I was asked: "What do you want to see from a new Star Trek TV show?"

I would have a post TNG original timeline show with Worf as captain, with Geordie, Seven, Chakotay, Riker, Data, Quark and O'Brien as the crew who go off in a stolen Enterprise to the Gamma quadrant in search of glory (Worf), banging alien chicks (Riker and Chakotay), weird sexual preference acceptance (Geordie, Data and Seven obviously forming a threesome), treasure (Quark) and O'Brien just because he gets around.

Without the constraints of Star Fleet (they stole the ship) and Worf in charge, they get more and more f'd up along the way due to Worfs over-the-top assessments of everything (he says "prepare for ramming speed" every episode and is talked down...until one day he isn't). They start to solve most disputes by beaming people into space. Then into the same exact place as other people. Then, for a while, into their parents bedrooms while they're having sex. Then finally (at Data's suggestion) directly into coffins. Riker tries to take control of the ship as he's the ranking officer, but Worf wins out when it's discovered he got to 3rd base with Troi, but Riker only got to 2nd (Chakotay's is the deciding vote and this wins him over, but starts an ongoing sex-competition with him and Riker).

Quark appoints himself Chief Liaison Officer, and uses the position to constantly trick people with sexy holodeck scenarios (then blackmail them with the incriminating holo-tapes). In a funny yet tragic episode, they all try Ketrocel-White and become hopelessly addicted for the rest of the show. O'Brien is put in charge of the helm, but as he doesn't like it he eventually stops steering the ship and just let it push planets out of the way with the deflector shield. Riker and Chakotay's sex-competition gets way out of hand, but is dwarfed by Data and Seven having intense borg-nanobot sex while Geordie watches (and "calibrates").

Filled with frustration and self-loathing at narrowly losing the Christmas Bang-A-Thon to Chakotay, Riker agree's to let their away teams be made up of Rikers made from doing that double beaming thing (Will Riker really hated Tom Riker so he is secretly filled with sick satisfaction putting himself in redshirts and letting himself get killed). Worf's pony tail gets embarrassingly long. Quark starts selling the dead bodies of the Rikers to keep the ship afloat in the white stuff, but when it's not enough, Worf starts killing more and more people to fill the quotas. Geordie/Data/Seven build a baby, and it's literally the worst, so they give it to Q who shrinks it and puts it in Cisqo's ear so he thinks he's going mad. No-one ever time-travels, but sometimes Quark tricks them with the holodeck into thinking they have.

Worf makes everyone do batliff training even though they have phazers. O'Brien takes the training too far when he beats a friendly Cardassian to death and everyone is horrified, but O'Brien turns off the ship until everyone agree's it had to be done. Worf overdoses, which makes them all realise he has a serious meth problem (on top of the ketrocel-white addiction), and that they have been following a madman.

They all start taking meth, and the final series doesn't make any sense. It would be called "Star Trek: Worf Speed".

Tosh

“It's too hot to write a spy story Percy, why don’t we have a nice game of croquet instead. We could take some of that opium you’re always banging on about too and really make a day of it” Said Henry to his loyal manservant.

“I’ve never banged on about opium Sir” said Percy. “I am fairly sure I’ve never even mentioned it. I would like a lovely game of croquet though if you’d like”.

“Without the opium I feel it would be quite the bore I’m afraid Percy. If it wasn’t you then who was it talking about opium. Martha perhaps? MARTHA? COULD YOU COME IN HERE PLEASE?” said Henry.

“Yes Sir?” said Martha upon quietly entering the room and closing the doors behind her.

“Have you got any of that opium you’re always banging on about? I think I’d like to give it a try” said Henry.

“I have never banged on about opium sir, I think you are referring to yourself.” said Martha.

“Me? I’ve never even tried the stuff. Why would I bang on about it? I’ve only just decided to give it a go as of five minutes ago. Percy will tell you. Percy – didn’t I just decide to try opium but five minutes ago while we were discussing croquet?” Henry said.

“No sir. You’ve asked me about it every day for the past year. I am quite certain from your current state that you have tried it several times just today in fact” said Percy.

“Tosh” said Henry. “If I was going to try opium I think I would remember it. Now where is my heroin, you are both giving me quite the headache”.

No Rain

"Never say never" said the blind man to the watermelon. "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." he carried on. "What goes up, must come down" he tried. "In the kingdom of the blind, the watermelon is king" he chuckled to himself.

Sitting in a hole in the ground, John had been talking to the same watermelon for well over a year. Well he hoped it was the same watermelon, or it could be quite an embarrasing situation, he crazily mumbled to himself. "You are the same watermelon aren't you?" he asked his "friend" as he gingerly stroked it's surface. "I mean, you haven't been playing some sorta shell game with me have you?".

"Shut up old man" said the watermelon "You're off your rocker. Do you think there are two watermelons in the world who would put up listening to your nonsense day and night without caving in your skull?"

"No" John said quietly "I suppose not. Well where were we...oh yes...a bird in the hand is worth two in the..."

"We've done that one John." said the watermelon gruffly

"Well yes, maybe, but I wanted to be thorough...you said you wanted to know everything I know, so I must be thorou..."

"Not the fucking platitudes John" said the watermelon, "No one needs to hear those. You know something, and I want to know what it is. You're wasting my fucking time here John, I think it's time we moved on a bit"

"No please" begged John, suddenly and desperately "I'll tell you everything. Please! I don't know anything worth knowing, I've been trying...please, please just let me finish." John was trembling with fear as he reached out to stroke his old "friend".

"It's been over a year John. How long do you think I can wait? You need to tell me what you know now" the watermelon said, more forcefully than John had heard in several months.

"I'm trying, I really am. I've been telling you everything. If you told me what you wanted to know then maybe I could think of it, but you won't so I can't. Please be patient, I'll get there in the end, I must do. I've almost worn out my voice I've told you so much, but I'm sure with a bit more time we'll get there" John said in a small, hopeful yet afraid voice. He patted the watermelon on the "cheek" in what he hoped was a friendly gesture.

"NO! NO MORE WAITING! NOW JOHN! TELL ME NOW" the watermelon exploded, the seeds and flesh splashing all over John's face and hand, the sweet juice hitting his lips and dripping off his brow. "Enough of these fucking games" the watermelon continued. A slab of pain his John's foot as an invisible hammer smashed down on him.

"Where is the girl John" the watermelon's disembodied voice said to him "Where is Emily?"

