Within this jungle a Peruvian heart beats out a sexual rhythm. Woman young with tanned skin and sweating long black hair, her smooth coffee body reveals only sinew and muscle undulating beneath, pulsating to the sway of music as she displays her sexual vitality on the dance floor. Horatio watches through telescopic sights, waiting and waiting for that savagely royal brown head to enter his cross hair. He holds his breath as black eyes meet his, terror and adrenaline shoots like a hooked fishing line along his optical nerves catching in the back of his head, makes him dizzy, makes it hard to think.
This girl's gonna meet the monster tonight, she's gonna get booglarised, she's going to get jumped on, get made. He commences his approach, walking over in what he believes is a nonchalant way holding his drink in what he believes to be the same manner taking deft sips out of the plastic pint glass as he dodges around the less attractive women on the dance floor. These he knows he will probably return to later. He stands almost in front of her now and sees that the jungle has cleared a space for this female animal as though afraid and must stay distant. The circle of dancers formed around her attempt to ignore her style and sex, girlfriends dancing with their boyfriends inconspicuously turn them so they will not be facing in her direction lest lust overcomes their weak male minds and sends them in manic desperate pursuit of her, as it has done for Horatio. He stands right in front of her now, she oblivious to his conspicious presence as she dances wrapped up in tribal rhythms. His mouth has become a cliche of dryness so he licks the sweat from his palms to get a little lube on the tongue. He tries to speak and croaks a
hello
She looks up and smiles before turning her back to him, not really seeing, or looking, or noticing, but handing him a polite dismissal as in, I haven't the inclination to bounce on your bones don't bother me this time or in the future. Already, that means retreat. He doesn't look back as he hurries from the floor
Idiot Idiot Idiot
Repeats as he pushes his way through the overgrown throng of sad chubby dancers, the elephant calves dressed as princesses, the morlockian men in white tee-shirts, golden neck chains and fad 80s mullet haircuts, everywhere cankles spilling out of 5inch heels and dental floss thongs riding up mountainous backs out of cavernous ass cracks from too-tight jeans worn much too-low. They all twirl with no grace holding blue liquid sugar drinks scanning the room for fresh meat, for fuck meat. In the corner a woman sits on the floor panda-eyed in her £3 floral print dress ridden up around her waist, her bare legs open revealing her depressed looking worn out white knickers, she has dirt on her face and her blouse is soaked in the blue liquid fizz, she cries clawing at the inches-thick make up on her sad frozen face. Jibbering
It won't come off It won't come off It won't come off
Horatio thinks it wasn't like this when he came in.
Was it like this when I came in?
The sticky floor, the red-faced slurring clientele, the warm beer, the barbie and ken dolls of every variety had previously gone unnoticed. His tunnel vision for Peru has betrayed him, led him into the den of the enemy, a place of frivolous sexual and social depravity where intellect is replaced by alocohol fuelled wit and jabber. Suddenly he is alone in a jungle of hostile animals tearing and braying at each other, excrement pouring from their gaping mouths covering every surface.
He makes it back to the bar and cracks his head open on the counter, drips a little of his brain juice into his plastic 'glass' and swirls it in his hand watching the red-grey blood clot and make patterns like saturns surface in the flat golden liquid. He gulps it down chewing on the coagulated blood and brain fat and eats the plastic glass too, crunching it into razor sharp shards that cut his throat and intestines deep into his bowels leaving shit and rotting food leaking into his blood stream. A surprise for later.
He returns home agreeing with the taxi driver that there is only one god and that god is god. Inshallah.
Scanning the net he searches for a pretend woman who looks enough like the peruvian goddess for him to get a hard-on then works himself into a frenzy of white knuckles and pleasured grimaces. After, he is sad and lonely, he sits, a depleted figure on his bed, looking skinny and pathetic with his pants and trousers round his ankles, rapidly shrinking cock in hand and cum drying on his thighs. His skin is whiter than white. In bright sunlight he is invisible. Or would like to be.
