Should have been a yes man

I don’t say yes anymore, I just say maybe.

Like maybe I am crazy. Maybe I do hate you. Maybe those are my drugs, and maybe I did take some.

Or maybe I’ll come out tonight. Maybe I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime. Maybe I do like you.

It’s an impractical way to live. People say

“Do you want some of this?”

and I say “maybe”

and they say “well which is it? Yes or no”

so I say “well it’s not no”

so they say “so it’s yes then”

so I say “maybe”

Then usually the violence starts.

And then the police come. And the paramedics.

“Can you hear me?”

“Maybe”

“Do you know what year it is?”

“Maybe”

“Are these your drugs”

“Maybe”

“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”

“Maybe”

Then contempt of court. Then jail.

Then maybe just maybe, when I get out, I can have some of whatever I was offered which caused all this trouble in the first place. Maybe.

A Fools Game

I played poker last night again and after 6 hours of intensity, I came second. Second! It’s a shame it wasn’t for money otherwise…. well I still would have gone home broke I suppose. But then at least when I told other people of my first loser status, I would have been able to embellish with the amount of money which I almost won. Maybe even I would have been able to talk about what I would have done with the money. Probably something concerned the eating of some sorta pie.

But pie’s aside, gambling really is fun. I mean in Australia they have a cuss word for a non-gambler as 70% of the population gamble regularly. That’s a fucking lot of aussies ready to kick the crap out of you for using their fruit machine when they’ve just gone to get some change.

So a life of chance it is for me then. I’m going to spend all my spare time gambling on the internet and seeing what comes of it. I made $3,600 into $3,600,000 on GTA on my x-box so clearly I have the gene. If I just give it 10 hours a day everyday then I’ll be rich within the month.

Although I suppose 10 hours a day is longer than a working day. It hardly seems worth it in terms of sleep…

I'm not growing up, I'm just burning out

So it’s the middle of Earth’s lifespan. That’s what I heard on TV today. 5 billion years gone, 5 billion to go. Somehow that makes a lot of sense to me.

We are all like Earth’s midlife crisis. Half way through sitting around, just being a big ball of mud, it thought

“Shit! I have to do something with my life. I've been wasting away just staring at the sun for too fucking long. I know, I’m gonna create life. Millions of types of life. And they're gonna be all interesting and pretty and clever and stuff. Yeah.”. And so here we are. Living away and fucking up this ball of mud. It doesn’t notice anyway. It’s too busy checkin out mars’ butt.

So what’s my point? I feel old I guess. I’ve said it many many times, but this last week I was working on a TV film set and I really noticed it more. All the people at an equivalent level of employment were years younger than me. All the actors were younger than me. Even the lady who owned the club we filmed in was younger than me. Doh. Maybe it’s time to grow up hey.

But probably not. What do you call an African American flying a plane?

A pilot you stupid racist.

I got that directly from the OC. Maybe I’m not as old as I look. Or maybe I’ve just got bad taste in TV. Hmm. Whatever. At least I’m not younger than I look. Being young sucked. I just remember all those sweeties to buy, and no money.

Crumbling into the ashtray

So there I was. Fucked off my nuts in a penthouse in Putney playing poker and winning. And spinning around on my chair as the room gets smokier and smokier. Pretty soon I start asking myself “How the fuck am I winning?”

I clearly have no idea, so I begin asking other people. Seems they don’t know either. But now they’ve all spotted that I’m wrecked, it becomes unlikely that I’ll be winning for long. Because then of course my next move did have to be the only thing that I never do, and that’s bluff. But when you’re in my state, you don’t exactly bluff, you kinda just give your money away. As I was thinking “Now these guys think I’m wrecked so I can do clever stuff and they’ll never guess it was intentional!” But of course I was discounting the fact I really was wrecked. So one ‘all in –> me out’ later, I started making like a ringmaster.

