Herro again. I was just thinking about how I could do something worthwhile for the literary world. Maybe by posting a thought-provoking dissertation on the internet.
Then I thought "No. Fuck that. Lets update this blog instead."
The fact that our souls are getting crushed under the weight of the work we've been given is really been depressing me. And when I get depressed I get angry. Not the Hulk-out kind of angry, the kind of angry that generates an anti-social field around my general area and causes 80% of the world's supply of not-giving-a-fuck and no-I-don't-feel-like-doing-another-assignment-for-ergonomics-go-die-in-a-fire.
I still haven't managed to pin down what exactly I want to use this blog for. I know I don't want it to be a rant blog, because god knows there's enough of them out there. They say "stick to what you know", whoever the hell "they" are. "They" should get their goddamn noses out of my business unless "they" want them cut off and served in a kind of creme du nez.
And I know video games, but a lot of people who read this probably dont give a monkey's left one unless I've got something really profound to say. I also know food. But not really from the talking-about-it point of view. If I'm talking in relation to food, chances are it's because my mouth is full.
Should it be an everything-is-wonderful-here's-a-picture-of-a-kitty blog?
. . .
No.
Dammit. I promise the next post I make will be more structured. It'll have an introduction and everything! The issue is that there's no structure in them. Just like theres less structure in my life than there used to be. Oppertunities just seem to pass me by without me even realising it, I'm finding it hard to work because I just sit at a desk and complain about how hard the work I'm not doing is, and lecturers seem to just throw all sorts of shit at me just to see what sticks. The obvious problem with that is, if you throw enough shit at a wall, yes, some of it will stick, but in the end, all that you're left with is a wall covered in shit. And a cleaning bill.
. . .
There, that's your lot. Now go and make a healthy sandwich with soda bread or something. . .
This was going to be titled "Lynch Our Larynxes" but it turns out the plural of larynx is Larynges. So fuck that.
Aaargh! I haven't updated at all this month! Its a fucking travesty to the world of underwhelming, rarely updating blogs, The main reason is that I've no pictures of sketches to put with it, and the other 478 reasons are all to do with how I'm too god damn lazy. I really need to make this an every 2-week affair at the very least, Y'know, because apparently people actually read this crap. And I'm probably goin to need to start a new blog for my FYP. So woop-de-fucking-horray for me.
I suppose I should get around to the title topic. Picture this, you've just found the funniest video on Youtube. Your sides have required major reconstructive surgury in order to sew them back up. Your life has been changed by the effortless ease with which the message was conveyed. You're thinking of starting a religeon based on its iconography. You show it to your friend, the only one you love enough to show it to first, and his response is:
"Heh. LOL!"
. . .
Eh. Excuse me. But. Umm. Well. . . you see. . . What. The Fucking. Fuck. Was That.
. . .
No. Don't answer. Do not skull-fuck the empty eye socket of the beautiful language you just brutally murdered any more. "LOL". Seriously? As in "Laugh Out Loud"-type LOL? Uless there is some other meaning of LOL that I'm presently unaware of.
"Lots Of Love", perhaps? "Dear Sam. Sorry to hear about the accident. LOL" Somehow, I doubt it.
"Lump On Linoleum" for all those times that DIY issues absolutely have to get their own abbreviations.
"Liberate Our Leucocytes". Ok, now I'm just getting fucking ridiculous.
As the more attentive readers may have garnered from the post so far, I have a little problem with this newfound aspect to our language. Now I do try to be as liberal as I can be in my life, with all the Live-And-Let-Live and all that. But I do reserve the right to transform into a cantankerous aule bollocks when I see the purpose to.
The purpose currently is that there is no. point. to this phrase. The word means "laugh out loud". Here's an idea: if you actually think it's funny, Then Fucking Laugh and dont waste my time with this "I wish to express my enjoyment of this through the medium of laughter, but without any of the effort or semblance of emotion associated" bullshit.
It wouldn't be so bad, but I was having a chat with my cousin a while back, and when wishing to make known his displeasure at the news of our stolen car, said, and I quote: "Aww. Sad face." I was so overcome by shock at the grammar nazi inside me having an aneurysm (or possibly ejaculation, it's hard to tell), that I almost forgot to hit him.