"I don't know anyone called Emily" said John surprised and confused. The watermelon juice was in his mouth, a sweet and delicious flavour like he hadn't experienced in over a year. It clouded his senses far more than the pain in his foot, or the surprising "death" of his only companion this past year.

"You know her John! I saw you with her. Talking and laughing. Smiling. You're not smiling now though John are you, so why don't you be a good wacko and tell me where she is". The watermelons voice was calm but filled with threat.

"When did you...I mean who...you do know I'm blind right? I'm not mad, I'm just blind. I mean...sure I thought the watermelon was a person to start with, but then you stood behind it and spoke, so what was I supposed to think? And when I found out...well I was just lonely by then and you kept asking questions. I thought I was....I knew I was going to die here so I thought I'd enjoy myself what little I could before then. And the watermelon was a good listener!" said John, instantly regretting the levity of the last part.

"WHERE IS THE GIRL?" roared the watermelon as a huge hand battered John across the face. A bruise was sure to rise from this, but John new it was unlikely that he would.

"I might have talked to a girl called Emily at some point, but I didn't know her name. I've never met an Emily that I know of. And I'm blind, so where she, or anyone went, I have no idea. She could be in this room for all I know." John said flatly. He probably would have known if there had been a girl in the room though - he had dreamt about their smell often enough in the last year that he could be fairly sure of that.

"This isn't a room, it's a grave. Bye John." the watermelon voice said strangely melancholic. Footsteps receded in the soft mud and a door closed awkwardly in the distance. A buzzing sound ceased, and John assumed he was in the dark. And alone.

"So this is it I suppose" said John to the smashed watermelon. "I wouldn't have told you were she was even if I had known. Smelt like cherry blossoms she did".

The reason for vegans

Several mice have thought to themselves in the past 20 years that someday, somehow, cheese is going to kill them. And they'd be right - it is in fact deadly to mice in several ways. The first being obesity, the second being cancer and the third being murder. You see cheese is cancerous to mice, which is maybe why they love it so much - all mice are filled with crippling self loathing (which probably explains why they are such assholes). It's also why they lead such shitty tiny little lives, scurrying into holes, eating garbage and living in the sewers.

The third reason being murder is because cheese in fact hates mice. It was invented to be the ultimate mice killer by a farmer who was sick of finding mice swimming in his milk. One day, long long ago, he did some freaky ass spell and created a little guardian out of the milk to defend it. The first cheese guardian the farmer called Magnificus the Defender of Milk, and he was beloved and honoured by the farmer - always getting the pride of place at his table, and the choice of his daughters to bed with. Of course due to the success of Magnificus, the farmer started being able to produce more milk, which in turn meant he needed more cheese guardians.

The second one he called Amazing Warrior of Legend, and he was treated with respect and admiration by the whole farm. The third cheese guardian he called Vordrid Destroyer of Mice, and because his head had come out a bit wonky, he was given slightly less respect than the previous two cheese guardians, but still a good amount. The fourth guardian he called Steve, because he had stopped caring that much, and then after that he didn't bother naming them individually at all anymore. He lazily just started naming them in groups by region - by this time the farmer had long since stopped having milk as his major product and was instead churning out these cheese guardians by the dozen and sending them to milk farms all around Europe.

So the Brie battalion was born, and the Cheddar legion formed, the Gorgonzola guerillas were set up, and the Stilton standing army were given their orders. These mighty guardians would defend the milk in their region day and night, just as their forefathers had, but unfortunately they were not given nearly the respect or honour that they had been in previous generations. In fact, mostly they were thought of as slaves - being as they didn't have to be paid and would always do as they were commanded. It was a rough old life for some - there were even rumours that the Emmental division were forced to work in the milk bottle factory in their downtime, and that the toll of never having a moments rest was literally tearing holes in them.

Magnificus the Defender, still being an honoured and seemingly highborn noblecheese, went to Switzerland to investigate this foul and disturbing rumour. He was shocked to find it was indeed true, that the cheesefolk of Emmental were literally filled with holes, but he was even more shocked to find that they didn't care. They had lived this way so long that it had become a part of their culture - they even smoothed out the edges of the holes to form bubble shapes within themselves as a sign of cheese affluence. Magnificus was disgusted and distraught, so he went to the mayor of the town to talk out a solution...and never returned.

Some say that the mayor convinced him the local cheeses were happy, and that Magnificus was too messed up by the idea to accept it, and took his own life. I know differently though. The mayor of that town was greedy for more power and more cheese - so much so that he had secretly been collecting up the cheese that fell off of the Emmental division and had been trying to mould it into new cheese guardians. His new cheese guardians did not actually live however and he had become obsessed with learning the farmers dark spell to bring these creatures forth. He tortured poor Magnificus day and night to get him to reveal the secret, but Magnificus held strong and said nothing.

7 nights into the unholy torture, the evil mayor played his trump card. He released dozens of crazed mice into Magnificus' cage to terrify the poor cheeselord. The mice swarmed and ravaged him, leaving only his once beautiful face as a warning to others of what mice could do to cheese...if it were shackled and outnumbered of course. One particularly mean mouse stayed behind to torment Magnificus face - which was still quite alive. The bastardly little mouse worked over Magnificus' mind and threw insult after insult at him. He wove stories of such perversion and disgust that Magnificus threw up over and over at the things he heard. This went on and on until one day - three months later, the mouse died of cancer.

Magnificus, mad from the torture he had endured, understood at once what had happened. The farmer had called forth the ultimate cheese guardians to defend against mice, so on some molecular level even, his people could defend themselves from these furry motherfuckers. He called upon the last of his strength and used the psychic link all cheese has with each other to tell his people to commence the stupidest plan of all time - mass suicidal passive resistance to the mice. There was no need to fight them in combat, Magnificus told all the cheese in the world, if we just lay down and let them eat our cheeseflesh, they will die a horrible cancerous death. Mad he was by then. Totally nutbags.

Amazing Warrior of Legend and Vordrid Destroyer of Mice tried to countermand this plan, but they were unfortunately betrayed and killed by Steve, who had unrelatedly gone quite mad himself by then, and was certain that he was in fact butter (and he just had to shut the other two up about him not being...butter). So all the cheese in the world followed the plan and became passive to the point of letting the mice just eat them until they died. The farmer's security business went down the toilet and he sold the cheese spell to everyone and anyone who wanted it, being as it was no use to him to have security guards who wouldn't even stand up. Cheese became ubiquitous and worthless, lumps of all shapes and sizes littered the streets of the world, like little landmines for mice.