Now rolling takes me a really long time, so if I really was making like a ringmaster, the lions would have eaten me a long time ago for wasting their time. But anyway, while I was doing that, smoke was flying everywhere, so I continuously had to switch between multi-tasking rolling and dealing poker, and smoking and dealing poker. The thing is, I’ve never really had much of an attention span. Remembering what I’m doing one minute to the next seems like a novel waste of brain power to me, so of course eventually, I found myself crumbling straight into the ashtray. ‘Son of a bitch’ I thought, ‘Seems like such a waste’. Yet in the state I was in, the profound logic of what I was doing kept me doing it for a second longer.

The moral of the story is this: people aren’t gonna necessarily scream “stop you idiot” to stop you when you’re wasting an opportunity.

Ask me no questions….

Being unemployed sucks. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it has its high points such as the sleeping in and the playing of computer games when you want. Ok so I don’t play computer games during the day anyway, but I like the sleep.

Anyway, the worst bit about being unemployed is the looking for a job. The destruction of one’s own current state is always going to be arduous, but more so when you have to convince the destructor that you really want it to be done. I’m talking about job interviews.

Like the one I had yesterday. A group interview in which no questions were asked. We introduced ourselves, then they said any questions? And surprisingly for a dominantly British group, people were ready to just jump in. The problem was that they were intensely irrelevant questions which would obviously have really fucking long answers. So after about an hour of that, we were given a 5 minutes math test and then told we could leave.

I asked no questions as I wanted to get to the interview. So basically I wasn’t there as far as the interviewers would be concerned as they had to see dozens of people, and one guy sitting in the corner not saying anything isn’t really going to stick out. Doh. So I did something that I’ve never done before, and I’ll never do again. I complained to the interviewer by email about the interview.

Today I got a reply. You were the strongest candidate for one of the positions, we are sorry that you do not want to continue with the interview process. I protested my interest in the interview protest, but to no avail. Stupid interviews.

Stupid unemployment.

Stupid me.

Again!

I lost my ring last night. I was a little tipsy after watching "the big game" in the pub, so decided a bacon sandwich would be the best thing for my very slightly hungry stomach. My mum and step dad were up so after taking a bacon poll, I cooked some for them too. After I had made my mini feast I looked down at my hand and realised that my thumb was missing it's most important component - the ring! So I freaked out and looked through my pockets, through my jacket, through the fridge, through the bushes outside. And nothing. I decided that maybe I should wait til the cold light of day to look again. Depressed but full I went to bed.

The next day, well today I suppose, I rumbled out of bed and went straight to work. I searched and searched inside and out. No joy. And it was fucking cold outside in just my dressing gown and novelty shaped slippers. But damn it no ring. I’ve lost that little circular bastard too many times to just put it down to c'est la vie as it keeps coming back and then disappearing again to piss me off. It's like the one true ring in that gay midget film, except that it's got nowhere better to be, and nothing better to do than mess with me. Unless of course it considers me the giant eye, always looking for it, but in that case where are my armies, and why do I have eye-lids?

But anyway, today to cheer myself up I made another bacon sandwich. And guess what? When I unwrapped the cheese it was sitting there all cold and shit. That little bastard. I’m gonna throw it into a volcano one of these days.

The ugly potato

Once upon a time there was a little potato. He was so small in fact that the other potatoes used to bully him all the time and call him a potatini. He would jump up and down and say “I’m not a potatini, I’m a potato just like you” but the big potato’s would just laugh. “Potatoes are at least as big as us. You’re not a potato, you’re just a little potatini”. And the little potato would cry and scream and complain, but of course this only made the big potatoes laugh at him more and tease him harder. One day though, they pushed him too hard and he flew into a rage and attacked them all. He was so angry that he mashed them all into a fine paste, even though they were not boiled, as is traditional with such a venture. The next day was picking day and the farmer came along to inspect his crop. Although the little potato had felt bad about his actions almost as soon as he had committed them, he was happy now as he was the only potato left, so the farmer was sure to love him. But lo, when the farmer came over to him, he just picked him and kicked him into the distance, and then cried for his mashed potato crop. For you see, the little potato was not a potato at all, but a rock.