Closer to the edge now Horatio is getting desperate. His thought helmet going faulty, letting the data slip out. He's stopped keeping the cotton wool in his ears, he's starting to pick up on the truth. Everywhere around him, the dirty walls perform a striptease, dying floral patterns grow towards the floor like their natural counterparts do towards the sun, leaving only cruel bare reality revealed and bleeding into the cavernous gaping abyss that makes up his spilling emptying mind. Swarming, scurrying beetles and bugs are revealed, crawling over each others shiney clicking bodies upon the wall. Bleating words appear on his mobular phone
what the fuck does that
mean
We can find him crying on his bed now in his nicely tidy room. His 'friends' sit downstairs; the females making dirty pictures of each other and giggling behind manicured painted petite nails while the men pluck each others eyebrows and brown each others skins with the oil of black maginara tree root. Later he will lie awake and listen as they fuck squirming mewing; entwined browned bodies, gleaming with pre-cum and sweat, writhing toether on the wooden floor, doing the dirty dance:
You put the left on in, The left one out...
He is dreaming of green spaces with no people and no buildings where everything is free; he has killed his boss, he has killed all the bosses and he sits atop a great yellow horse, savours the sun burning his back through the thin white cotton of his shirt, the cool breeze on his chest where he has sweated wet the work from his body. Water running from the wind on a lake, wet air hanging with moisture and filtered sun grey and yellow still blinding has no place in the desery, 'cept for this oasis that is Horatios alone.
When you live on the outside. Listen to other peoples conversation through your walls, hear them denigrate great art in favour of bland street scenes of nowhere towns, painted by nowhere artists, and listen to tinny music on the bus played for fashion and not for music, and see teenagers, men and boys, stand tracksuited with cupped genitals held in hands beneath shiney but yet dirty adidas trousers you will know of some of 'Ratios existential discontent.
Horatio stands as his own authority, the highest of all, he is the suzerain of all that exists and falls upon his eyes. He recognises no power above his own, accepts no choice made in his stead by policemen, politicians, family, friends, dogs, cats. He thinks his is Max Sterner, and is more Sterner than Sterner himself ever was. His sexual conquests innumerable, his physical prowess and intectual vigour the envy of all men and beasts. Still his malaise turns his face away from victory like a weeping woman he had once lain upon that must be consoled and to whom he returns everytime.
He is crying again now, dry sobs as he tries to fuck way India's infidelities. They sleep together in sweat too lazy to open a window.
The fat man and his fat wife pull in across two disabled driver spaces, parking directly in-front of the mini-supermarket (which is steadily driving ‘Sids convenience store’, situated directly across the road, out of business. Only empty shelves live at Sids now, and the one or two sandwiches and tubs of butter that sit alone in a chiller packed with goods just a year ago). Horatio feels his heat rising in his chest and his head. The red-red blood making his head dizzy and his vision blurred. Two hippos loll out of car seats, choc-ice wrappers, crisp packets, and cigarette boxes emerge, tumbling from giant tyre-shaped rolls of fat and blubber. The female plucks a pink screaming new born from a passing Mothers cot and devours it whole, burping out the child’s yellow plastic dummy. Scenting the still warm baby dribble Its’ male behemoth counterpart falls to the floor gobbling dirt and dog shit into his mouth in furious attempts to eat this yellow morsel. The female monstrosity helps her obese partner up from the floor, and they stand leaning on each other gasping for breathe, sweat stinking and dripping from flabby foreheads and faces in massive globules to the ground. Able to stand it no longer Horatio reels about to fall, his rage seems to be spinning his head around like a carousel. 9 inches of flashing silver in hand he steps forward
Move your car
Horatio can’t see, all he makes out are two giant grey obelisks leaning together in front of him. Nothing but dumb silence meets his request and he shouts:
MOVE YOUR CAR.
