Me, Being Me

So what have we learned this month? Well, the main thing is that it seems I can only keep up with doing one-a-day of these things without resorting to scraping the back of my skull for words to materialise somehow. The only time I can come up with something to say is when some kind of big event happens. And what a bunch of events we've lived through this month: the fulfillment of The Janitor's prophecy, the night Blogger went blehhhh, the UK not winning at Eurovision again, and even the end of all existence as we know it!

On a more personal level, I've managed to blather on about pointless stuff, like how many hours I've clocked up on the ol' Wii, my own musical ventures, living with restricted Internet access, having odd tunes stuck in my head, writing about postcards, leaving out letters and replacing them with apostrophes, trying to decide between a bowl of dried pasta or half an onion, and drinking tea when I could be drinking gin.

All of this has become simple time-murder whilst I moan at myself about how I wished to spend this month writing, coming up with ideas for poetry, lyrics, short stories, blog posts, murals, mosaics, and other such feats of creativity. Over the last few hours, one word ideas have come to me but unfortunately the prospect of expansion doesn't want to follow, which is a shame really since the expansion of an idea is slightly more necessary. For example, here is my most recent short story for your reading pleasure:

So, right, this guy, he wakes up, right, in the middle of nowhere, doesn't know who he is or where he is, memory loss, right. Anyway, later on it turns out he's been given drugs to forget what happened to him and he's on a quest to find out.

The End.

You can see the big flaw in this story, right? And no, it's not the fact that it ends with "The End". Even I, as the writer, want to know why this guy's been made to forget himself and what it is that he needs to find out, and me, as the writer, should know this. But me, being me, doesn't know this and is waiting for the expansion of the idea to come to me so me can stop being so me and start being the writer.

But I digress, I've just spent the last week finishing both Super Mario Galaxy 2 and Super Mario Galaxy (in that order) and spent the remainders of today (or yesterday really, I notice it's now 1am that I type this) finishing off Super Smash Bros. Brawl so my eyes are throbbing, my brain is full of 3D animations and my fingers are tired from having to type out the names of those games. I suppose it is my own fault for going with the games with long titles, which is why the next on my list is little known Japanesey-styley Ōkami.

Although, exactly why I have a list of games lined up for obsessive-compulsive gameplay completely elludes me considering I'm trying to further my story ideas.

So I've got this idea, right. It's about this short, fat Italian bloke, who's a plumber by day, right, and his girlfriend is a princess who lives in a massive castle, but she gets kidnapped by an intergalactic dinosaur (or summink) and he goes to rescue his princess girlfriend from space and he gets helped out by some little people who look like mushrooms, right...

Just As Everyone Predicted

I was rudely interrupted during my monthly blogging travels by a certain impending doom, meaning this had to go on hold for a bit whilst I tended to the much more important things in life: tearfully saying goodbye to all my friends and relatives, sampling an ASDA's-own roast chicken, completing Super Mario Galaxy 2, putting the cat out, bringing the dog in, dancing "The Funky Chicken" on my 75th wedding anniversary and listening to Enya.

Sadly, the whole of creation did not come to an abrupt end on Saturday night and we won't be facing five months of eternal damnation... just as everyone predicted. Either that or we are, in fact, living on post-apocalyptic Earth in which we must face the horrific trials and tribulations of never-ending rain. After all, Saturday's anti-climactic climax of all things was supposed to have come on the anniversary of God drowning everybody and telling a pensioner to build a boat out of some wood and twigs, a length of rope, a cardboard tube from a toilet roll, some PVA glue and cream cracker, whilst carrying through with him two of every other animal to continue populating the planet, yet somehow managing to forget a human female companion what's got a fully functioning womb, thus putting the entire existence of the human race into question if you're going to believe that story.

Anyway, if I am actually here, I've just been for a walk in the rain. It's not burning which I suppose we can take as a positive that we haven't all been left here to die for our sins whilst the divine have reached nirvana somewhere unspeakably beyond the clouds. To be honest, the only person who would've been saved from this great ball of deathness would've probably been Mother Teresa of Calcutta, but since she's already departed from this plane of existence, I'd hazard a guess that Hell on Earth has been going since September 1997 and no-one's batted an eyelid.

The man what brought on all this fear and panic is none other than American Evangelist and "Apocalypse 1994" predictor Harold Camping, who blamed all the gay people of the world for pissing off the big man upstairs and causing certain death on a wide devastating scale, even going on to call San Fransisco the "cesspool of humanity" (if San Fransisco is the cesspool, what does that make Brighton?), although to be honest, if I was burdened with the surname Camping, I'd probably be hatin' on da gayz too.

However, if the world/universe/fabric of reality itself does go kablammo one day as a result of zany fundamentalist say-so, I do hope that charity shops will still be around. I just managed to bag The Nightmare Before Christmas on DVD for two quid. Hold everything! The world's having a going-out-of-business sale! Everything's been reduced to sell! I mean, come on! We've only (apparently) got until October before the planet absolutely, definitely, one-hundred-percent-ly becomes engulfed in flames!

