Here, I am, a pillar of springjoy and merry things. The reasons of this, I can explain. It seems that everyone and their window cleaner’s ferret walker are jumping on the / my existential bandwagon and sharing I do not condone. I mean I am fine to share things that I don’t want anymore or things I have in excess but sharing a bandwagon of gloom was something, I had hoped I could keep my greedy paws to myself. Nothing is more fun that being nonchalent and non commital than when others are not, but now, it seems all of these previously pious characters are battling their way slimily through the woodwork to get in on the action, which of course means that now I am going to be everything that I never thought I could be. I am going to be lovely, pleasant, accommodating and darn it, I’m going to be…nice. So let me continue, as I began, the summer is upon us, the splendor floats hazily above us, as we go about our day to day tasks. I have also noticed that nothing annoys people so much as niceness. Why did I not think of this sooner.
The last refuge of the moron.
Spelling and Grammar. Must check. More often. It is quite abhorant when people are slapdash in this area. It is akin to saying lol in a text message. Unforgivable. Does it make it better that I actually am armed with eceedingly superior knowledge of spelling and grammar but that I never check through things that I have written? No. Ok.
Good behaviour is the last refuge of mediocrity
Once again, it has been a while since I last checked into the Anonymous Moan Vestibule. It appears clear that you shall only be hearing from me, when I have a particular gripe to air, to purge, to lay forth upon the grainy roads of catharsis. So here I am again, and what have I whinge about today you ask? Well I could begin with the loathing that runs deep into the fleshy white cell platelets that keep out the poisonous antibodies within my bubbling veins of London Ungerground Staff, but I shan’t waste my time. I think I will settle today for the entire of humanity. What a bunch of arseholes we are. Jean-Paul how right you were, my fiend. People are horrid whiney, lazy, greedy, selfish excuses for life form and I am not an animal lover let me tell you. It’s not that I don’t like things like dogs and cats, actually it is, because I don’t really, but what befuddles me more are those people that dress them up as humans and take them to restaurants and things. What’s wrong with just leaving them alone and letting them make their own way in life. It seems really passive controlling to me, just swooping them up qs if they have no other available option and subject them to a life of sitting quietly in a hollow shell of concrete instead of just letting them prance around and play with the other cats and stuff. For god sakes, they must miss that unparalleled thrill of catching food of one’s own. I know this to be true, not because of an innate Dr doolittle talent for communicating among the uncivilised but merely because I went fishing once and the glee created from said event from the partakers in said event was second only to the glee that I have witnessed a small child gets from drooling over and simultaneously hiding a set of keys. All this said, we’ve got it all wrong in, in life I mean. I am often confused why people make the life choices they do and what ultimately they are getting out of it. Mortgages, is one of those life choices I can not understand and along with it the desire to own your own little piece of land for which you are free to reign upon your miniscule kingdom of concrete and swedish furniture that’s shit anyway. Honestly, just completely knocks me out when I try and justify the logic in my head. I am aware that it is something I should and probably shall do at some point in my life, but my internal inquiry monitor just simply can not get its little cells round this one. Why is this a good investment again? What will I be getting in return that I would already be able to obtain by renting a place to live and finally another question that always springs to mind, is why do people say rent is wasting money when it is giving the palpable privilege of somewhere to live and lays ones head and meagre belongings. It’s not wasted as such is it? Think about it kids and stop repeating verbatum excerpts from the seemingly financially savvy bloke you share a pint with every now and again in the pub. No doubt for some, the mortgage is the financially viable option in a saturated market of property doom but really, what is the point in getting yourself on a rotting and soggy ladder only to find yourself in danger of falling off, when actually standing on the ground was a perfect height for what you wanted to reach anyway. and other tenuous rhetorical metaphors….
Yeah, so. Mortgages, rubbish, you won’t see me getting one anytime soon when I can rent a beautiful flat in Zone 1, walking distance from work (if I was to work) rather than schlepping from boretown, suburbsville in zone 8 and seven quarters or somewhere just to call something my own. I don’t care about possessions enough for that kind of longing. I could go on further about how humanity and their ways will eternally puzzle me in this day and age, I have a plethora of nonsensical things that we all (and by ‘we’, I mean a polite ‘you’) adhere to without even thinking about their actions, which to my mind are a waste of time and energy that could be more wisely spent having more love and sex, sitting in fields, experimenting with different wines and thier effects upon the personality and getting yourself to another country using the power of persuasion only. These to me all seem like perfect things to focus on other than work, mortgages, weekly shops and eastenders, and who said that jane got fat and maximillian looked at me funny on the bus and troilus ignored my texts and other nonsense. I may suggest that a way to brighten your trivial daily antics that obviously incite such irriatable and miserable and selfish ways is to commence wherever possible some ridiculous behaviour of sorts. I will list a few things that may provide as possible suggestions.