No response and in the same breathe,
Move you car,
he steps forward, barely able to walk as his brain fires of sparklers and Catherine wheels, sticking the knife into the female at the sternum and ripping all the way down to her belly button. Intestines fall on the floor, and a gaping mouth opens in the woman’s face and begins to scream. The fat man lets out a moan and falls again to his knees, starts swallowing guts whole into his engorged stomach. He pulls them in by swallowing one end and like a string forces it down his throat, as if connected to the unwrapped woman by an umbilical cord leading from his open throat to her burst stomach. He makes a sound like vomiting but going the wrong way.
Horatio steps up behind the kneeling man and with one fell swoop decapitates his fat head and watches it roll into the gutter. A group of school kids steal it for a game of football, while several cats are already making a home in the still warm cavity of the fat woman’s stomach. A crowd applauds and Horatio bows once, twice, then three times, before thinking he should have got them to move their car first. Shrugging he gets on the bus
Fat bastards
The driver eyes have been sewn shut and he relies on the screams of the passengers to tell him when to turn stop or accelerate. Horatio joins in whole heartedly, looking disdainfully at those other passengers who are merely excess baggage. They stuff buzzing insects in their ears (pincers nipping and jiggling in black shiny fluorescence), and tipex in their eyes. This only serves to blot out the majesty of a thousand potentially fatal bus crashes on the journey. One nearly occurring outside the nurseries school having potential to be very spectacular. Everyone wants to get famous like this, get on the evening news as a heroic survivor. Congratulations, you didn’t die when thousands did. And if they do die (please) then their relatives get to put their best clothes on and appear on a two-minute segment of the local grief-porno-news showing of their anguish and their counterfeit Lois Vitton bags. Black sunglasses all. Like the film stars. Like blind people. Grief is big seller in New Birmingham especially for the TV news. All the deedee’s love a bit of grief.
He was a good man
Never hurt a fly (except for the crying wife, beaten for twenty years, who eventually took the bastards life ((poisoned over 8 months; eye drops in his porridge)), and that’s why his lying there grey in a coffin, the police suspect but don’t really care and are hoping they can have an aggressive gangbang with ‘grieving widow post-funeral anyway)
A family man, loved his kids (loved them with a broom handle to the face after another drunken rape of his wife)
A good friend. (always shared a line of coke)
Bye bye bad man
]]>Black insect eyes grinning over the desks, another day walking the corridors of reduced power, working on back up generators. Horatio the hero of the piece grabs a lithe indian girl and throws her over the desk jumping on her and fucking on the way down. She gives him a waste-invoice and he takes it to the post room, waits for the receipt. Returning, she files it sexily for him showing of her good-for-jumping hind legs as she bends over. Cigarettes taste good after white bread sandwiches and sex, savouring each draw, blowing out plumes of secondary death.
Lunch is a different matter, stalking college girls around the elderly town centre, watching the young cunt lolling around in groups waiting for the benefit militia to kidnap and pillage them, selling them back to their families shamed and at half the price. Machine Guns for sale at the farmers market, not too good for butchering pigs or castrating bulls but you can pop a full grown man at thirty paces and leave him screaming on the ground as an example for his colleagues. Don't be late again or you'll deal in lead and not junk bonds.
Horatio buys a young suckling lamb and he and the indian admin-assistant sacrifice it with a kitchen knife and wash their hands in the blood. He paints her upper body in the red stuff smearing her breasts first and then his face pushed into them coming out grinning and bloody. 'Thats the stuff' 'ratio exclaimed as he plunged back in again sighing in contentment. India's hands hold his head there smiling, leaving blood in his thinning hair.
The days moves slow when you're taking regaine, stopping to check follicular unit transference every ten or so minutes in the company bathroom. Wolf man at the end of the day spends his evenings shaving his back hair and eyebrows. He heard that strong curry will do the job, vindaloo shampoo, threatening those dying strands, telling them to stand up like men, helping them grow in to big boys. Rice in your hair looks like lice. Pilau rice looks like lice at carnival time.