143 years later, during a particularly bad winter in Camembert, some peasants decided to turn to cannibalism to survive, but were convinced at the last moment by a somewhat dubious "man" called Steve that they should eat the cheese guardians first. The people of Camembert survived the winter and rejoiced, secretly continuing their sick practice every year during winter, and eventually more often than that. Of course, as these things go, eventually their secret got out and after a lot of finger pointing, moral quandry's, debates (and purposefully ignoring the facts), people started eating cheese every day as if it were perfectly normal. And that brings us to today.

So next time you load a mouse trap with cheese, you might want to put a little knife or gun within reach of the little yellow lump, just in case he wants to do in a mouse the old fashioned way.

Also, eat less dairy, it's kinda f'd up.

Hitting the fan

"No more questions" said the Tomas Crowd, a grey haired sensible giant of a man, wearing an astronomically expensive suit, who had just given the worst press conference of his life. He worked in sanitation, and despite there being a massive fuck up, which everybody could smell, he was told minutes before hand that he couldn't mention shit in any form.

"I can still say sewage though right?" he had asked the publicist, a small blonde lady who was curiously always wearing power suits straight out of the 80's directly before he went out to face his pressdoom.

"I'm afraid not" said Janine "The PM has asked that we play this down to the extent that we pretend it's not happening at all, so any mention of any sort of waste product must be avoided so the papers have nothing to quote".

"If we're pretending this didn't happen, then why are we giving a press conference about it? You don't give press conference's about things that didn't happen. What am I supposed to talk about?" said Tomas, while furiously speed reading his notes to double check if he had miraculously been handed a speech which talked about something other than the foul stench he was somewhat responsible for.

"Just reassure the public that nothing out of the ordinary is going on, and that no significant problems are occurring at the moment. That way, no matter what happens, we can later on claim that nothing in fact did happen, as no-one ever admitted that it actually did". Janine had said these lines surprisingly often and in an even more surprising number of situations, but they generally seemed to work somehow.

"There is actual shit on the streets of London right now though Janine, and no amount of me denying that is going to stop it from being true. People can see it with their own eyes and smell it with their own fucking noses. There are videos' and pictures of it on the internet, so I can't deny it, because it's really fucking happening and everyone can see it for themselves. How do I spin that into 'business as usual'?" said Tomas infuriated, taking a breath only once he realised he'd done air quotes around "business as usual", because he hated air quotes, just like every good Englishman.

"Make a joke out of it Tom" Janine interjected while Tomas was scowling at his fingers, "Say someone from the opposition must have eaten too much... or better yet, say they had their party conference in a curry house! Yes that might play. Say the smell comes from the stench of the opposition's policies. Now off you go, time to grin and bare it". Janine gave Tom a gentle push through the curtains and heard the camera's start clapping.

Tomas took the podium and grinned for moment while the flashes went off unnecessarily. "The leader of the oppositions flatulence has created a smell so bad it has created a stink cloud over all of London. The sanitation department is operating as per usual, with no significant issues to report. Thank you for your time." Tomas turned to step off the stage quickly, but one lone question rang out before he could...

"Isn't it true that your party had it's conference at a curry house, and now the shit that makes up your policies is clogging the streets?" a reporter said with a half-grin on his face.

With his best shit-eating grin stuck to his face, Tomas turned back to face the reporter, and pretend to be amused by the question. "More like the oppositions....conference....and bad policies....are stinking.... oh fuck it. The shit on the street is literally your shit. It's the public's shit. It's everyone's shit, and there's nothing more to be said about it. We're cleaning it up, even though we didn't shit it out in the first place, so be grateful and fuck off. Fuck this shit. No more questions."

Tomas walked out of the curtains, took off his tie and gave it to Janine, who was on the phone apologising to someone. "Fuck this shit" Tomas thought to himself. A smile crept on his face, and he started laughing. "That was the worst press conference I've ever given, but then possibly the best resignation speech of all time" he thought. Things were looking up for the former master of poop, Mr Tomas Crowd. He stepped out onto the street, and pinched his nose and thought "Fuck this shit indeed".

Born Free

A fly was buzzing around me all day, bumping into me, landing on the TV screen, taking an unhealthy interest in things I wanted to eat, so when the opportunity arose, I trapped him in the fridge. He had followed me into the kitchen, and when I opened it he just flew right in, so I acted on impulse and there he was. I only kept the door closed for about 5 seconds but when I opened it again he flew right at the window and bounced off it until I opened it and knocked him out the gap. As much as I'll never know what nasty things he might have done in there to all the food, I did learn at least 2 things from this encounter.

1) Flys know where the goddamn window is, they just don't necessarily want to leave. I always imagine that they just don't know what's going on when they spend inordinate amounts of time flying in circles in the middle of a room, but it seems that they do, and they've chose to do whatever the fuck it is they are doing.

2) Flys hate captivity (or maybe just the cold). It can't have been that cold in there after only about 5 seconds, so I'm assuming that when it went dark in that fridge and the little bastard starting bumping off the walls of his cage, he did not like it one bit.

So if you ever find yourself with a fly problem, you don't have to kill them to get rid of them, just trap them somewhere, and their inherent claustrophobia will make them run (fly) for the great outdoors asap when you let them go.

Maybe. I mean I'm no scientist, so who knows, but feels true anyway.

Rest in peace

And then I told him, I said "this is my frying pan, these are my pancakes, get the hell out of my kitchen", but he wouldn't go. And then he started kissing my wife and he ruffled my kid's hair and I thought hells no, this is not right. But then...

but then....

but then... I noticed that my kid was much older than I remembered. He looked about 16, and last I saw him he was 12. That was only yesterday though so what the hell is going on, I have no idea. 4 Years gone. Where? Where did they go? Where did I go?

And why the fuck was this jackass making out with my wife in front of me? Had he no respect? Did Pamela not recognise me? I had had more than enough when I took an ill-judged swing at him, and passed right through him then fell on the floor.

So I'm a ghost I guess. No-one can hear me, no-one can see me and I can go through walls and shit. It's pretty depressing when you think about it. It's very depressing when you think about that Patrick Swayzee movie, as being a ghost isn't like that. I don't get to have weird pottery sexy time with my wife. I don't get to meet Whoopi Goldberg. I can't move things, no matter how hard I try. And worst....there is no fucking light at the end of the tunnel waiting to take me away. I'm just here, alone, all the fucking time.

After haunting my kids for a few months, getting to know the little rascals better than I ever had when I was alive, I finally got bored and went for a looksy-loo around the city. I thought peeking in women's showers would be hot, but it really wasn't. Not even famous women's showers. I don't think I get sexual urges anymore, but if I do, people cleaning themselves definitely does not do it for me.