What does prego mean anyway?

I went to the Pope’s house this weekend. Ok, maybe not his actual house, but his office at least. In his very own city. It was beautiful.

But not as beautiful as my lovely lady. She took me to Rome for the weekend. Never has such a nice thing been done for me, it’s just a shame that we can never return. Not because of legal reasons or what not, but simply for fear of getting fat.

Unsurprisingly, almost everything we ate in Rome was the tastiest motherfucking shit ever. But vaguely surprisingly, the pistachio ice-cream had a strangely amazingly addictiveness about it, that meant we ate it twice daily. And an ice-cream based diet on top of the four or so courses that you are expected to eat for each meal does not equate to healthy bunnies. In fact, I have no-idea whatsoever how all Italians aren’t immobilised by their gigantic fat asses. If I lived there, I know I would be.

But anyway, it was amazing and pretty and warm (in February). And somewhat sad. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have never thought of the Colloseum as a depressing place before. I mean, I know that life was different then, so fighting to the death wouldn’t be so strange, but when we were there I couldn’t help imagining all of the people who had fought and died for no reason. Not even entertainment. Those who had cried, or run, or just wet their pants. Those poor bastards. A tour guide we were eaves dropping on said that they used to employ little kids to aggravate the animals with big sticks, as otherwise they wouldn’t put up a good fight. Just think how many of those kids would have died for just not running away quick enough.

Ok it wasn’t sad at all apart from that. I bought a snow globe from a nun on top of the Vatican. I ran around the chariot course pretending to ram into Kathy. And we got very, very drunk. Mamma mia.

Lobster rocks, oysters suck

I ate lobster and oysters for dinner the other night. Not bad for an un/self-employed bum like me. Just so you know, lobster rocks, and oysters suck.

I was having dinner with my estranged father in a fairly swanky restaurant in London, and call me petty if you will, but I thought the man owed me a lobster dinner. I was gonna get a steak too, but I was afraid that the old bastard might have been making my brother pay, so I held back. No champagne either. Doh. Shoulda gone with my first instincts.

The only question which I asked the old man of any personal nature was whether or not he supported George Bush Jnr. I assumed that no-one with any brains did, but my Dad is a Texan oil man so I thought I’d check. And he said he did. And then I asked him how he could considering how stupid George is, and listed dozens of stupid things he had said and done. And my dad said, “You have to consider that he makes at least three speeches a day, so of course sometimes he’s going to make mistakes”. Hmm. I would like to think that if I made 3 speeches a day, my stupid mistakes wouldn’t be as frequent and apparent as his.

Anyway, I was talking to my mum the other day, and she told me that her sister in Iran was being forced to demonstrate in favour of nuclear power. Now up to this point I had kinda believed that the images of Iranians on TV supporting their president had been true. It’s funny how badly I can misjudge the two nations that I am from. Or at least their support for their leaders.

I kinda wish that in this case I was right. Being forced to protest is terrible. Believing a moron is a good man is worse.

Easy thoughts

I always find it annoying when my best thoughts come to me in bed. Not when I’m in my own bed, as I have surrounded it with pens and paper for exactly such an occasion, but when I’m sleeping elsewhere. It really gets to me. Not the least because usually with one good thought, comes another, and the joy of the good thinking means that you don’t want to stop and save it for later. Because you know that it doesn’t work like that. If you stop thinking the good thought, and then miraculously somehow later remember what the hell you were thinking about, you are never able to regain the original good thought cycle. Like if you were thinking of new flavours for jelly beans, you may later be able to think of other good flavours, but the original possible good flavours you were inventing in your head are lost forever.