1.) Spark up cliched conversation about the weather or the war in Iraq and force someone into a tete a head on the tube. This will sort the men from the labotomy mice. The people whose charisma meter is wavering off the scale will be those who take on your friendly advances and thus sort out those others as being tedious sorts.
2.) The office game, the group hug, the breaking down of people’s comfortability factors, and instigating a ‘hug a jew’ day or ‘celebrate the disabled’ day for example, has great effect upon morale.
3.) Actively not looking for the directions to a particular destination you need to be at, creates for all sorts of adventure and in the face of adversity, left with nothing but nouse and the kindness of strangers, you will be surprised as to what can happen and who you can meet.
Go forth and conquer.
The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.
Ok, slightly morbid non? I usually try to subscribe to the lighter pleasures of revolving around the sun and not thinking too much about these things, but I just thought I’d mention this as it happens to be the birthday of one of my good friends today and it got me to thinking. I do not, and have never really enjoyed birthdays, not just my own, others too. I know this might sound a tad selfish, but I really truly am confused by it as a concept. Don’t get me wrong I am all for celebrating something or someone just for the bloody heck of it, but what I have to gripe about regarding birthdays, is that it isn’t celebrating something for the sheer mirth and merriment of it, it is because you feel like you have to. We are for some reason chained down to the notion that people should feel happy and thankful for the fact they still exist, that it loses any sense of significance. Everyone knows that organised fun ceases to achieve what it sets out to do. Once again, I don’t merely mean my own birthday, occassionally I feel like I should give back and share the joy with others that are making an effort for my birthday, and for this due to the ingrained Catholic guilt cast upon me, I sometimes dabble in celebration. But not often. And only when I am feeling particularly self-cherishing and I think I could benefit from some self-indulgent lamenting on the life of ‘me’. What!? That is exactly what I would be doing, as others are when they celebrate their own, so next time you decide to hire out a swanky nightspot that will be paid for by you and your friends all kindly clubbing in together, or when you book the most expensive restaurant on the equator, remember that not everyone is filled with as much glee as you are that you are achieving what to me, seems like a no brainer, continuing to not be dead. Yes, I know, I know, what a joyful little creature I am. But if at this point you are forevermore turned by my convincing pondering, then just let me really hammer the point home. So. Where was I, um..birthdays and that, they are boring, insignificant and well just quite selfish, “everyone celebrate me”. For the good of my loved ones, I would like to celebrate them and make them feel special and adorn them with thoughtful and meaningful gifts, but buying presents has always been one of those things that I loathe doing, because I am really terrible at shopping, what I really should do is, upon the event of seeing something that I deem suitable or fitting for a certain person is buy it there and then, like buying all my Christmas presents in June or something, but that seems to me a rather pious way to live, and well organised and well a bit lame. I know, I know, once again you are thinking, ‘well that’s really bloody mean of you to think this way about celebrating your loved ones’, but I don’t mean it to be that way, I just mean that if we are going to have birthdays, that a present should be something that is given out of true certainty(of say, for example on par with the certainty of Gandhi) that someone will relish receiving it and not just because there was only a Marks and Spencers on your way to the pub after work, or that you are buying them one because they bought you one, that was really nice and thoughtful..blah blah and so on. Why can’t we just buy presents for people sometimes because we think that people might want them all of the time and furthermore, if we all stop treating birthdays as celebration with the approach of a nazi general then we would all be in better stead and perhaps all enjoy them and..life more. Yes. I for these reasons will be remaining sturdy on morals and not at all because I have achieved very little for my years, no certainly not for those reasons.
Choose your friends carefully, but your enemies more so.
Right, after that rather bizarre tirade. I have something else to say. Suprisingly. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Read it. Immediately. That’s it actually, just read it and then we can do business. Yes, go!