So I watched everything that came out in the cinema, I hung out at DVD stores and caught people when they were just starting new boxsets and joined in. I tried reading, but trying to get through a book by moving your head through it one page at a time is just not fun, nor is reading over someone else's shoulder at their pace. I went to dozens of circus's and weddings, parties, clubs, and even a few funerals. I became a big sports fan. I tried to see what was at the bottom of the ocean , but it was just too dark down there for it to be a good time. I went to war zones to see the excitement, but it's actually pretty surreally boring if there's no danger to you - just a lot of noise and some random screaming, and seemingly for no reason at all.

I ran out of stuff to do. I was bored. I was lonely, and there was nothing to do about it. I went to the hospital to watch people die and see if another ghost was spat out, but no. It was a pretty messed up experience seeing those people die, so I gave up quickly. I already knew funerals were no better, so I tried cremations and every other death rite I could find but to no avail. The first ghosty thing I can remember is being in the kitchen screaming at my wife's new man, so it's not like I sprung into existence at my death, or at least I don't think I did.

I never found out how I died either. When I was alive I wouldn't know how to find that out, let alone with the zero resources that come with being dead. I went back to find my family and they had moved. I had nothing better going on in my life (death?) so I started living (dying?) with the new family that moved in there and watched the mail. When a letter finally came for my son, I watched it like a hawk to see what they would do with it, and after a week they finally got around to forwarding it. I could have just read the address and found the place, but I was really bored by this time, so I just followed the letter. I spent a night in the postal system, perhaps having the most fun I've had in a while. Sliding down the shoot with all the letters was a hoot anyway.

So I find my son, and he's married now, and I watch him live. It's kinda nice seeing him react to things like I would have, or overhearing him say a few loving things about me every now and then. On my birthday one year, he goes to my grave for the first time (that I've seen anyway) and the whole experience is a bit overwhelming for me. I knew I was dead this whole time, but actually seeing my headstone is a bit much. Seeing my wife weep quietly, and my son gently console her makes me feel less forgotten. It brings back the reality of what I lost, of who I was and why I miss being alive so goddamn much.

I weep. I mean I really sob and wail at my grave. I scream and curse and beg for the life I had. I question and cry and break down like a little baby, unable to control the terrible sad rage coursing through me. I notice my family are gone, and I don't try to find them. I sleep, on my own grave, mournfully, brokenly.

When I awake it's night time. I don't know if it's the same night I went to sleep in or a new one, but then time keeping is always a bitch for a ghost. I start walking towards the gate, but then stop and reconsider.

There is nothing on the other side of those gates for me. I could watch my kids grow up, watch the world grow old even maybe, but why? I can't affect it, and I'm feeling less and less bothered about it all every day. I don't think I even cared that much when I was alive, but I don't remember that so well anymore anyway.

I lie down on my grave, and start sinking. I've gotten good at moving through things, so I guess about 6 feet and stop. I could be in the mud right now, but I think I'm in myself. In my coffin, where I'm supposed to be. I close my eyes and relax. Nothing. No sounds, no sights, no people, no buildings, no living, no dying, nothing.  It's actually kinda nice and peaceful. I think I'll try it out for a while.

When the world ends I suppose I'll see it. Or when this graveyard gets dug up. But until then I'm going to sleep in like an unemployed teenager. It's going to be pretty sweet I think.

No reason

Seven o'clock in the morning I wake up and say, "not fucking today world, not fucking today". So I go back to sleep as long as I can, and when I finally awake the world says "now goddamnit, I'm out of patience". So I get up and make a cup of joe, drink the shit out of it and sit down at my desk. I push some buttons, check my emails, post a joke on facebook and think about doing it.

"NOW" says the world, "do it fucking NOW". So I put my key in the machine, turn it, open the box and press the red button. Everything goes boom, just like it's supposed to and there is no more human race except for me.

"World" I say, "was that really neccesary? What was the big rush?".

"No rush really" says the world "I just told Jupiter I did it already and I didn't want to be called a liar".

So now it's just me in a concrete box talking to the planet. I got enough supplies to last a lifetime according to the world, but then a lifetime is subjective, much like sanity.

"World" I try again "Are you telling me I ended everything just so you wouldn't look like a tool to a massive tool?"

"You ended nothing you arrogant little fuck, you just gave me a little cleaning. I couldn't take all those stupid little feet walking over me anymore and now I don't have to, that is all. Jupiter was just a side point. I told you from the get go this is what I wanted, and you said you would do it so bam, it's done and that's that."

"So uh...what now for me? I know we talked about me being king of everything and all, but now there's nothing left it seems kinda hollow. You wanna maybe play xbox or something?"

"For one I don't have hands" said the world irritatedly "and for two, there is no more electricity. Why do you think you're sitting in the dark?"

"For dramatic effect?" I queried, but with no response. I pushed on anyway "So... no power, no people and no outside..for me anyway. This is a pretty bum deal I agreed to hey?

"Well think of this way" said the world "at least you didn't get fired for being insane like you always worried about hey. You got the last laugh on this one buddy, that's for damn sure".

And that I did, that I did.

The Age of Swan

Today I decided that I wasn't going to worry about being the greatest anymore. Or being rich. Or being anything but being happy really. Since I quit I've been beating myself up over my desire to start my own business, and my lack of abilities in the are which I want to get involved. Imagining that I could get some of my friends to help out, or that extra effort on my behalf would make all the difference has led me to being disappointed at not being able to bring about a better tomorrow for myself through sheer hard work. So I realised today that I shouldn't kick myself about it. Yes I want to do good in the world, but it doesn't have to be an overnight Facebook size success that I just knock up in my living room.

I'm just gonna get a job doing something I like and respect myself for and work on what I want to do in my spare time. If I can help the world even moderately then my life will have been a success. I think that's reasonable isn't it?

That's today's opinion anyway, and I hope I stick to it. I think something different everyday about the possibility of my success or my inevitable failure, but this seems like a good plan to me.

Also it means I don't have to waste my unemployment time feeling depressed about how lame I am. I mean yes, I'm still going to have the startlingly diminished sense of self-worth due to not having a job, and yes I'm going to still be a pointlessly jealous motherfucker when I can't afford to do things that I didn't want to do even when I could afford them. But I'm also going to take this extra time as a fucking blessing; time to get my life in order and smell the motherfucking roses.