Of course, now that I've joked about that, just you watch as Hallowe'en gets ruined by a massive incident on a global scale which can only be described as "simultaneous pumpkin malfunctions".

All Buggeried Up

I'm not even sure where I am right now. Well, spacially, I am: I'm in my room. But in terms of the progress of time, I'm not sure quite what's happening. My sleep pattern's all buggeried up and I believe that, even though I've fallen asleep about three times today, this is technically the second post of the day since I missed doing one yesterday, or what felt like yesterday, or what actually feels like last week.

On this day, my brain's been disturbed by the relentless cock-a-doodling of one of my Uni Halls people managing to sleep through his alarm, even though he set it loud enough that an Australian man in a coma was getting irritated by the bleeding thing, and managed to keep it going for five whole hours (each cock-a-doodle-doo lasting approximately five seconds, meaning the alarm brought us a record 3,600 cock-a-doodles) before being justly rudely awoken by another folk of Hall-dom.

Ack, that's enough tapping away, back to sleep now.

No Amount Of Sorries Can Turn Back Time

Well, I only done gone and failed, di'n I?

I managed to make it 15 days, and even though technically to me it's still Monday, technically to the world it's Tuesday because apparently midnight is the cut off point. Although, exactly which midnight is open to interpretation (in my head). Apparently, in the United States of Arsefacery, it's very late in the evening, so I suppose you could imagine I've been stuck on a long haul flight for a few hours before posting this, rather than accepting the fact that this thing slipped my mind all day.

Unfortunately, I only have finite space for cranial thinking in this 'ere 'ead o' mine. So little in fact that I'm miss'n out s' many le'ers 'n' 'avin' 'o resor' to excessive use o' apostrophes. As it happens, having to remember the fact that I needed to buy milk earlier in the day forced any thoughts of remembering to make words appear here out of my head and into the ether of tomorrowdom, where, now after midnight, the thought has attacked my brain and made me feel like I have to apologise every 20 seconds for neglecting this thing all day, even though no amount of sorries can turn back time.

With nothing to talk about, other than chastise myself for my complete lack of the ability to remember stuff, I shall go on with the day's boringest highlight: the notebook. Not even sure if I mentioned anything here or not so I'll start from the beginning. When is this beginning? Thursday evening.

I got money for being a student. Yay. Et cetera. I spent 180 British pounds (well, 179 British pounds and 99 little Fruit Salads) on a notebook computer. This notebook computer, in fact; the one on which I'm typing and having to retype words a few times over because I keep messing them up because the thing's so small and the letter-making buttons are far much closer together than I'm used to. Anyway, technically the story starts last Monday, but forget that, that's just the purchase date. Thursday evening, I get the thing, out the box, plugged into wall, and within two hours I've managed to mess it up. FUN!

By mess it up, I really mean "try to be clever but ultimately end up being an arse-tit" (arse-tit noun, stupid person who acts like an arse and a tit at the same time, thus being unable to differentiate between the two) I didn't do anything too bad, but it was bad enough to make me not want to continue using it. Luckily though, common sense prevailed and the lovely little "DELETE EVERYTHING - START AGAIN" function courtesy of the Packard Bell corporation took hold of this thing and, well, started the whole thing from factory settings. Yay for factory settings!

Now it means I can use this on my travels instead of resorting to other means including the technological advances of an iPod Touch or a borrowed computer with all the capabilities of Windows 2000.

Now alls I need is to go on travels... Oh that's right, I'm off to America to post this just in the knick of time!

"Haterz Gonna Hate"

I've just about managed fourteen posts this month. You know what that means fact-fans, I'm 45.16% of the way through the month! Celebratory woop, moderately enthusiastic party popper, wave miniature flag on a cocktail stick, recklessly open champagne accidentally blinding random passer-by with the cork. I actually have none of these celebratory items, so am currently imagining them with my brain (and I sincerely hope you are too, otherwise the rest of this may well be hugely pointless) and the results are unspeakably hilarious. There's far too much going on, which is ironic as it's in stark contrast to what's happened to me lately.

Yes, the reason I've not been writing about anything is because I haven't had anything to write about. There's always the possibility I can witter on about the idea of sitting in public for the sake of sitting in public. I could go on for a bit about how when I ordered a glass of coke and was asked "ice and lemon" - to which I replied "no ice" - I was disappointed when I got a solitary glass of coke, even though by stating no ice specifically, it implied I still wanted lemon. The yellow half-moon wasn't to be though and kept said glass of coke at a consistent level of bland cokeyness. (That went on longer than it could've done). I could go on about the telleh-box in't corner, who sits and shows me things like the people on The Apprentice being even douchier and more cringeworthy than last year (a feat never thought possible), the surprise of relentlessly watching Deal Or No Deal actually paying off when someone actually won the top prize for the first time in years, or my ever increasing fascination with this year's Eurovision coming to fruition and the "thanks be to God" exhalations that followed after the Jedward brothers (I don't care what anyone says, that is their surname to me now) didn't make it to victory... although, I must commend their backing singers on such an excellent performance! However, having the winner's song (from Azerbaijan, di'nt ya knoo?) stuck in my head for the best part of 27 minutes only made me realise it's just like that song by that Rihanna-botherer and the girl what won American Idol, except they've both turned white and neglected to include any emotion they once had.