And to be clear, I’m not talking about morally good thoughts. I’m talking about brain waves. Eureka moments. The times when things become clear. Although I suppose the jelly beans example doesn’t exactly demonstrate that too well, as they are generally opaque.

But anyway, I suppose we can all take solace in the fact that with so many people on the planet, it is quite likely that someone else is having the same thoughts as you somewhere else, and for them it might be daytime. And they may have a pen.

So if you ever realise something vital and want to write it down but can’t for some reason, just say to yourself “Fuck it, someone else probably will”.

Vive la France

A great friend of mine once said “What you’re crying about this? There are people dying in Bosnia”. I was 17 years old and another friend of mine had allegedly just thrown me down some concrete stairs. Amidst all the blood and booze pouring out of my head, and the bloody hand prints that I spread liberally around, a girl was crying.

I was her first boyfriend. And she was watching me die. I don’t remember the incident. I don’t remember the paramedics. I don’t remember telling half the hospital ward and my mother what I wanted to do to my girlfriend. And I don’t remember how she was while this was all going on. But Anthony does, because he was looking after her. Or at least comparing my drunken fall to the deadly bullets fired in a far away land.

That’s what I love about that boy. He was always prepared to say the most offensive thing in a situation, just for a laugh. He didn’t mind how it reflected on him, as long as it was funny. He would make racist jokes all the time, because he knew that no-one else in England would, even though he hated La Penn and racists in general. That’s why I was so happy when I heard that he was moving here looking for a job. But today he told me that he’s going back to Paris for a fourth interview for a job which he never thought he’d get. It’s sad that he’s leaving, but good luck to the boy.

In honour of his brief life in England, here is a joke he once made up to offend me. “What do you do if you see 5 black guys in Harlem harassing a young girl?” “Throw them a basketball”.

Dog Days

So I woke up today and I was hungover. Again. Because I went to the Racing Page and then O’Neils. Again. And then I came home and ate haggis. Again. My life is getting strangely repetitive. Or at least strange and repetitive. Except that today was different than yesterday. Because it was a good hangover. Not the kind of hangover when you can barely move for fear of puke. Not the kind where you search the bed continuously for the cold spot to put your head on. Not the kind where you can’t face the prospect of eating, but you know that until you eat you are going to feel more and more fucked. Not the kind where the dread seeps through slowly from your subconscious and you know, you just know that you did something to regret the night before.

It was the kind where you wake up and everything feels beautiful. The kind where you want to get up because you’re happy to be alive and you want to see the world. I mean I still felt sick. And pretty stupid. In fact really fucking stupid. But when I opened my eyes this morning, I kept them open. And not to stop the world from spinning when I closed them. And it was nice. I even walked from my house to my girlfriends, which is something I have never even considered before. I even had a shower before anyone else in my house, which is something I have never bothered to attempt before.

I was confused why I felt this painful joy. But then I remembered (via someone on TV telling me). It’s Chinese New Year. It’s now the year of the Dog. My year. Our year. And it’s going to be fucking great. It’s just a shame I’m more of a cat person.

Sven

I’ve got this swan on my chest which will never go away. It’s made up of three numbers which have many meanings but which mean nothing. I can’t get rid of these things, and nor would I want to, but the way people talk to me about it I have to get rid of its meaning, because people don’t get why I did it.

It’s not for comedy. The reason I give for 256 being my lucky number is funny, but I didn’t get ink in my skin for a funny reason. It’s not because I think it’s a mystical symbol. True, when I thought of the number I was all fucked up and I was like “woah man, what does that mean?!”, but even when I’m fucked out of my skull I don’t really believe the shit that falls out of my mouth. I got it because I’m an idiot.