Horatio liked to shower hot for ten minutes every morning then freezing for as long as he could stand it. He stands there shivering running his sopping hands over his wet body feeling himself get hard. If only India could come in and shiver a bit with him. Then he smokes a cigarette while taking a prodigious shit, fixes his comb-over in place with copious hairspray, styles his two cats after himself by shaving off the hair just between their ears. He leaves all the doors in his house open and hangs his washing out cause it looks like rain.
Horatio prefers hatch-backs but car jacks a brand new mini that waits at the red lights. Throwing the young female driver out on the side-walk with a split lip and a dirty mouth she is immediately scooped up by a passing rape gang; she whoops with delight. He makes it to work in record time scoring 25 points after hitting a pregnant doberman, but lost out on the bonus as her owner was too quick out the road, left with nothing but a leather dog lead still in hand, red at one end.
A man sits on the fence when he arrives outside work shouting at the shoppers about iGod and fornication, devil-sex and beasts with two backs, waving a red book about in hand. Horatio can see its the latest edition of 'The Joy of Sex'. Required reading.
He starts the day by ejaculating all over his keyboard and having his secretary lick it off. He absently watches her pink tongue flit back and forth while rubbing regaine into his scalp, his hands are getting furry again and he bites at the tufts with yellow teeth he took from the mouth of a homeless WW3 veteran back in '85. He'll need a new set soon, but there's always been homeless people who don't need their teeth to shoot up on junk.
Later. Man on man action in a dark seedy bar, while our hero Horatio looks on in pouty mouthed disgust.
Call yourself a friend then take your hand from his knee and pick up that beer.
Standing up drinks fly and spill against his legs, he is blocked by. A friend.
Get the fuck out of the way
No
I’m leaving
Returning home he watches dead soldiers flown back from the desert while his girlfriend laughs with a friend on her phone. He vomits into his hand and slowly feeds it her. Yellow brown vom’ drips down her chin.
You shouldn’t talk with your mouthful, ‘ratio says, but she grabs a last wet handful from him and turns round resuming her conversation.
Bitch.
Horatio starts masturbating himself hoping she’ll take notice but she just pulls a face of disgust and gets the bus home.
Bitch
If only India was here, she must like to watch a man wank. But she’s not so he watches himself in the mirror, so he doesn’t feel so alone.
On the whole i don't like any religion but that one really gets my goat.
This is mainly because of the hypocrisy I see in people who claim to be Muslim but pick and choose what tenets of the faith they will adhere to.
For instance I see girls going to my local college everyday wearing a simple hair covering veil, as a way of dressing modestly in accordance with Islam. However this is accompanied by some tight fitting jeans and a vest top. That is not islamic dress or modest dress.
It is the hypocrisy of islam that annoys me most. British born Muslims often talk about the way their 'brother' muslims are treated across the world. However many fail to realise that the islam they practice in Britain has no relation whatsoever to the way the Faith is practised in places like iraq, afghanistan, iran, Somalia.
Islam is a faith that requires no priesthood, and is a personal connection with God. It has many interpretations and sects throughout the world and that in essence completely negates this notion of an 'umma' or that all Mulsims are brothers.
No it is all humanity that are in fact brothers.
The Ayatollohs are another point in islam that in my opinion is actually a blasphemy agaisnt the faith. The fatwas that are issued by these Ayatollahs are blasphemous. By saying that God demands that Muslims kill Salman Rushdie or join jihad is in fact sacriledge. How can a mere mortal presume to know the desire or thoughts of Almighty God. How dare they assume that they would know what allahs wishes are.
If you have read any of my other posts then you will hopefully understand that i am willing to open my mind to any religion or at least listen to what it has to say.
I don't like Islam. Does this make me islamaphobic?
I would say no.
I don't like getting fucked in the ass either, so does that mean i'm homophobic?
]]>Listen to him!
Sam Phillips once remarked of Chester Arthur (Howlin' Wolf) Burnett, "When I heard Howlin' Wolf, I said, 'This is for me. This is where the soul of man never dies.'
]]>I have just been browsing the BBC site and came across and article called 'US chain drops terror scarf ad'.
