends, at another a subniveal mountain, at another a simple alteration of the world as is. Most important to me at the moment is this nagging memory I have, which I recall from... somewhere... and fills me instantly with memories of a golden age, but one which I remember as an actual experience of my own propriety; it is my childhood in one image, though it contains no certain figures from my past.
"I sat, and to mind came a dim memory; the vague recollection of a rustic scene. A construction, at times a welcoming cottage, at others a small, ivy-wound shed, sweeps into view; trees discard their autumnal slough on the ground, interrupting the pleasant rays of late-afternoon sun which were stretching like the hands of lost souls through the spaces in the branches. I could not determine the nature of such a scene, whether it was fictional or an actual place; it appeared to be both a memory and a fabrication of mental processes stimulated by my surroundings, by the music; a compendium of my own imagination, a pantology of pondering. This pastoral landscape was of great comfort to me; it reinvigorated my passion for life, and again returned the joy and sense of elation which I had once experienced but long forgotten."
A natural disaster is simply a natural happening, only some foolish humans have managed to stand in the way.
| My LiveJournal Sitcom |
|---|
| The alainvey Show (NBC, 11:00): alainvey (Jason Behr) can't open djinny (Meg Ryan)'s jar of pickles. Then, littlelostgrl (Jason Robards) accidentally breaks cyprien (Keenen Ivory Wayans)'s baby photo. Later, ghostlight (Vivica Fox) buys armchairs instead of soups, ruining amoe (Ali Landry)'s day. Later that day, elefant (Maura Tierney) borrows sparkgun (Mayim Bialik)'s car to drive to the beach. On the other side of town, ickleprincess (Sarah Polley) dances with zeocrash (Roberto Benigni). (Part 1 of 2.) |
| What's Your LiveJournal Sitcom? (by rfreebern) |
I just read my entire journal again (as no doubt Jon and Bnaks's inboxes will tell them). I realise that I don't get nearly enough credit for my hilarity as I deserve.
nostalgicHere's a poem I wrote whilst imagining myself sailing on the teardrop of a nymph, gently pondering whether it is all worth it...
Ease.
A troubled cornucopia of deceit,
that's all.
Emperce my worthless soul,
it yearns.
Oh God I wept.
Again.
Oh God I wept.
"I feel like Tantalus, but as though I myself am deliberately pushing the grapes further away whilst simultaneously trying to grab them"
"Now the moment is gone, and I no longer feel the cumulative effect of fifteen things gone wrong, a life which I pretend is tortured (for I like that image of myself - oh, am I solely selfish, or can I feel for others?) and ... something else... "
Two samples of my speech thrust upon an unwilling San Franciscan only moments ago. Though they are moments of clarity/delusion which I find it hard to come by when perusing my thoughts at other times, so I have documented them here lest I need them again.
End.
Another working Sunday. Amusing Phillip actually demonstrated that he is capable of civilized conversation, and gave me reasons for hating The Cure. Gex and I had a battle over the day which resulted in us walking home together with SOPPING WET CROTCHES. He bored me about cars.
Now I have nothing to do. Perhaps guitar shall be a good idea.
boredI awoke in a daze, and dreamed about going into Reigate. I woke up, and then reasoned that as I had already visited Reigatea in my dreams, it would be unnecessary to go there today. So I did little until I went to work at around five o'clock. The joy there was limited, but the beautiful 40-year-old was there and Amusing Phillip entertained me, again referring to Robert Smith as "Gay Boy" and generally winning. Now I hear astonishingly loud fireworks, and Mother is going away with the Lawnmower Man, despite the relentless lessons she has had which should have taught her otherwise.
I must also comment on Anthony Saunders's party of last night: it was enjoyable, though few attended. Sneaky Pete vomited a mixture of Vodka and Tequila into his hands, to the revulsion of all, but continued to plough through the evening undeterred. Phillippa failed to glean amusement from Jackass: The Movie, so its broadcasting was ended. Anthony Mark II entertained me, as he is a fan of The Cure, and also was appalled when I said tha I loved him, warning me not to say such ever again, a warning which I ignored. Dear old Fit Ed gave me a lift there and back, bless his abused heart, and a remarkably talkative taxi driver took me from redhill to my house. This man asked me questions which shocked even me, in my state of inebriation (this spelling seems erroneous - please correct it if necessary). Anyway, enough talking like a fucking moran: far'th'well
indifferentI highly recommend a read of Tolstoyevsky; a fine scribe.
I return after "six months", according to the evidence, which, frankly is errorism-ridden.
I can safely say that Weird Girl is rubbish, after thorough testing, yet I will continue to study the subject for of pleasure. And in desperate hope that an anomaly shall occur.
More news: Bnaks does not know what a plum looks like, and you've all lost the game
Amongst a small collection of tasteless gifts from my father, a heavy silver golf buggy, with clock - a time-keeping apparatus of such unyielding hideousness as to bring tears to grown men's eyes.
OH!
no one likes me!
' ;; ' and' a' , then turns to anguish
moaaaooaoanm
I can't believe I haven't used this picture before...
Time for sleep...
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