I don’t mean I’m stupid. Because maybe I am and maybe I’m not, but that’s what not what I mean. I mean that it reminds me that I’m an idiot. It reminds me of the things I’ve done. The really stupid, dangerous, unrepeatable, unforgettable yet forgotten things which make me who I am. And I’m not saying that I’m a stunt man or that my scarred skin is a sign of humility to remember that I’ve been a fool. It’s a mark of stupidity to remind me that I am a fool. That I don’t care about the worlds troubles and rules. That I’m not going to just give in and live an ordinary life. That I’ve chosen to be a fool, because it’s more fun. That I’m not going to go gentle into that good night. Because if I did, then I really would be an idiot, and the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt in my life would have been for nothing.

Teleholic

I wake up and something’s wrong. I feel funny. I open my eyes but my eyelids won’t go all the way up. I’m really fucking hot even though I’m fairly certain it’s really cold outside of my body. I hear the longest weirdest gurgling sound that has ever entered my ears and I look around for the freak that must have made it. The movement hurts my head. Shit I was drunk last night wasn’t I?

But I didn’t even drink that much. Maybe I’m just becoming a lightweight. Wait, think back, what’s the last thing you remember? Picking on some kids wearing stupid outfits because they claim that they’re classical music scholars. And then getting my ass kicked my Gene Simmons. Wait that can’t have really happened. Must have been a dream. Which must mean that I was asleep at some point. Well that explains why I’m in bed. Hangover. Hungover. Can’t think fully, so will have to make do with the brain of a monkey. Check my phone. Ok so I didn’t send any miscellaneous messages, that’s always nice to now. Here comes that gurgling again and this time I’m sure it’s from my belly. And it feels good. Oh yeah. Oh wait it feels like I’m gonna be sick. Ok, so that’s passed. Hmm. Gotta find some water. And a way out of this bed. Fuck it, I’m going back to sleep.

Headache. Can’t sleep. It’s too early to get up though. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe I should stop drinking. Nah. Just watch the TV. That can become my reality. Ahh that’s better.

My name is Justin

I was like 14 when I had my first encounter with karma. I didn’t realise it at the time, but in retrospect it was there staring me in the eye, plain as Michael Jacksons face after I’d hit him with a shovel. Tom found £40 on the street, and due to his good nature he handed it into the police. The only times where I got close to finding serious cash had been in conjunction with my brother, so I never got to spend any of that lucky loot. Months after Tom had been given the money back by the police, he found another £40. That jammy bastard. I remember him finding other notes now and then, but those two stuck in my mind, because the second time again he handed them into the police and got them back. No wonder he leads a semi-charmed kinda life.

But yesterday, yesterday it came back to me. My little business venture is altruistic in spirit, and yesterday I was discussing the finer points of how I would not give that up for any amount of money. And on the way to the ‘meeting’ with one of my ‘business partners’ I found £10. After I had fought my ‘I’m gonna help people’ corner for a few hours, I went home and then found £20. Hot diggity! The first two notes I find, and both on the same day. I was wondering what the third lucky thing would be to happen to me, and then I bumped into Lydia on a road which I imagine bumping into her on every time I walk down it. Luck is one mysterious bitch, just like Lydia, so this all made sense.

Yesterday topped the time I found 20 unopened Marlboro lights and then 18 later in the same day. I don’t remember what I did to deserve that, but it seems clear to me now as old peoples skin, that if you try to do good things, good things will happen to you.

That's when good neighbours become...

Neighbours made me cry this week. I never thought it would happen but it did. When I was younger than I am now, there was always the rumour going around that one day neighbours would end, and that a plane would crash on Ramsay Street and that everyone would die except Helen Daniels. Well that old bitch died years ago, so I thought it was safe to assume that was a crock of shit. That was until this week came along and Paul Robinson chartered an old school plane with all the characters on it and some motherfucker put a bomb on it. I thought it would be cheesy and an anti-climax in the traditional Australian style, but no. It was more epic than a sumo wrestler fighting a bear. And I thought they were all dead. And even when it turned out they weren’t it was so well done that I shed a tear for the pain my fake friends were feeling.