We need to stop this trend now before it goes too far. How long before we'll be saying things like "Kthnxbai" or "ASL" or "NOOBfag" in everyday conversation? Has it already happened?
So, in conclusion, dog's tongue's Loll. They do not LOL. End. Of. Story. QED.
. . .
"QED"? Aw, fuck. Now look. It's contagious.
That's it, now go change the bedsheets or something.
. . .
Ooh, ooh, I've just though of another one: "Life Of Luxury"??!?! Ok, I'll stop now.
Well, after my last post read like a desperate cry for attention, lets try a different approach.
. . .
You see, I'm currently having a bit of a mental crisis, where i find that everything I say and do is being profoundly affected by chemicals acting in my bloodstream.
I'm currently experiencing what experts refer to as: an emotion.
Even more worryingly, I may even be happy.
Unfortunately there seems to be no cure for happiness short of repeated head trauma, and the symptoms can only be temporarily alleviated by copius amounts of The Cure, health foods or watching the news (so long as you avoid human-interest stories).
Those symptoms can include light-headedness, increased appetite and Katy Perry. All of these are dangerous on their own, but together they can be fatal (or at least really, really, really annoying).
Happiness is highly contagious, and carriers should be separated from healthy, depressed people and quarentined in special theatres where they will be shown a selection of movies including Schindlers List, Requiem for a Dream, Million Dollar Baby and any movie by Nicholas Sparks (of The Notebook fame).
Should you find yourself experiencing symptoms of happiness, simply remember the three "R"'s: Remember that all life is fleeting, no matter good a moment might feel,
Realise you are nothing but a liability to everyone you have ever known, and a walking, consuming wallet to everyone you haven't
Refuse to acknowledge anyone elses existance in this miserable life.
You should find yourself back to being a numb, jaded and obedient little drone almost immediately.
. . .
This message is brought to you by The Mass Media, The Hysterical Dipshit Minority, The Conservative Government, The Alliance of Advertising Executives, and Religeon.
. . .
Now go have a Kit-Kat or something . . .
UPDAAAAATE! Do I have your attention now? . . . Why the hell would I even ask that question? You're just theoretical readers of this piece. I'm just angrily typing this in an empty room, expelling my thoughts to people who may be mere figments of my imagination . . . . . . . . Imagine a porn film. Don't lie, you know exactly what to imagine. Now replace the actors with your grandparents. . . yep, good luck with that mental image. All the positions (ALL of them), and the cliche sticky finish. Now for the punchline: They've done that. Yep. Just because you don't think about your grandparents sex life doesn't mean it doesn't exist. They're probably doing it . . . right . . . now! Probably on the table you ate off the last time you were there.
. . .
There. If that last paragraph has no real-world consequences, I can without a doubt assume that my blogs readers have no physical form, and exist as what scientist-bloggers (or "Blogentists") would call "potential readers" or "readers that have yet to occur", and everything I say on this will have absolutely no effect on my life. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go and clean out the inside of my head with a Brillo pad and bleach. Be right back.
. . .
Well that was painful, and yet not as painful as the thoughts everyone who read that will be having for the rest of the day. Including me.
Is this the bit where I actually have to talk about stuff? Aw crap. Do I talk about being a mildly intelligent middle-class citizen who has become so jaded with not having to work for anything that he feels the need to become a raging sociopath and blame it on his environment when he inevitably abandons every drop of identity that he thought he once had just for a chance at becoming one of the happy sheeple? How he wishes that some kind of deep emotional event would happen in his life just to give him the drive to get off his lazy ass and actually do something?
Something that would give him self esteem?
Something that would make him interesting?
Something that would make him feel Alive!!??!?!!?!!*&%^$)£!!!!????
. . .
Naw, lets not talk about that, that'd be stupid.
Now go and sing a song while walking down the street or something.
Looking over at my long-unused playstation 2, an article I read not too long ago seems to ring truer and truer. The article made the accusation that there are simply too many good games coming out. This particular writer listed out a good 30+ games that he desperately wanted too finish, yet knew he never would.