In Absentia
It appears I have been Missing in Action, Absent WithOut Leave and various other TLA’s for not being around much. It appears I had better things to do with my life. But upon not having anything to do, this rare and financially void evening I am making good use of it, to purge forth all manner of inconsequential opinions that are only marginally less inane than Jordan’s illclaimed ‘The Next Chapter’. So firstly, and please bear with me, I know I am above this and I should be discussing more erudite fodder for the brain atoms but I can’t and shan’t. So. Nick Ferrari. Yes this is where I wish to begin after months of not hearing a ferret’s peep, a mouse’s squeak from me. I often, while on an underground rat carrier, when bereft of my battered and scruffy copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, think about what I would say if I were to meet the fat fascist fuckwit. Hang on, that has quite a ring to it, I feel slightly delighted about this rather infantile slur that just this minute came to me. He shall henceforth, furthermore be know as the FFF, the Fat Fascist Fuckwit. Despite these assiduous hours spent musing over this, to my complete chagrin I have come up with nothing that satiates my desire for him to cease to exist on my fucking airwaves. I like the radio. I love Radio 4. I know I am slightly too young and more ‘mainstream’ for this to be cool, (yes I am going to buy the Hello magazine with Colleen Rooney’s access all areas and sell your soul down the river splash of her five million quid wedding), but Nick Ferrari, just him alone, one meagre inconsequential man actually ruins my day. Every morning. “Well, don’t listen then”, I hear you cry. If only it were that simple. It is like the very thing that makes me want to take on Lilleth herself as being hellbent on receiving the crown of Furydom, is the very same thing that draws me like a hypnotised Icarus flying towards a swirly acid induced sunshine. I have to share the car in the morning with a woman, who is also known as my life force, or something, my mother. She listens to it, and I have no idea why, as she is a relatively clever women with the constitution of a thousand nuns and yet she chooses to listen to the FFF. Countless and painfully resurfaced debates have ensued regarding the FFF and the pros and cons of a) killing him, b) hurting him c) remain listening to him d) pulling off my own fingernails with a monkeywrench (which by the way was preferable to listening to him I concluded.) and e) me being quiet so we can hear him make over one ‘bullion’ slurs on the entire Muslim sect, his piece de resistance, his fail safe when all seems to be going to pot. ‘quick quick, someone has rang in and made a relatively comprehensible point, talk about the muslims’ thinks he quietly and smugly to himself. He should probably cut out the middle man and tell them to go back to where they came from. I have actually forgotten why I started this. To conclude and move swiftly on, as there is nothing more abhorant, than a paroxysm of emotion, I kind of, don’t really like him, much.
Who Shall Die!
Today people that should be exterminated are those derisory members of…bear with me the words are so inutterable from my pursing lips…the Fashion Industry! My extreme wrath for such was spurred by an article I read, probably in the Daily Mail magazine. (Don’t even get me started on that despicable Liz Jones frogspawn). The article in question was a women who for years had succesfully run her own fashion column or something equally as irrelavant, the women upon having a baby and moving to the country to some eco-husband following venture, now has told us she doesn’t know how to dress best to fit the parochial paulines! It appears she had a labotomy not a child. What a loathsome moron.
On a positive note, licking stamps is never so fun as when you accidentally do ketamine at work.
Memoires d’une jeune fille a dérangé
The zeitgeist has spurred me forth into the blogging frontier. I understand it is a place where I can pour out my ruminations, meditations and cogitations henceforth. Nevermore shall I be bound to navel gazing musings in a room of one’s own.
The winter of my discontent has bloomed into Spring and what was once lost has now been found. It has not always been this way. As someone who likes to live by the Catch 22 rule that ‘everyone has a right to do with whatever one can get away with’, and if we continue to live by the book, this book, I now gage mental instability between those that seem so lucid, they discover upon death by Songs of Praise, a buried grandma in the garden, saved toenail clippings in a large underground vault, compared with the other end of the spectrum as someone so clearly ridiculous as a friend of mine who recently believed she was injected with AIDS after sitting on a mattress at an admittedly less than desirable ‘East End squat’ party, despite not seeing, feeling or so much as breathing in a needle’s presence. I would also like to point out that this girl’s life has almost been ruined by The Metro’s scaremongering she intakes daily on her unsullied journey to work as she also didn’t eat crisps for three months upon the news that she may get Hepatitis C from the aluminium. It never occurred to her to worry about the twenty pound notes she shoved up her bloody open wounded nose or the weeks she copulate with four different specimen in a way only a liberated hippy would be pround of…? I digress. So these are the two spectrums of which I base the level of ‘dérangé’. Remember this in time to come when forced to subsist in this, our farcical orb.
Splendid. So where to begin….my loves or loathes? I shall decide after scouring Ebay for Unicorns.