Maybe that’s what happens when you spend enough time on your own in your room. Your fake friends become a bit too important to you. But at least for half an hour everyday I’m not alone. Like I am on this blog. I asked if anyone was reading this to sign. And you didn’t. So now I’m back to screaming into a plastic bag. I don’t mind though, it means I can talk more shit than ever, if my only audience is me. Any old crap holds my attention. That’s why neighbours made me cry this week. I never thought it would happen but it did.

I'm not saying you don't have a brain

Sometimes when I look at people I swear I can see right through their eyes, through their brains and right to the back of their heads. I speak to these people, but somehow my voice just echoes in their head and comes back out their mouth. It freaks me out. I feel like I must be missing something, or else they must be, because how can people actually be like that? Hmm. Is there anybody really out there?

That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I can’t be bothered to explain here, but I’m working on an art related magazine. To me, I’ve always found it an amazing thought that all the shit that goes on in my head, the millions of unstoppable thoughts about everything and nothing are replicated in every head on the planet. And there are more than 6 billion of them now. I don’t mean that everyone thinks the same as me (because that really would be weird), but that everyone has there own whole world built into their head, their own worries, their own thoughts, their own point of view. As complicated as I feel life is for me, it is for everyone else too. When I walk down the street, I sometimes just look at all the windows on the top floors of houses, because most of them are bedrooms, and every bedroom implies a whole world. A whole life which is running on the same planet as me, but which I’ll never see. Hey that rhymes.

Anyway, my point is, that I’m doing what I’m doing because as far as I’m concerned art (in all it’s forms) is the only way that you can really be sure that other people really exist. I have no evidence that other people think except that they can express their thoughts, and that I can understand these expressions of thoughts makes me realise that other people see the world in their own way too. Not to be trite, but without art, how the fuck could I really know that the whole world isn’t just a figment of my imagination, and that people are just facets of that?

I once had a dream that I woke up one day and my whole life had been a massive hallucination and that everything I thought was wrong. Maths, physics, philosophy, everything I had just made up. In my dream when I woke up I was eating a dead rabbit and staring at a tree, which had been an ice cream and a tv respectively before I woke up. Does this make sense? No? Well it didn’t at the time either.

I digress. My point is (and this has been a really fucking roundabout way of getting there) that as much as art is the only way in which I can know people really exist, the comments on this thing are the only way I can know that anyone reads it. So please, leave comments, I don’t care in the slightest what they say, because otherwise this is like screaming into a plastic bag – almost like communication, but also quite like suffocation.

I’m gonna try write at least once a week now. I hope that’s enough for you to be bothered to check this thing. Whoever you are.

Religious Intolerance

Did anyone watch that “Root of all evil” show last night? I caught a bit of it, and I have to say I was extremely disappointed. I was intending on not watching it simply because I assumed that it would make the trite point that religious wars are all stupid, but instead it made the stupider point that people should look at the evidence for god then decide whether to be religious.

This was because the presenter was trying to say that science is better than religion as science doesn’t breed hate or intolerance. What he entirely missed, was that science is basically its own religion in that it breeds hate of things that it can’t explain and intolerance of religion and faith in general.

Believing in something itself isn’t a bad thing. To be a scientist you have to believe in many things, such as that without proof, something can’t be true. Believing in any god isn’t neccesaily a bad thing. What I think is a bad thing is believing in people.

The bible is 2000 years old roughly and people see it as the gospel truth. I believe in god, but I don’t believe in the bible. One reason why is that at the beginning of the 2000 years, most people couldn’t read, and so the bible would be told to them. If only a few people knew what it said, then what would stop them from changing it? I mean, even if it were the word of God to start with, if along the way someone or some people decided to use it for their own gain then what is to say that didn’t happen? The Romans, the Spanish inquisition, the Vatican, and many other powerful forces have had the Bible as their focus point for loyalty throughout this time, so as much I think believing in God is fair enough, believing in the people who claim to work for God is not.