The article ( i would add a link if I knew how!) is basically about a new US dunkin donuts advert featuring a popular american tv chef who appears on the poster wearing a black and white keffiyah 'Arab-style' scarf. You know the ones nearly everyone in the middle east wears as headscarfs and neckscarfs.
Also it was in fashion a few months ago and you can still see them being worn by emo/indie kids all around the country.
Well the advert has now been pulled because some absolute idiots think that the chef by wearing the scarf is showing support for terrorism!!!!!!!
What fucking morons!!! So are all the people that wear them in Britain as a fashion statement showing their support for terrorism? Are all the people who live in the Middle East and Asia that wear them all terrorists or something?
How can people be so small minded!
The fracas was started by American Conservative blogger Michelle Malkin the fucking idiot! Who seemed to be slightly detached from reality.
When my dad was younger he worked in Saudi Arabia and he brought back many keffiyahs that me and my sibling used to dress up in as kids and pretend we were rich oil sheikhs.
Unfortunately I now know my childhood fantasy was actually an advert for Al Qaeda, oh the mother fucking shame!!
Is it better to live fast and die young or grow old and jolly with a progeny of grandkids scurrying at your feet?
The age that human beings live to is ever on the increase, (although I read somewhere that my generation of early twenty-somethings are to going to be the first people to live a shorter life span than our parents) and it seems that degenerative diseases are also either becoming more common or just more in the spotlight.
I witnessed my grandmother suffer and eventually succumb to Alzheimers disease and it was very distressing for her and the whole family. I have also lost friends who were very young in a car accident.
Is death senseless or can it be a welcome relief? For my friends we were all very sad, however when my Nan died although we were obviously upset we were also happy that her suffering had finally ended.
So is euthanasia a practice we should have in Britain, or anywhere else for that matter?
Alzheimers can be passed hereditarily and I remember when my Nan was in her worst state my Mother told me that if she had the disease when she became older she would want to end her life before the final stage of the disease kicked in, which is basically a almost total vegetative state. By this she means she would want her family and friends to basically end her life for her is she wasn’t able.
Personally I don’t know if I could do that to my own Mother no matter what state she was in.
Does euthanasia show a disdain for life? Does it devalue the lives of the young who have it snatched away at any early age and have no choice whether they live or die?
Or is it a humane practice? We help our loved pets end their lives if they are extremely ill, of course they don’t have a choice though. So does it not make sense that humans should be allowed the same chance? Especially with our powers of choice?
What if they can’t choose though and if they are a vegetable, who doctors might assume to have no quality of life. Do we have the right to take it away to end suffering, or is all life sacred and no one has the right to take it in any circumstance?
My last point/question is a bit sketchy but with massive population growth, and particularly in England a population that is getting older and older is it better to live a good life and die young or get old and lose some of your capabilities.
P.S I am not bashing the old and I know all old people don’t lose control of their faculties and life rich full lives etc etc
]]>The focus of the documentary was on Evangelical Christians in America and in particular their children.
The part of the show I found most disturbing was when the mother of one child fervently declaring that America was Gods Country.
I found this rather funny since if she had ever read the Bible she would have noticed there is not one mention of America in it! Plus the fact the native tribal populations had already chosen which God/Gods was Americas long before those old Christ lovers turned up.
It seems these people have a strange perception of Jesus. They seem to think that he is actually American, they seem to have no realisation that Jesus wasn’t white middle class like them and that he was in fact Middle Eastern (whatever that means!)
I have often thought this as reason why Religions are mostly Bullshit. The fact that God chose to only speak to the people in the middle east and neglected to inform the native American Indians or the tribes in Africa seems a bit strange for some all powerful omnipotent being, surely he’d just it’d let us all know about it in one go?
I personally do believe in God in some form, but I don’t believe in fundamentalist religions such as Christianity, Islam, Judaism etc, these can only lead to conflict.
One religion cannot hold a monopoly on forms of worship or the path to God.