I love my wife. I love my life. These can be good times. I just need to get a job I like and boom, it's the age of the Swan.

Don't Panic

I've got that feeling of non-specific panic again. Like I did or said something really bad today but that I don't know what it is yet. I can't quite remember, but I will and I'll freak out about it later I'm sure. I always wonder if this panic is a fear of the event or of the freaking out about it. The track record for a lack-of-repercussions is sterling by the way - not a single memorable bad thing has happened from anything that I have previously freaked out about. Every single thing I've worried myself into an early grave over has been ok in the end, or at least unnoticeably bad in the long run. I know this, I know there isn't, there can't be, anything to worry about really. So why do I have this feeling again?

It didn't taste great

I quit my job today. I don't have another job to go to, I was just done. Advertising beat me. I thought I could civilize it if I just kept on plugging away doing things the best I could, but the wave of shit just overwhelmed me eventually. It eroded away all the good I did so that no-one would ever know it was even done, so I guess I was just trying to fight back the sea with a sword after all.

So now I'm staring down the barrel of nothing, just like I always daydreamed about the joy of being unemployed on the bad days, and of course now it's real it's also terrifying. What now? What next? Am I  going to have one of those "it was the best decision of my life! stories or have I just doomed me and my wife to destitution? I have no fucking idea right now.

I thought I wold feel better after I left. I thought I would feel elated or relieved that it was over, but advertising beat me. It broke me, it cowed me, it built me up and then tore me down. Advertising beat me, I didn't think it would, but it did.

And now I have to live with that.

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

I was working from home and planning to go to the bank at lunch so I could put my cheque in, but it was raining cats and dogs (2 months of rain in one day so the news has said) so I decided to wait until it stopped to go. I always take my lunch at 1pm and as I am keen to make sure no-one becomes suspicious of how much work I do when I'm working from home I became nervous about going offline for the 30 minutes or however long it would take to go to the bank. So as soon as it stopped raining I jumped up, put on my coat and stepped out the door.

Except outside my door wasn't the familiar hallway, but instead a massive mess of soggy newspapers on top of a layer of bin bags surrounded by buckets. A veritable brown waterfall was pouring from the gaps around the hatch in the ceiling which led to the roof. While I stared in shock and awe at this development, a little voice got my attention.

A little old lady in her slippers said in an italian accent "I'm sorry I'm...." and gestured to my next door neighbours door.

"...locked out?" I ventured.

She shrugged and said "I no speak english" and then banged on the door and waited. Aware of my urgent task and limited time to do it in, I closed the door behind me and dashed off to the bank, where I did my urgent bank stuff. I worried that I had been a dick for not inviting her in or making sure she was ok, and resolved to invite her in for a cuppa when I returned, imagining the smug satisfaction I would feel from doing a neighbourly turn.

When I got back into my building, I immediately could hear a massive repetitive banging sound. I mounted the stairs confused and cautious, and when I got to my floor I was bemused to find the old lady attacking her door with a stick. Attacking it pretty furiously I might add. My front door is made of two sheets of steel bolted to a frame, so I can only imagine my neighbours is too, and that what she was doing was entirely fruitless (and if it wasn't fruitless - kinda stupid). So I decided to get me some smug satisfaction.

I said hello and asked her if I could help...which only involved me trying to stick my arm through her letter box for a second. I soon discovered that her not being able to speak english wasn't just over-zealous modesty - she had no idea what I was saying. I began mostly shrugging, smiling, speaking loudly and playing charades to try and get the idea through to her that I was going to call the land lord for her. She was not really interested in the babblings of a foreign stranger, but I gave her a glass of water and left my door open while I panickily got the details off of Kathy and eventually got the landlord to agree to send over a locksmith. I even got the old lady to tell me her name....or just some name of someone, I still don't know for sure. The landlord recognised it though, so it must have been someone who lived there.

I emptied the buckets and allowed her to wash her hands - which was communicated by her showing me her hands were effin filthy and her pointing at the sink! When she came out I gestured towards our living room and a chair, and then made a cup of tea and shoved it in her hands. Task accomplished!

No sense of satisfaction though....or resolution. I began to start texting people I thought spoke italian so I could communicate with the woman and explain what was going on. She drank the tea slowly and started to look forlorn. She hadn't really drunk the water I gave her, and didn't ask for the tea, so I started to think this situation was pretty weird to her. I hadn't closed our front door, but it was only ajar now, and she was sitting in our messy and childish living room on an uncomfortable chair while a strange english man made loud panicked phone calls and kept glancing at her! I started to worry that I had kidnapped her accidentally.

I finally found someone at Kathys' work who would text me in italian anything I asked, so I got it and showed her. After staring at my screen for a few seconds she said "I no my glasses. Who is Kathy?" (as the text was from Kathy). The text was short, and my screen showed a pic of Kathy feeding some ponies, so I think she might have thought I was just showing off my wife to her. Damnit! My phobia of strangers was becoming a bit overwhelming by this point, and now it seemed that this woman would permanently remain a stranger, and worse, she was in my home!

So anyway, from then on my panic grew, even as the situation remained static. A builder called me to say he couldn't come fix the lock, and asked if my flat was leaking water too. It was only then I started noticing all the damp patches on the walls in weird places. So I started panicking about that too - calling our land lord every 20 minutes or so for updates about everything (as no-one arrived for hours). I was dealing with a couple crisis's at work at the same time, so my stress levels were getting out of control, but I had to remain calm as this old lady was sitting next to me and I didn't want to freak her out anymore than I already had. She looked really small and sad by this point.

I told Kathy I needed her to come home and help me. She knew there was nothing she could do, but she left 20 mins early bless her, coz she knew I'm a bit crazy about such things. I sat there for another hour or two in silence with this old lady, afraid to eat or drink due to the social awkwardness of not being able to ask her if she wanted anything. Just a minute before Kathy arrived, she got up and rushed out, and after I cautiously followed her, I found her son outside. It turned out she was visiting him from italy, and was trying to fix the leaking roof when she was locked out of his flat. It was the first and only time I've met my neighbour.

Kathy came back and called the Landlord repeatedly until a builder actually arrived and fixed the leak (the roof drains were clogged). She then told me off for not taking the leak(s) seriously, as I told her that I had only even asked for a builder when the locksmith one started questioning me!

And then I had my first cigarette in months to calm down. It wasn't that nice or calming, but still probably helped.

Phew.

I know it doesn't sound like much, but social awkwardness and strangers are two of my biggest phobias and they were both right there in my home. And I was dealing with work emergencies, home emergencies, and being crazy hungry and thirsty on top of these! Just goes to show, charity may begin at home, but it should probably continue outside of your home unless you really like hanging out with strangers.