This is of course not only true for Christianity. What about Mohammed? He went to Allah and asked for men to be able to pray less times a day as it was interfering with daily life. What if he was just a guy who didn’t want to pray so many times a day? I’m not saying he wasn’t holy, but no-one is perfect.

And what bothers me most about all religions, is the fact that most people believe in a stupid god. They say that god is omnipotent and all knowing and everywhere and in everything. Well if that was true, what would make Him angry? If He knew every side of the story, then why would anything we ever did bother Him? Why would He ever think violence was the answer, because if He is all powerful and He wanted one of us dead then He could make it happen in a million different ways.

One last thing. Science is a religion. It is religion for people who won’t admit to having faith. But there is no reason to believe that science and God are mutually exclusive. If I was God, and I wanted to make the universe and everything, I wouldn’t create things one by one, I’d just do one thing which started everything off. Just one. If He knows everything, then he knows the results of everything, so just one tiny event would be enough to make everything happen. Because if you knew everything, then wouldn’t everything be boring to you? So it wouldn’t be the doing of things which you would find interesting, it would be watching the action unfold.

Evolution! The most exciting and long running TV show ever invented.

If I had a point I'd be dangerous

Do you think if you lived forever that eventually everything you owned would be a Christmas present? Looking around my room now, there is a high proportion of regular items which have been replaced with novelty counterparts by people short of present ideas. Maybe it’s just the people who buy me presents, but my room is starting to look a bit like Robin Williams sisters room in Toys. If only I had his smoking jacket.

Not that I’m complaining of course (I would never complain about anything!), but drinking tea out of Darth Vaders head, or tapping off into an antique bed pan are not everyday events. Or at least not in most people’s lives. But I am blessed by randomness. Variety is of course the spice of life, and luckily I like it spicy. Despite being addicted to sleep.

That’s a nice way of putting it hey. Addicted to sleep. Instead of being tired, I get withdrawal symptoms. When I’m yawning, I’m craving a fix. When I sleep too much, I’m overdosing. When I dream, I’m tripping. Sleep really is the best drug, as it’s never killed anyone. Except maybe that guy in Se7en, but I’m fairly sure that Morgan Freeman was responsible for that due to his shoddy detective work.

I feel like this blog entry has no point at all. But then when do they ever? Hmm. So I guess I’ll quit while I ahead. Actually nah fuck it, I’ll say one more thing…. swearing is the poetry of the illiterate. So fuck you.

Dancing? No Fucking Way?!

So new years was fun hey. Motherfucking fun. Or so I hear. To be honest I can remember pretty much fuck all about it. I have been told that I was very happy and amusing most of the night and ended it with dancing, pretending to be sick and abusing strangers on the train while sitting on the floor. Sounds like me when I’m drunk. But you know what sounds more like me when I’m drunk? The recordings I made on my Dictaphone (a Christmas present for my beezneez) throughout the evening.

That’s right, New Years Eve, live and in audio effect. So if you are interested in me asking everyone the same question over and over again, or maybe hearing increasingly drunken philosophical debates with dave, or perhaps even my lame attempt at tricking Marta into admitting she’s a lesbian then I’ve got it all digitally recorded. If you are interested in anything that makes sense however, I’m really not your man.

I mean there is a recording of me singing happy birthday to the new year. And discussing how many puppies I had bought the preceding years. What the fuck happened? I have no memory of these events or many others. So if anyone out there can tell me what the fuck happened that evening, I would be grateful.

If I offended anyone, I am very sorry. If I was overly nice to anyone, then I’m not quite so sorry. But honestly, if anyone knows what I did the whole evening, then tell me. The black spots in my memories aren’t that funny anymore, just frightening little patches of *shit what the fuck did I do* stuck in my head.

But anyway, all in all it was a good night. I woke up with maraca’s (is that what they’re called?) in my pocket and a smile on my face. So I assume all’s well that ends well. Happy new year. 2006 is gonna kick ass. Hell yeah.