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[19 Nov 2004|09:50am] |
Nicholas Cage is the chief puzzled angry starer in Holywood. Look at him...see his eyes drop in different directions like two canoes slipping over opposite waterfalls.
Want to cook a five course, A la carte meal..complete with wine, desserts and coffe, and then say "Well...I don't really want this now.....kind of...not hungry anymore...I know..i'll just have toast.." then tip the lot down the chute. Or the bin.
Broadstairs, where are all your glittering rooms?
Oh yeah. Hello, folks.
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[19 Nov 2004|09:53am] |
I join you with my hair looking like a fractal picture of the Tardis, dusting myself down of the toast and tea i've managed to spill on myself this morning. I'm in deshevelled mode, and fuck it...I like it.
Work, then. Easy last night. Twenty odd. We ate some strawberry cheesecake just to celebrate how fucking great it is eating messy fruit toppings and a biscuit base.
Yum. I want to put a big pole in the centre of Minster and hang things from it...flags with my face on...big tins of muck...a pie that's never been sold.
That kind of thing.
Yeah...so...the bar....a rowdy shouting band were slowly drinking themselves to louder shouting on the other side of the pub partition. I sat on the quiet side, with Ian and Mel. It was pleasant. The mass included a man the size of a big planet, and his drunk friend giving him piggy backs. If I was a child I would say the big man sounded like a talking Golden Retriever. Or something.
Mel astonished me...
"Your hair looks nice like that, all down and swept back like that"
At least she said something like that. Well, I have been attending to it lately. I was touched. Really I was.
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[19 Nov 2004|10:01am] |
Christmas will be nice this year. I've decided you can all enjoy yourselves. I'm going to see it as a nice lead up to the next part of this story. The most intriguing yet.
I'm going to enjoy my little trips out to shop. Might get some money from Aleks and go next week, actually. Or perhaps i'll wait until the nights get festive a little more. Enjoy the glittering commercialism, as I knock over a baked bean display and get chased by security dogs.
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[19 Nov 2004|11:03am] |
Right, you lot. I'm out. Like a broken light bulb. Now shift your arses, get out of my way! It's washing up time and there be hell to pay!
Yes.
I tell you, eighties band Talk Talk are causing a right racket in my pancreas. SHUT IT DOWN THERE YOU LOT!
Bye for now.
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[19 Nov 2004|03:43pm] |
It's taken me until ten past three to get the kitchen perfect. Not many people, more simply put a nightmare of organisation. Towels here, saucepans there, plates joining the party. Bloody hell. Still, the place looks as impressive as ever.
Soo woo-yay to that.
Father is mucking about with wood and drilling. He appears to fashioning shelving pegs out of twigs. What next? A stool with bracken? A leafy eiderdown? A sink made of hedgegrow?
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[19 Nov 2004|04:25pm] |
Such lofty ideas I had. I was going to buy a baguette, and some ham or something..possibly a radish! And I was going to MAKE A FUCKING NICE LUNCH!
Instead I ended up eating a mawkishly packaged pasta meal from a tub with a spoon, forking my mouth stupid.
Good intentions, eh?
I want to buy a dvd of "Trading Places"! Why? I don't know! I really want to watch it! Remember Dan Akroyd, drunkenly leering at a party, in a Santa costume, stuffing chicken into his sack and swigging whisky? No? You haven't lived!
Small break now. I may be back.
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[19 Nov 2004|05:44pm] |
Something I said to Suz...I think she agrees...well it's kind of what she was saying to me in a different sentence; there's not enough romanticism in modern minds. The loss of oneself in the small beauty of life, and the forms of writing that can be fashioned from just, thinking differently.
It's prevalent here, if anything. Blurty, for all it's uses and positives, is still a breeding ground for ill though paragraphs, without love or respect for the art of writing. It's almost raped, pissed on and left as carrion in the cold winds of mobile phone text message simplicity.
And that's not good enough. Rather astonoshing that so many school users are using journal sites, and yet cannot commit the same time in learning how to use it to it's full ability.
However, some fucking swearing now and again is fun. Right.
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[19 Nov 2004|05:57pm] |
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Bolb and I have our weekly slab cake. A goddamned brick of sponge and icing, with sprinkles! Mine is pink, her's is brown. We accosted Des with the sodding confections, moving them around his head, in an elliptical movement representing that of a planet. He was nonplussed.
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| The maths of pleasure. |
[19 Nov 2004|06:00pm] |
If you think about it, nice things happening can be totalled to become more than the sum of their parts. If you multiply certain numbers...you get bigger numbers.
At the same time, if you multiply these things that have happened tonight, you get a bonanza of feelgood action:
Normal sum:
2x5=10
Phylly sum:
Having a slab cake x The Simpsons being on = Endorphine central.
Fuck. If Beanie was involved i'd be dancing cartwheels by now.
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[19 Nov 2004|07:45pm] |
Right. I'm off to get fully cleaned up, frozen up, and stouted up. In that order. Probably. I may take my textbook, I may not. Depends on whether I can be bothered or not.
I wonder what Carole thought of my frankly CHEEKY take on Wuthering Heights. I won't be holding my breath.
I will see all of YOU, later.
And you, see you in the sublime shadows of thought and night.
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| A memory of Phyllis, playing DOOM back in 1994. |
[19 Nov 2004|07:50pm] |
Oh god, i'm so FUCKING unemployed
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