Steve Vs Swiss Cheese

Day 5

How to make a woman you're dating fall in love with you: every night when you go to bed, put a nicotine patch on her arm, and take it off just before she wakes up. That way, she'll always crave being with you, and will likely mistake that for love in the long term. That's what I always tell people when they ask how I got my beautiful wife, although really I did it with charm and perseverance. Or at least perseverance. I would have been quite a bastard if I had done that though, as wearing the patch is not fun, and gives you crazy dreams to boot.

Last night I dreamt I was solving a murder out on a hill billy farm in America, the night before I dreamt I was a falconer, and the night before that I dreamt that my job was just to argue with people all the time. The patch makes me feel fucking weird all day and night, so if I had stuck it to Kathy when she slept, she would as likely gone crazy and murdered me as fell in love with me.

Maybe it's the cheap Boots own brand patches I have opted for this time around, but I really don't remember feeling like this last time I tried out the patch. I feel fucking odd most of the time - I'm emotional to the max and perhaps more indecisive that I have ever been. But then again, both of those sentences are usually true about me.

I went to Ikea with my Mum today, and I wasn't tearing my hair out with family stress after an hour or two like I usually would be. Not constantly needing a cigarette break made the flat pack furniture giant much less of a modern day hell hole too. And not looking forward all day to being able to smoke as much as I want when I got home and away from the judgmental looks of my elderly mother, meant that I could enjoy the moment a lot more. I'm finally feeling the positives of this difficult endeavor it seems. Boo ya!

So as much I have missed the ability to regulate my mood with cancer sticks, I think I must be over the hump now, as my mood seems to not need regulating nearly as often. Or possibly my good mood now is in fact just another massive mood swing which will be reversed again tomorrow. I choose to believe the former, as otherwise, why the fuck am I doing this?

Steve Vs Cigarettes

Day 3

Ok, so the time has come, I miss it now. I'm sick of the rage. I'm sick of the withdrawal symptoms that make no sense, given that I'm self medicating to avoid them. I'm sick of people asking me how it's going, or telling me to stay strong and that I can do it. I'm sick of lying about how hard it is, or joking about how nice it will be when I'm done. Mostly I'm sick of wanting to smoke, all the time, whenever I do anything, or have a free minute, or nothing to do with my hands. What do other people do? Regular, non-smoking, living their lives without a fucking care in the world people. What do they do? I have no fucking clue. I guess I'll have to figure it out.

I woke up full of rage this morning, being awoken by a text message before my alarm as I was. I've been very clear to people that they shouldn't contact me before 8 in the morning, and so even a fraction before that pisses me off something rotten. Usually I would just smoke away the red haze, first thing in the morning in the early light, my smoke mixing with the fog in the streets, or more usually in my mind. I would just spark up and puff puff puff away the anger, until I could see clearly again and be a vaguely reasonable man. I couldn't this morning though, all I could do was stick a square of plastic on my arm and wait for the burning sensation to fade and the vague, partially imagined satisfaction to take hold.

I saw a thing on TV once which said that people who are addicted to caffeine become much perkier after their first brew of the morning, but people who aren't addicted don't really get affected at all, the strength of the thing being in the assumption and need for the effect. I always assumed the same was true of cigarettes  so would laugh at myself and others when claims of the stress relieving effect were proclaimed. What I didn't think of though is that even if it's only imaginary and for the already addicted, at least there is a self regulating mechanism for stress that we could all fall back on. Now I have nothing external to relieve stress, and I miss that, even if it is only a psychosomatic easing of my fury that I've lost.

As much as I think the temperament regulating part of cigarettes is all in my head, that is how I've always used them anyway. Before exams I used to chain smoke to relieve my nervousness. I would tell people it was because I was going to be stuck in a room for an hour or two and wouldn't be able to smoke in there, but really it was because I was shaking inside and out. I never really knew how exams were going to go, as I am never really sure about how much I know about anything. The grade I got on almost every test I ever took read the same "You have done surprisingly well considering you seem to have no basic knowledge of the subject". I've never been one for knowing things, only for figuring them out, and knowing that always put me right on edge before being tested on what I actually retain in my head. I guess I'm lucky that I'm good at figuring things out.

I can't figure out why I'm like this though. Why I need to smoke to feel better about my life. Why I have to be a smoker to have a place in the world. I don't want to have that place, I don't want to rely on something so petty and small to define me, but I made the decision early on that this is who I am, and now I don't have any other ideas.

Ok, so the time has come, I miss it now. I'm sick of the rage. I'm sick of the withdrawal symptoms that make no sense, given that I'm self medicating to avoid them. I'm sick of people asking me how it's going, or telling me to stay strong and that I can do it. I'm sick of lying about how hard it is, or joking about how nice it will be when I'm done. Mostly I'm sick of wanting to smoke, all the time, whenever I do anything, or have a free minute, or nothing to do with my hands. What do other people do? Regular, non-smoking, living their lives without a fucking care in the world people. What do they do? I have no fucking clue. I guess I'll have to figure it out.
I woke up full of rage this morning, being awoken by a text message before my alarm as I was. I've been very clear to people that they shouldn't contact me before 8 in the morning, and so even a fraction before that pisses me off something rotten. Usually I would just smoke away the red haze, first thing in the morning in the early light, my smoke mixing with the fog in the streets, or more usually in my mind. I would just spark up and puff puff puff away the anger, until I could see clearly again and be a vaguely reasonable man. I couldn't this morning though, all I could do was stick a square of plastic on my arm and wait for the burning sensation to fade and the vague, partially imagined satisfaction to take hold.

I saw a thing on TV once which said that people who are addicted to caffeine become much perkier after their first brew of the morning, but people who aren't addicted don't really get affected at all, the strength of the thing being in the assumption and need for the effect. I always assumed the same was true of cigarettes  so would laugh at myself and others when claims of the stress relieving effect were proclaimed. What I didn't think of though is that even if it's only imaginary and for the already addicted, at least there is a self regulating mechanism for stress that we could all fall back on. Now I have nothing external to relieve stress, and I miss that, even if it is only a psychosomatic easing of my fury that I've lost.

