My head is just too far up my arse

I don't write shit here any more, I'm too busy writing "serious" nonsense on that other blog. But fuck that, I'm listening to Plastic Little and feeling silly...

What's with the weather? I've been feeling slightly colder over the past few days. It's wet. I can't sit outside at lunchtime and read any more.

My emotions are a mess, I don't understand anything. Fortunately, I discovered today that most people are in the same boat. It's the weather. Yeah, it's raining, and we're all in the same boat. We'll call it Noah's Ark.

Tenuous.

Anyway, what's with my flow? I can't find that rhythm tonight, I've got a numb foot and I don't know why it's numb, it's not like I've been sitting on it.

DOES ANYONE WANNA DO SOMETHING CRAZY SOMETIME?

I mean really crazy. If you do, get in touch with your ideas.
And if not, thengetamuthafuckinlifebitch.

A thought

Why do I see the need to write so much?

I'm sitting here tonight, looking at these blogs, wondering what their worth is. Sometimes we do things and we don't really know why we do them.

"Sex with Jiggy was hard to resist"

I picked up the Daily Star when drunk last night. I see this paper every morning. "Sex with Jiggy was hard to resist". It was true though. Each morning of this past season, all I've seen are newspapers with talk about sex with Jiggy. The media just can't get enough smut.

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But the paper looks absolutely hilarious. The front page is just a huge version of a tiny story, with a smutty hook to get the reader in. It's the Official Big Brother Newspaper. THAT is how much Big Brother controls the media. Everyone writes about it. And actually, now I see the irony: I'm now writing about it, because it is everywhere.

My wrist really hurts from typing, so I'm going to rest.

Have you ever...

Have you ever loved and lost somebody?
Wish you had a chance to say "I'm sorry"?

- - - - -

That wasn't what I was going to say when I sat down to write this piece of nonsense. I was going to say: "Have you ever had one of those days?"

YOU HAVE. We all have.

But today, my day left my absolutely exhausted and unsure of reality. I walked home worried that I was losing all sense of reality.

Seriously, you have no idea how I feel today. You won't, until you read the blog which I can't post today, because the fucking email didn't come through. I'll have to grab it tomorrow, and while I grab it, I'll also grab whichever cunt's in charge of blocking my email messages at work. I'll grab him, and smash his fucking face in.

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If there's one thing that myspace had which blogger didn't, it's a hit counter for my blogs. I no longer have any idea if anyone's reading what I write. This is potentially a good thing, as if I don't think anyone's reading my work, then I don't care what I write. I can write all sorts of shite.

Nobody comments. Two blogs, and nobody fucking comments. Photos, and nobody comments. Jesus, does anybody else have anything to say about anything apart from that pic of Hulk Hogan and my sis?

Look, get bent.

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I'm waiting for my buddy to show up so we can go and drink some beer. And I'm feeling nigh-on psychotic right now. I'm absolutely manic. I have no idea what I might end up doing this evening. Hanging out with friends and having a beer may calm me down. On the other hand, it may send me over the edge. I want to drink spirits. Shit, I have spirits in my bedroom. I could drink, you know.

I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in a day. I think that's what's at the root of all this. I got so caught up in the story, that I now feel like I'm actually one of the characters. I feel that it is my duty to get horrifically messed up and then go out on the town and wreak havoc. If I had some acid, I'd be up on Wimbledon Common right now, and I'd give it to some young girl, then act like a complete animal with no remorse. You have no idea.

These are all just thoughts. I can write this shit down. I won't do it. I'm not that deranged.

But if you push me... If you push me, you might see me turn that deranged...

okay okay let's go, let's just write this, let's fucking write this...

I'm so fucking tired today that I can't stop myself from swearing, so stop reading this right now if you don't like gratuitous swearing. If you do like gratuitous swearing, then read the fuck on, because I'm about as volatile as the stock market today and ready to unleash my emotions on this here blank electronic page.

Fucking weather.

I was kept awake last night by the sound of something shite on the telly next door, but I thought: "Hey, it doesn't matter, just get up later!" So I set my alarm for a later time, put my earplugs in, and just lay there until I was relaxed enough to sleep without my earplugs. You don't want to go to sleep with earplugs in. I mean: imagine it, imagine rolling over onto your side and being woken up by something sticking into your ear? It would FUCKING SUCK.

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My sister met Hulk Hogan today. I'm jealous, yes I'm jealous. So what? I got to tickle a honey today. That's about as good as meeting Hulk Hogan.

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Anyway, I was explaining why I'm tired, so I'll get back to it. Like I was saying: I set my alarm to wake me up later than usual. But guess what? GUESS FUCKING WHAT?

Some cunt goes and wakes me up early anyway.

As it turned out, I actually got up EARLIER this morning than I normally do, despite having planned to get up later. Fucking shite, eh?

And, to make matters worse, I'd had a bad dream. I hate bad dreams. I dreamt that the girl I fancied was just too in love with her boyfriend, and she would never leave him. And he was a boxer, so it was unlikely that I could knock him out of the picture. And that was how I woke up. Talk about a shite dream.