We Brits, in fine form, have taken to our patented moaning sesh about how everyone else hates us, which is the true cause for our Eurovision failures. Apparently, the fact that people in 25 different countries managed to give the UK points this year got lost on some people. As much as I love a good moan, and a good bitch, and a good racial slur and xenophobic rant every now and then, the sane part of my mind refuses to deny that actually not coming last and actually not scoring nothing means that we have to face up to the fact that somehow, somewhere, people actually do like us. It just so happens that they don't like us enough, or at least as much as ten other countries.

In true Internet-style though, "haterz gonna hate", each to their own, the occasionally rational part of my inner monologue ain't gonna change the world. So while I try and put what is essentially an inoffensive piece of yearly entertainment into a decent perspective, I'll just bypass anyone and everyone who moans about how we would never win Eurovision again, even if we sent a supergroup comprising of Elton John, Queen, The Beatles, Leona Lewis, The Rolling Stones, Iron Maiden, Take That, Ozzy Osbourne, Cheryl Cole, that other one from Girls Aloud what isn't Cheryl Cole, The Spice Girls, Cliff Richard, Justin Bieber, Busted, the bloke from the Go Compare adverts, Bullet For My Valentine, The Saturdays, Coldplay, Lily Allen, La Roux, a parrot in a stylish fedora, Margarita Pracatan, the same people who won it this year, and a tin of spaghetti hoops.

Then again, we wouldn't really be allowed to since the rules dictate that each country can only have six people on the stage.

Midnight

Seven minutes to midnight. Am I gonna post something?

- Yes

What?

- This

What have you been doing all day?

- Who cares?

We do!

- Really?

No.

The Blog-Monster

Blogger has decided to go down meaning this has been delayed and all creative juices had been postponed earlier. What's more, it's decided to "temporarily" get rid of yesterday's entry for reasons too horrid to imagine. Let's imagine them anyway:

Hypothetical reason one: Gremlins are stuck in the Blogger-system.

Hypothetical reason two: That new notebook I ordered arrived, but I managed to irreversibly fuck up the screen resolution on it within the first two hours of ownership. (This has nothing to do with Blogger per se, but I'd like to think a considerable portion of the world revolves around me, otherwise what have I to live for?)

Hypofeticaw weason fwee: Last night, too many people simultaneously blogged about John Jedward and Edward Jedward (what do you mean that's not their surname?) as they destroyed Ireland's tourism prospects for the whole of the 2011-2012 financial year, causing the Blog-Monster to clap its hands to its ears, curl into a foetal position and piss and moan about how much it hates Eurovision, therefore cutting itself off from the world for hours.

Hypathuticool raisin thor: Google broke.

Happy-thumdiboo wozun five: The Internet is a figment of nothing and therefore cannot break down. It's all an illusion to piss off the simple man and the nonexistent reader.

Hybllbrrbabll brrbll six: Too much jibberish.

Taking all bets! One of these reasons must be true! Of course, these aren't bets for money, but your pride is potentially at stake here. As for my pride... well, I do this, so there's no point worrying about that any more.

The Hangover Fairy

I've said it once, I'll say it again: Hangovers are bad. They make you tired, they make you hungry, they make you want to die for a few hours, they make your poo smell even worse than normal poo should smell, and they prompt you to look inside your wallet to be greeted by a single fiver, when in actual fact you remember there being much more than that in there when you went to bed. It seems the Hangover Fairy has noticed the unconscious slobber underneath my pillow and helped herself to commission for cleaning it up. Either that or God hates me so is punishing me by hiding half of my remaining cash, only to never give it back again. I'm reluctant to think the latter is possible, however, due to the fact I don't particularly believe in a shapeless, all-seeing, all-knowing deity simply hanging out off in the sky (and calling himself "God", thus proving just how egotistical he is), whereas whilst I know there's probably no such thing as a Hangover Fairy, I'm still open to the idea of it being somewhat possible.

What's more is effects of hangover-ish-ness mean that even though planning to go out earlier, I still only managed to make it as far as the kitchen, which led me to using up pretty much all the remaining bacon and egg stocks respectively to make what I'd like to call Bacon French Toasties: basically bacon toasties, but make with eggy bread (like the French do) and given an unimaginate title (like the French do). Furthermore, through no fault of my own, the reggae stylings of Dawn Penn's "No No No" has been swimming around my head (possibly in leftover cider) for ages, for reasons which, I'm guessing, come down to the lyrical simplicity of the whole thing. I now plan on wasting the rest of this entry reciting the most memorable lyrics to the aforementioned song:

No, no, no...
(blank space)
No, no, no...
(blank space)
(blank space), baybehhh...
(blank space)
No, no, no...
(blank space)
(saxophone section)