A lot of people are worried about Islamic terrorists but I am more concerned about these Christian fundamentalists.= which has seen a sharp increase in Britain as well.
Who will save us from religion?
]]>It is obvious that despite bringing immense benefits to Britain the Empire was extremely exploitative and discriminatory of the native populations it conquered.
So, should we feel guilty in this day and age for what our forefathers perpetrated in the form of the Empire? I know one of my friends does.
Or is it all ancient history?
Similarly should families whose ancestors were sold in the slave trade recieve compensation?
If so who should pay it?
Do you feel guilty that the land we live in was built on the back of racist slavers and exploiters of other nations resources?
And just for the Americans what is your position on native Americans and their status in modern society, do you feel guilty about the position your forebearers have put them in?
]]>I am
Finding my way through the dark
Hands out
Feeling for changes
Going no where
Visiting a million places
I am
Still
Meditate
Piloting
Astral planes
Is not so great
When we wake
I am blue
I am
Still I
You are
Still you
It’s my opinion that as a species we have a propensity towards acts of violence. I would take it as far as that we all have the innate ability to commit and enjoy acts of violence against each other and it is ‘society’s’ indoctrination of us that prevents it.
It is the people most removed from ‘society’ whom commit the most violence, in England at least. It is the underclass. People who don’t attend school for their daily lesson on how ‘we’ should act, the people who have no job and don’t own their own house and therefore have no stake in the economy. It is also people who realise that they enjoy it and do it for fun. More often than not I believe these are the same people.
If you have been angry before you will know, like everyone(?), the desire to tear and rip and batter. In those moments would you not find it enjoyable to smash something up?
Does the victim of a bully not desire to smash the bullies face?
I was on the bus the other day and my mood was not particularly great. A youth of perhaps 19 was abusing the bus driver because he was Polish. I suddenly felt the red desire to wrap my hands round said youths neck and start squeezing. I imagine I was not the only one. Of course being a well educated young man I didn’t do that, I’ve been ‘taught’ not to. If he had been threatening me personally with I would no doubt have acted on my desire, in the interests of self preservation.
If someone threatens your family or your friends do you not want to hurt them? To stop them?
It is my opinion that our lives in a modern Western society have only within the last two hundred years perhaps become disengaged from day to day violence. In a harsher harder world in the past, violence and it’s connotations would have been a daily thing.
I believe this is demonstrated when we look at other less ‘developed’ countries and the way in which, particularly in Africa and South America, violence and local militias compete and kill as a daily thing.
So when I see the up roar about how video games and movies are making us a more violent society I have to laugh out loud.
Opinions?
Opinions?
Onions?!
Beginning again,
Time slips
Feel the earth turn
Solar systems spit
Ant crawls
Ant flies
Ant stumbles
Ant dies
Arc of the Universe
Just behind the eyes
Infinitesimal infinity
I lie, he lies, she lied
Falling asleep
To higher plains
Dying of thirst
Soaked in rain
Man crawls
Man flies
Man stumbles
Man dies
He lies, she lies, we lie mans lies
]]>It annoys me when obviously beautiful women moan that they are ugly or fat when they are clearly gorgeous, all it takes is one look in a mirror and they'd know, no doubt they do already.
Sometimes if I meet a friend of a friend who's a girl and I comment that she's a bit of an uggo then i get berrated with 'she's beautiful, she's really pretty!' and accused of being spiteful or mean. This when my friend blatantly knows her new acquantance is rough.
Alot of men also claim to not be able to judge physical attractiveness in other men which is rubbish in my opinion. It's not hard to tell, it's just most men in my opinion think that admitting to this is 'gay'.
I believe this is something innate that we all have, as soon as we look at a face we start judging it.
There have been studies(this is from research I looked at while studying psychology at A-level so it's hardly conclusive!) that support the idea that we are attracted to faces that are the same level of attractiveness as our own.
Also there is an idea in similar that someone who is really goodlooking might be attracted to someone who is really intelligent as it creates a balance, for instance Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe.
Thoughts?