- - - - -

We need a pic here to break things up a little...



See, told you she met Mr Hogan today.

- - - - -

Well, whatever, I'm reading a hell of a lot these days to entertain myself. And loving the escapism.

Alright, alright, I swear that one was going to go somewhere, but I forgot where. I'll come back to it if I remember...

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I used the Lush bag four times, so today I was rewarded with a free Happy Pill! I don't take baths, though. I may just give it to someone at work and really confuse the hell out of them.

Work is lovely at the moment, because, like I said at the beginning of this little tirade, the markets are volatile like a drunk teenage rugby player who's just been rejected by the girl he really fancies. VOLATILE. People are losing serious amounts of money. Orders for Porsche speedboats are being cancelled as I type. Cunts. They deserve it.

- - - - -

Here's what I really came to say....

Actually, I have one more comment. It came to me while wandering home from Wimbledon Common this evening. I'd been sitting there admiring a couple of teenage girls playing piggy in the middle with some lucky guy. He could have been the boyfriend of both of them, for all I know. The kids these days... I mean, THE KIDS!

Anyway, one of them had a "Make love not war" t-shirt. And on the way home, I think I saw another one of those 80s-style slogan t-shirts. The thought came to me then:

UNLESS YOUR NAME IS HELEN AND YOU'RE MY LITTLE MYSPACE HONEY, THEN THOSE T-SHIRTS ARE NOT COOL.

I was listening to Spank Rock at the time this thought entered my head. Simultaneously, the following thought entered my head: there is one slogan t-shirt that WOULD be cool. I want one that says, quite simply:

PUT THAT
PUSSY
ON ME

That's what I want. I was trying to think of the colours. I was debating with myself whether the t-shirt should say "Push me in a corner, put that pussy on me." It had me thinking for a short while. I don't know which thought came into my mind next to displace this little turn of creativity, though.



Put it awn.

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Now time to get to the point that I was intending to make all along: the thing that actually had me excited today. At the time, I thought I was going to write an entire blog about this, but I've left it too late. Dear reader, both you and I are far too tired now to get anything worth reading out of this. And besides, you've probably run away from all the swearing and all the talk of pussy. So fucking what? The next bit's in Italian, so you won't even understand it! GO FUCK YOURSELF!

I was terribly bored all day. Check out what I wrote to myself. I'm not even going to edit this, I'm just going to paste it exactly how I wrote it at the time:

Unable to concentrate on my work, and I’ve been like this all week. I read on the way in, and when I sit down to start work for the day, all I want to do is stop working and get back to my book. I wait eagerly for lunchtime to arrive, so I can get away from my desk and back to my book. I used to look forward to lunchtime so I could talk to a honey, but not this week: I just want to head outside and read my book in the open air and lose myself for a while. I read past the end of my lunch break. And when I return to my desk after the break, I still can’t focus. I flit between tasks without managing to even think of what I should do, let alone actually do it.

Well, I found some stuff to entertain me. I put into Google "mi scassa la minchia". That's Italian/Sicilian for "it breaks my balls". I found some great things. I mean, seriously: I sat there and had a good laugh every time I found some blog or other where someone had written "mi scassa la minchia". This one was by far the best:

GO VEGAN !!!

It's the blog of a crazy cool vegan Italian girl. The sheer anger and randomness of it reminded me of myself slightly, but it was wa-hey better than anything I've ever done:

Se qualcuno gli dice "Beh, ma allora anche le carote soffrono!" risponde con un "Vieni qui che te ne ficco una in gola e vediamo se soffri più tu o lei, brutto idiota!".

My rough translation:

If someone says to you "Well, but carrots suffer too!" respond by saying: "Come here so I can shove one down your throat and we'll see who suffers more: you or the carrot, you stupid idiot!"

Actually, that part also reminded me of vegan stand-up comic hero Andrew O'Neill, who has a similarly angry skit about dealing with stand-ups who make shite jokes about vegetarianism.

Anyway, this girl, she wrote the funniest paragraph. It won't be funny unless you can understand what she's saying. In case I ever return to read what I've written (unlikely: it's shite), or in case any of you do understand Italian (unlikely: not many people outside of Italy speak Italian), I'll quote her here:

Vaffanculo al prof. folco che ci fa comprare i libri da 220 euro e chissà come mai il suo nome è in copertina.
Vaffanculo agli amichetti ricchetti che vengono a lezione con l'alfa 146, e a quella puttana di giulia che se non si tiene alla larga dal mio uomo l'ammazzo.
vaffanculo pure a rachele che mi scassa la minchia dalla mattina alla sera e mi deve pure 3.50 euro delle fotocopie.
vaffanculo a chi non mi si leva dal cervello, alla donna che mi vuole rubare la fibbia alta 7 cm, a tutte coloro che hanno il cappotto verde come il mio, a quella che aveva gli occhiali da sole come i miei, a chi mi sembra molto carino e mi fa sentire molto molto triste e mi fa venire voglia di fumare le sigarette con la tosse e di spegnerle sulle mani solo perchè mi fa sentire molto molto triste.

You heard the girl: VAFFANCULO!