If you'll just suffer with me for just a bit, I'll get to the funny in a bit.
I still want to finish: FFX, MGS3, Persona 4, Odin Sphere, LittleBigPlanet, Zelda: Ocarina of Time, and the entire Half Life series. . . oh dear jeebus. I've just had a frightening thought. I could've finished so much of that instead of playing Final Fantasy XIII. Well, fuckbuckets. Excuse me a moment . . .
dfgvhjnmk
There, now I feel a little better and have the shape of a keyboard imprinted in my face. The two may be related. Hold on while I reattach the letter . . . *y*. There we go.
Moving swiftly on from that literally painful revelation, I've just thought of a game to play. Its called "Make your own 9 levels of hell" and I would explain the rules but then I'd just be repeating myself. This is as interesting as it is not-ripped-off-Tim-Buckley.
Level 1) - People under the age of 50 who wear socks with sandals - We start with the fairly light offences. Socks are used to keep feet warm. Sandals are used to keep feet cold. Older people do it because sandals are easier to put on. Use your head. Punishment: Footwear and clothes replaced with sacking cloth or coarse wool. Now your clothes annoy you as much as they annoy other people.Level 2) - People with no imagination. Punishment: Access to all the primetime comedy TV series' DVD box sets in the world (Friends and such crap) and a broken DVD player. Actually, on second thoughts, I should've just changed the title of this level to "People who like Friends.Level 3) - Health Nutjobs. Note, I have nothing against people who try to stay healthy. I am one. This is reserved for those who think soaking your socks in vinegar can cure cancer, and Indian charms can stave off headaches. Punishment: Trapped at an all-you-can-eat buffet where all the tastes are reversed. Unhealthy foods taste great and vice versa. . . so just like real life, but taken to the extreme.Level 4) - People who purposly drink to excess at partys. Punishment: Permenant sobriety at Valhalla, but every morning you still wake up with a migraine and a girl called Bill.Level 5) - People who complain about their feelings. ("Nobody understands me" "You don't know what it's like") Punishment: Easy, trapped in a room with everyone who is exactly the same as them, everyone reverted back to their puberty years. Wearing shirts that show their innermost thoughts.Level 6) - People who don't understand consequences. ("I do sit-ups before going to McD's, why am I not thin?") Punishment: They are given a puppy/kitten, that will, despite thier best efforts, die young.They must then stuff the corpse themselves if they wish to get another.Level 7) - People who tell others their beliefs are wrong and theirs are right. Punishment: Flying-Spaghetti-Monster heaven. Or hell I suppose. (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=flying+spaghetti+monster)
Level 8) - People who refuse to step out of their comfort zone. Punishment: Forced to watch videos of people on earth having fun doing new things, while all they have is the game: Pong, stuck on 2-player mode, alone.
Level 9) - PEOPLE. WHO. WON'T. STOP. QUOTING. FUCKING. BORAT. Punishment: Trapped in an enormous movie theatre that reruns and explicit version of the nude scene. Forever. While moustachioed men gnaw off their genitals.
. . .
Why does this always end up a rant? I'm really trying hard not to go down that route.
There, I'm done, now go finish a video game you haven't played in years or something.
Well, I finally got a shiny new digital camera. Sorry camera-phone, we had some great times together (cut to wiggly flashback-style effect), but you've been succeeded by a whole 10 megapixels. Not that it makes a blind bit of difference after 6 megapixels.
I choose to show this to you by taking a photo of the worst drawing I could find and posting it.
. . .
So. Apparently I'm going up to dublin tomorrow for a trip to an Ireland-B rugby match. Wonderful (sarcasm is really hard to telegraph over a purely visual medium). This could be a perfectly nice day out, only to be compounded by my mother going "It'll be a nice oppertunity for some father-son bonding."
I do not live in the fucking '60's. Nor the 50's, 70's or 80's for that matter. Father-Son bonding became irrelevant around the time fathers began ignoring their family in pursuit of money and distractions associated thereof.
In case you haven't noticed, I work on my dad's farm. I get to see him. Oooh, every single day. I take instruction from him, and I try not to screw up too much around him. Granted, this isn't an ideal situation to grow closer to him, but to grow, you need some freakin room! Let me miss him a bit before you tell me to spend more time with him!