]]>In particular Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. One aspect of the culture I find fascinating is the way they are named and the names they give each other.
It seems that at birth you were given a name and then as your life progressed you would take on a new name of you own choosing or one your peers would give you one. For instance Sitting Bull at birth was named 'Jumping Badger' but later was named 'Sitting Bull' after his Father whose name then became Jumping Bull.
Some of the other ones I liked were:
For females: 'they are afraid of her', 'looks at it', 'Good voice woman', 'kills Enemy', 'red Leggins'
For Males: 'Worm', 'Slow', 'Stands Up for Him', 'Iron between Horns', 'Conquering Bear'
Although I'm sure alot of what they are meant to mean is lost in translation i still like them.
Wouldn't it be good if we all had names that reflected our characteristics or would that be terrible?
What would your native american name be?
]]>That seems to have stopped as today i discovered comments on my most recent post that I hadn't been notified of by email.
Is anyone else noticing this or am I just being an idiot and not keeping up to date with the latest news etc?!
]]>The flatmate who has money and I arrive at the bar early and began the nights liquid intake.
Two or three jars later birthday girl arrives with a throng of lovely ladies, some lovelier than others.
Two more beers. Cigarette. Double Sambuca. Next Bar.
A bar that pretends to be a club that is. Particularly badly at that.
The DJ is playing the Grease soundtrack and we wonder where we went wrong.
More double sambucas anyone?
Of course, but never again. Or maybe just a little one later.
Did someone mention little ones? Howsabout 3 for a tenner?
No change for £20, we’ll just take six.
A dry swallow while we wait for more liquid nourishment at an increasingly busy and sweaty bar.
By now 45 year old DJ has moved on to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack and to my horror my legs have begun jittering uncontrollably and my head nods me on to the dance floor where I caper and jive next to other similarly capering and jiving people.
This lady looks interested…
Am I?
Not really, but the amount of alcohol and supposed ecstasy in my system convinces me I am, and before Flatmate can save me from myself the move has been made and
me and said lucky lady are grinding away like we’re in a Snoop Dogg music video.
Cigarette. Cigarette. A another dry swallow. Drain the dregs from that last Kronenbourg. Pile into taxi. Back to birthday girls to continue the party.
Somehow my previous dancing partner manages to stowaway unnoticed and is there to greet me at the house and attaches herself.
Jazz cigarettes all round.
White lines. You know the song.
Two hours later, me and my new consort of sorts decide to sojourn to my house for a more intimate party of our own.
An unspecified time later.
I’m drifting into a drug induced dreamless coma/sleep wishing this random would stop taking all the space in my bed, get out and go home.
Awakened at 12pm the next day by Flatmate just returning from Birthday girls house still walking white lines and climbing up the walls.
Last nights catch and I take the time to get to know each other a little better by having some slightly more awkward than last night but slightly more gratifying sex.
I make some tea and endure her for another couple of hours while we get stoned and she watches ‘Shipwrecked 08’.
My mind was made up then that I would never speak to this girl again.
A taxi is called and I collapse on the sofa and spend the rest of the day watching Flatmate send forth exclamations of drivel and dribble about god knows what ‘til we both finally succumbs to sleep deprivation and cannabis intake.
]]>I am broken like a wave
One word you’ve spoken
And I’m awake
Here is a token
Of that day
From that land
From whence we came
Familiar streets that now are foreign
And the road is grey with dirt and ash again
Why wait
To ponder on
The simple thing
That I have become
It is forgotten
For a duration
For a while
It shall remain
Though a loss
It is emancipation
It is a freedom all the same
Mr Brown needs a fucking slap in the face.
I was under the impression that New Labour wanted to close the gap between rich and poor.
So that must be why he's scrapped the lowest 10% tax band and changed it to 20%!
Now alot of 'middle earners' are not affected by this. As previously they were paying a rate of 22%, so they are better off paying the flat 20% rate.
If like me however, you earn a mother fucking pittance, then you'll find that you are basically paying double the amount of tax you paid before!