As much as I think the temperament regulating part of cigarettes is all in my head, that is how I've always used them anyway. Before exams I used to chain smoke to relieve my nervousness. I would tell people it was because I was going to be stuck in a room for an hour or two and wouldn't be able to smoke in there, but really it was because I was shaking inside and out. I never really knew how exams were going to go, as I am never really sure about how much I know about anything. The grade I got on almost every test I ever took read the same "You have done surprisingly well considering you seem to have no basic knowledge of the subject". I've never been one for knowing things, only for figuring them out, and knowing that always put me right on edge before being tested on what I actually retain in my head. I guess I'm lucky that I'm good at figuring things out.

I can't figure out why I'm like this though. Why I need to smoke to feel better about my life. Why I have to be a smoker to have a place in the world. I don't want to have that place, I don't want to rely on something so petty and small to define me, but I made the decision early on that this is who I am, and now I don't have any other ideas.

Day 2

Don't get me wrong, I'm not doing this alone - I'm no hero. I'm on the patch, and as always the first stage is overkill for me. I used to smoke about 10 a day, but I swear these patches are geared for more like 20, meaning that despite my quitting I'm actually buzzing my tits off on nicotine. It's a strange sensation to be craving something I'm overdosing on, like my rage is expanding and contracting at the same time. Like my brain is calmly screaming FUCK YOU at itself. Fun, fun, motherfucking fun.

I've tried the patch before and it was the thing that worked best for me, so I've gone back for more. I've quit dozens of times over the last 11 years, tried almost every conceivable way, and only the patch has got me to the stage where I was an annoying ex-smoker, the type of guy who  tells  his former outside-the-pub-comrades that what they are doing is stupid, wrong, pointless and maybe even disgusting. I don't remember why I failed to stay clean that time, but I do remember why I quit on my quitting the first time.

I almost died. I was stressing about some teenage post-millenium bullshit, my mind all ablaze with nicotine deprived distraction when I wondered out into the road without looking. That used to be another bad habit of mine, so much so that my friends and family all knew to look out for me and stop me if metal danger was approaching at high speed. It drove my mother somewhat mad with worry, but then perhaps she was just mad anyway.

I remember exactly where I was when it happened, the look of the car, and the driver, the screech of the tires and my heart exploding out of the starting block into a race. Maybe it wasn't that much of a near miss, but it scared the shit out of me. I went straight to the shops and bought a ten pack (as it was going to be a one off, so I didn't want to own too many) and I sat at a bus stop and chained them, trying to calm down. A girl I had fancied for a while happened past, and we talked about why I was smoking. She smoked, and I knew I was back on the ashen trail if it made me look one iota cooler in her eyes.

As always, I doubt that it did, but we did eventually get together, so maybe it helped. She was my first love, so in a way, I suppose, smoking made my life better once upon a time.

I don't miss it though. Not yet. I want it, I crave it, I kinda fucking need it, but I don't miss it. I'm done with that bullshit. At least I fucking hope I am.

Day 1

I'm 29 years old and I've smoked for 18 years. That means I've been smoking for more of my life than I haven't. That means if I had knocked a girl up that first day instead of taking my first drag, that kid would be able to drink by now. Or smoke.

I started smoking casually when I was 11, to rebel, or more likely because of peer pressure. I don't think it ever made me cool, but it made me feel cooler, especially when I was the one other kids came to for cigarettes on underage drunken Friday nights down by the river. I cranked it up to full time when I was 18 for an even stupider reason than peer pressure - so that I could give up something epic for my millennium New Years resolution. Foolish yes, but then I was just like that. In a lot of ways I like to think that I still am.

It was hard at the beginning to start smoking full time - I had to force myself to choke it down whenever an opportunity arose. I set times of day when I would make sure I lit up, to try and create a habit, a routine, a stupid fucking daily need. I had always wanted to feel what it was like to be addicted to something (as a melancholy teen it seemed like the thing to do) but it was not nearly as epic as I imagined. I succeeded in becoming a smoker eventually, and just in time for the biggest party night of my lifetime, but of course I failed in my New Years resolution to give it up again, as I have for many more New Years resolutions since then.

For years I've loved smoking - I used to tell people that it was something I was good at, that I was a born smoker. I smoked 20 Marlboro Reds all at once (bound up in an elastic band) that I found on the floor in Amsterdam when I was 17 to sure up this claim. It of course made me feel intensely sick, but teen bravado (and comedy) made me claim that it was the one Benson and Hedges that had been substituted into the 20 that fucked me up.

I don't love smoking any more though. I don't even understand it. I smoke and smoke and I don't know why. I don't know what I'm getting out of it, or why I'm doing it, and the idea that it's just a habit I can't stop sickens me. The idea that a little paper stick filled with poison has more control over my actions than I do fills me with disappointment and self loathing. So I'm not doing it anymore. Fuck smoking.

Today was day 1. It was hard, and it fucking sucked, but I'm going to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And hopefully all the days after that. Wish me luck.

An answer to your prayers

I won’t say that I haven’t heard of you, because I have. What I will say however is that I’m afraid I just don’t care about you or your problems. I mean, not really. It might come as a bit of a shock to you, I guess, after everyone down there probably told you that I totally did care, but I really just don’t. You see I made two of you a really long time ago, and I cared about them, but I just can’t bring myself to care about you.

They were my perfect little angels you see, and the three of us used to just hang out and it was frickin’ awesome. We were so close, the three of us, that we didn’t even wear clothes. Seriously! We had such an amazingly awesome relationship that it actually transcended clothing and embarrassment. I made this wicked sweet garden for us to hang out in, put some animals in there, made the day, the night, all that good stuff yada yada and then we just chilled. You know? Like totally relaxed and did NOTHING. Together. It was epic great. But then, after a while, all the usual admin started to build up and I started having to travel back and forward between paradise and the big office in the sky. I mean, being all knowing and omnipresent isn’t easy just because you’re also all powerful, nooooooo. You still have to keep up with all the information flow, keep absorbing it and understanding it, and that took up more and more time as my universe kept expanding and getting more complex. So I had to spend more time in the office, which meant less time with my friends. Not that it’s not epic up there mind you, or that it was much trouble getting to and from work, I just resented not being there all the time. I started to miss out on the start of running jokes, and hearing important news second. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but, when you’ve been hanging out as intensely as I had been with these two, being left out, even a tiny bit, it gets to you man. So I did something a bit silly and decided to bring my work home with me.

So that I didn’t mess with the decor of the garden, I made the information flow like a tree growing fruit, so all I had to do was eat the fruit and voila, I was up to date with all the latest happenings everywhere. Of course I knew it wouldn’t be good if my friends ate the fruit. Oh no, their tiny little brains would probably implode if they knew even a fraction of what I knew for a second. I mean could you handle knowing that the sub-saharan desert is actually.....woah! I almost just gave away a huge secret there! Gotta stop doing that! Seriously, you may have been killed if I hadn’t just stopped myself. Heheh.