The dad I see is irritable and sure of himself. I dont really see the want in being any closer to him than I already am.
Fuckit. I've no good reason to be angered by this.
What I'm really pissed off by is when people try to tell me what to think. I hate it when people address me in some way that isnt advice. It makes me so infuriated when they make a point of not saying "please", and I DONT KNOW WHY.
Why should I be angry at people when 99% of the time they're only giving me guidance based on their own experiance? And from what I see I'm not the only one who thinks this.
Maybe it's because the world is constantly telling us these days "think for yourself" and "You are Special" with a capital S and saying it with a straight face (as opposed to the way I normally say it. Y'know, insultingly).
Maybe what we should be telling the kids is "Dont be a Dick" with a capital D (Unless your name is richard). If Barney is to blame for kids having overinflated senses of self-importance these days, maybe we should have a counter-argument saying "seriously though, kids, the people on this show are so stupidly talented they're already earning more than your parents. They'll be burned out and struggling before they're 20. Also, nothing on this show is real".
. . .
Damn it. I told myself not to descend into a rant this time. Screwit. Next time, I'll talk about puppies or hugs or sunlight blasting out of various orifices or something.
Thats it. Now go and walk to the shops and don't buy anything with sugar in it. Please.
Just a quick word in edgeways before I fuck off to Limerick to do even less than usual. . .
So I don't actually have anything to talk about this time. I just sat down and said "Just fucking type something, dickhead!". Yeah, my inner monologue's kind of a dick. I should probably get that looked at.
So what to do? Well, I broke my rule of not advertising myself on facebook. So thats kind of a downer. But on the plus side, it seems someone actually read it! So in your face, Past-Me!
I could talk about this quote from "The Beach" where Leo DiCaprio says: "You ever feel like doin somethin diffr'nt, but then we all end up doin th'same thing?". But, while a good conversation topic, would end up with me admitting that I watched a film with Leo DiCaprio, so fuck that for a game of Monopoly.
The other thing I kind'v want to talk about is the 21st birthdays I've been going to. Yes, they're great craic, but jaysus, lads. Every single one of them is the same. Not just "Avatar was exactly the same as Ferngully/Dune/Pocohontas". But actually "This is being held in a too-large venue with too much fried food, with a mildly expensive bar, with a crap DJ, with retardedly inappropriate music thats too loud, with everyone in the room standing awkwardly in their Very Distinct Social Groups while being Overly Courteous to everyone before they can finally get drunk enough to do something they can properly regret later.
This is not what most people want these days! 21sts now are social gatherings. How can I be sociable when this weeks No.1 dance crap is drowning out all my witty repartee? Ok, thats a lie, but its still drowning out my awkward, shouty attempts at conversation.
I won't even have a 21st, if I can, cos I'll be out of the country on work experience. But looking at my situation at the latest 21st I was at (which was, all things considered pretty ok) I just thought "How can I possibly do something that is not like this in any way?" And the only idea to hit me was this: Fancy. Dress. Paintball.
Now just think about that for a bit. All the regular safety and shit of regular paintball, but with a costume. Doubtless my idea will be shot down long before it has a chance to approach the runway, and even more doubtless that if I type that into google, I will find that a million other people will have already done it. But a man can dream, can't he? And this has nothing to do with the fact that I constructed a samurai costume that I may only ever wear once.
"Oh god, yeah, that costume. You are a fucking idiot, you know that?"
Shuddup inner monologue.
"You actively dedicate yourself to the pursuit of new levels of stupid."
Shuddup.
"I mean, I can even comprehend the gratuitous fountain of idiocy that springs forth from your mind, and I am your mind!"
. . . Yeah? Your point is well made, however: Fuck off.
" . . . pfft. . . Just try not to hurt yourself going down stairs. K? Its so empty in here, I'm afraid I'm gonna get a concussion off the thick walls of your cranium."
. . .
Stupid imaginary characters made up for the purposes of storytelling.
"Stupid man who can't figure out a decent way to finish a blog post so is forced to ramble into an brick wall of an ending.
. . .
The End. Go play outside.