So the poorest workers are now taxed even more money! Cleaners, part-time workers, convenience store staff, street sweepers are all paying for the middle classes to have a fucking tax cut.
I wonder why that is?
It's because The Arch Deciever Brown is now so power hungry he has abandoned any principles he may have had about creating a more equal society and is giving the rich guys a break so they'll vote him back in next election.
We all know Labour is no longer a leftist party, they are only interested in remaining in Office.
If they don't go they shall have to be forcibly removed.
]]>All my friends are constantly telling me to get on myspace and facebook but it just seems like a load of waffle to me.
People just telling each other how much they 'luv' their friends and how 'ace' everything is giving each other 'hugs and kisses'. It's all a bit flakey if you ask me. Do people speak to each other like that in real life?
I bet if they actually met half these supposed 'friends' they would think they are idiots, which they undoubtedly are or they just wouldn't get on.
Most of my male friends seem to use myspace as a way to look at pretty girls and try to flirt with them. They basically spend their time going through random peoples pages just adding girls they think are attractive. I've got nothing against attractive girls, in fact I quite like them but I preferably like to see them face to face, not on some posed-cheesy-myspace pic.
I don't know maybe I'm just jealous cause no one would be my friend...cept for you losers on Blog.co.uk!(only joking luv u guys hug's an xxxx's)
]]>Although it was quite a bad break up, from my persepective at least, I haven't given her a moments thought for years.
Now everytime I fall asleep she's there, these aren't dreams of a sexual nature either, lets get that straight.
It's just me and her chatting and a man who is her boyfriend hanging around in a shop we're standing outside.
I can't remember what we talk about, but I know in the dream I can feel an amazing sense of joy and rightness and love for her.
Then when i wake up i just feel gutted and depressed that it's just a dream, I literally feel sick to my stomach that she's with some other guy even though I know it's a dream and I don't even see the boyfriend really I just know he's standing near in a shop(whats that all about!?)
It is so annoying because I felt like that three years ago. Since then I've had numerous liasons, some serious and some not with other women and all that shit was long forgotten.
My mind is fucking with me. what triggers a dream lilke that?
I don't believe that dreams tell the future or any of that crap but I do think that it is your mind shuffling stuff around perhaps?
I don't know it's just fucked up the emotions and memories nightmares can drag up that can go on to affect my whole mood and outlook for the following day.
If anyone saw his program last night, I think you're going to have to agree with me that he is a documentarian(is that a word?)genius.
His child like and often gormless expressions just suck these idiots into a false sense of security. They seem to think they are talking to an idiot and thus carry on like idiots themselves.
Although his subject matter is usually fairly serious, I often end up laughing at the morons he speaks to.
However, what I thought was pretty disgusting about the program last night was when the hunters had killed an animal and they posed for pictures.(this isn't what I find disgusting, although it is weird!)
All the while going on about how beautiful the animal was and how amazing it looked.
NON of the hunters mentioned how beautiful the animals were when they were alive and running around all graceful and animal like.
Only when they were dead and lifeless, just another possession for these people, did they become a thing of beauty.
Wild and alive they were just another target.
One hunter mentioned the only reason he wasn't killing Rhinoes and Lions on this trip was because he couldn't afford it.
Anyway, Louis Theroux makes a really good documentary that wasn't 'Out to get' big game hunting from the start, and kept an open mind.
]]>I'm not talking podgy here Im talking faaaat!
Obese is a better word.
What's with that?
Is it that hard to not eat a multi-pack of crisps every day?
I get that there are genuine medical problems that can lead to obesity(?are there?)
Eating yourself disabled is just weird, driving round on a mobility scooter because you are too fat to walk, er, if you're that fat try doing some walking and you might lose some weight!?
As piggy eyes peak out with excitement from the folds of a greasy face, and straining jossling jaws prepare to gobble up the next mouthful of slop, I have to leave, I just can't eat when there's obese people monching away next to me.
It puts me off my food.
]]>See how many you can spot today??!
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