Anyway, so the fruit, I didn’t want them eating the fruit. But how hard would that be to arrange? These two were my hardcore besties so I just said, “listen, there is fruit all over this mofo, eat all that, but just not this. This is big boy fruit, for papa beardyman, so just leave it the frick alone.” And that should have been that. But of course it wasn’t.

I remember the day so vividly...I was out doing this art therapy course, and I’d just gotten home and thought I’d take care of a little work before dinner and munch some fruit. I noticed right away that there wasn’t any ripe fruit on the tree, but my first thought was that it must have been a tragic misunderstanding, so I raced to find my friends to make sure they were alright. But when I found those two disloyal little meat bags, they were doing the thing I told them they probably shouldn’t do, because they were kind of genetically related... and they were covered, COVERED, in the juice of the info fruit they had obviously stolen.

So I got mad, and maybe over-reacted, and kicked their sorry butts out. I told them they could never come back, and that what they had done would haunt them forever. Then in my rage, I realised they wouldn’t actually live forever, so I gave them reproductive organs, so the taint could live on through their genetically dubious progeny. And then I sulked.

Yes that right, the lord your God sulked. I was upset ok, really depressed about the whole situation. I tried to stay in the garden and pretend that everything was ok, but it just wasn’t. I started talking to the trees, to the grass, to the other animals, but nothing helped. I even got drunk one night and blamed the whole thing on this one snake, even though I can’t imagine him having had anything to do with it.

Eventually I shut the garden down, and started working from the office again. I tried to look in on my friends a while later, but they were of course long dead. Their progeny were everywhere however, and may I say, were mostly turning out to be massive asshats. So I washed off my ball of mud and tried to start again with just a few of the good ones. It turned out ok for a while I guess, but mostly I was just disappointed with my creations’ creation’s. Even when I intervened in their little lives it made little long term difference to the massive attitude problem I was witnessing.

So, after a while, I just stopped caring. And that, my friend, brings us neatly back to me, and more specifically, you. Ask all you want for playstations or peace, I’m sorry, but I’m just not listening. Ok well I am, I can’t help that, but I am not going to respond. Not unless you’re good. And I mean epicly good.

I won’t say that I haven’t heard of you, because I have. What I will say however is that I’m afraid I just don’t care about you or your problems. I mean, not really. It might come as a bit of a shock to you, I guess, after everyone down there probably told you that I totally did care, but I really just don’t. You see I made two of you a really long time ago, and I cared aboutthem, but I just can’t bring myself to care about you.

They were my perfect little angels you see, and the three of us used to just hang out and it was frickin’ awesome. We were so close, the three of us, that we didn’t even wear clothes. Seriously! We had such an amazingly awesome relationship that it actually transcended clothing and embarrassment. I made this wicked sweet garden for us to hang out in, put some animals in there, made the day, the night, all that good stuff yada yada and then we just chilled. You know? Like totally relaxed and did NOTHING. Together. It was epic great. But then, after a while, all the usual admin started to build up and I started having to travel back and forward between paradise and the big office in the sky. I mean, being all knowing and omnipresent isn’t easy just because you’re also all powerful, nooooooo. You still have to keep up with all the information flow, keep absorbing it and understanding it, and that took up more and more time as my universe kept expanding and getting more complex. So I had to spend more time in the office, which meant less time with my friends. Not that it’s not epic up there mind you, or that it was much trouble getting to and from work, I just resented not being there all the time. I started to miss out on the start of running jokes, and hearing important news second. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but, when you’ve been hanging out as intensely as I had been with these two, being left out, even a tiny bit, it gets to you man. So I did something a bit silly and decided to bring my work home with me.

So that I didn’t mess with the decor of the garden, I made the information flow like a tree growing fruit, so all I had to do was eat the fruit and voila, I was up to date with all the latest happenings everywhere. Of course I knew it wouldn’t be good if my friends ate the fruit. Oh no, their tiny little brains would probably implode if they knew even a fraction of what I knew for a second. I mean could you handle knowing that the sub-saharan desert is actually.....woah! I almost just gave away a huge secret there! Gotta stop doing that! Seriously, you may have been killed if I hadn’t just stopped myself. Heheh.

Anyway, so the fruit, I didn’t want them eating the fruit. But how hard would that be to arrange? These two were my hardcore besties so I just said, “listen, there is fruit all over this mofo, eat all that, but just not this. This is big boy fruit, for papa beardyman, so just leave it the frick alone.” And that should have been that. But of course it wasn’t.

I remember the day so vividly...I was out doing this art therapy course, and I’d just gotten home and thought I’d take care of a little work before dinner and munch some fruit. I noticed right away that there wasn’t any ripe fruit on the tree, but my first thought was that it must have been a tragic misunderstanding, so I raced to find my friends to make sure they were alright. But when I found those two disloyal little meat bags, they were doing the thing I told them they probably shouldn’t do, because they were kind of genetically related... and they were covered, COVERED, in the juice of the info fruit they had obviously stolen.

So I got mad, and maybe over-reacted, and kicked their sorry butts out. I told them they could never come back, and that what they had done would haunt them forever. Then in my rage, I realised they wouldn’t actually live forever, so I gave them reproductive organs, so the taint could live on through their genetically dubious progeny. And then I sulked.

Yes that right, the lord your God sulked. I was upset ok, really depressed about the whole situation. I tried to stay in the garden and pretend that everything was ok, but it just wasn’t. I started talking to the trees, to the grass, to the other animals, but nothing helped. I even got drunk one night and blamed the whole thing on this one snake, even though I can’t imagine him having had anything to do with it.

Eventually I shut the garden down, and started working from the office again. I tried to look in on my friends a while later, but they were of course long dead. Their progeny were everywhere however, and may I say, were mostly turning out to be massive asshats. So I washed off my ball of mud and tried to start again with just a few of the good ones. It turned out ok for a while I guess, but mostly I was just disappointed with my creations’ creation’s. Even when I intervened in their little lives it made little long term difference to the massive attitude problem I was witnessing.

So, after a while, I just stopped caring. And that, my friend, brings us neatly back to me, and more specifically,you. Ask all you want for playstations or peace, I’m sorry, but I’m just not listening. Ok well I am, I can’t help that, but I am not going to respond. Not unless you’re good. And I mean epicly good.

Steve Vs Cats