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[09 Apr 2008|12:16am] |
Magical. Simply magical.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/europe/7332209.stm
It's almost as if somebody was listening to me. I know it's all random, that it's all variables, but it makes me smile. If you wished good feelings tonight, thanks.
The reason i'm so happy about this is, it's synonymous with the adventure I feel that my life is so linked with. Maybe it inspires me.
Special mention must go to the ever effervescent Fernando Torres, my favourite foetus faced football player. How's that for alliteration? I could kiss his tiny fucking face.
So, the adventure continues. For me, and my team. I love you all!
x
x
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[09 Apr 2008|10:52am] |
No drinking now for three days, at least. I hope. There's absolutely no reason at all to do so. The only reason I did last night was because of that hilarious night of football at Anfield, and on Monday because it was my day off the next day. Poor excuses for a dead horse, but give me a reason to skin will ya?
So, my health must come first. Let's face it, midweek is as tedious a drinking experience as it's possibly to get. So this gives me reason to stay in. Plus, i've utterly lost my shape. I feel like a bean bag full of bells.
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[09 Apr 2008|11:09am] |
Proper letter to Rebecca:
"Dear Rebecca.
Let's dance until the lights go up, let me circle your waist as if I was a ring on your finger, an errant curl of hair scattering over your brow. I'd lay at your feet and look up to see heaven reflected in your gaze. Give me this chance, and i'll fall in your river, cleansed by the water"
That's nice isn't it? But I can't give her that. Oh no. How about this one!
"Dear Rebecca..
How your hole would make me roll. How your dough would make me blow. I'd knock my diseased bollock past your coin slot and no mistake. Do you know how many times i've wanted to finger the leafy entrance to your red woodland? How i've wanted to reverse knuckle your chuckle shaft until you shit moonbeams? Yeah, you. Only you Rebecca. You me, and a fucking pantomime horse..let me ram you with my filthy fucking needle. You, I and a sock puppet will get well aqcuainted. Yes, I do mean my penis. My penis, and your vagina."
How could she resist?
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[09 Apr 2008|11:11am] |
Here's Russell Brand, my spiritual brother. Except we've never met. I want to have hair like his. Here he's going on about Woody Harrelson. It's well wicked, and all. Watch it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2Nn_piiMWI&NR=1
For overseas viewers, pants means underwear.
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[09 Apr 2008|08:52pm] |
Suck my word cock. Eat my horse shit vocabulary. Poke your fireball into my sock of verbal.
On July 12th, 2003, the diary began in a rather low key fashion, on Blurty. Here's the first ever page from it, backdated and copied rather pointlessly to Livejournal later.
http://zoomeister.livejournal.com/2003/07/12/
Oh, how innocent. How excitable. How scatterbrained and silly I was.
Over the next month or so we'll be re-living some of those moments that shaped this diary, and also me. I don't know if I think that's a good thing or not. But I might as well jog your memories, and mine. We'll go back to the Belgian bar, the ceiling incident. Ian. Birthdays. And we'll shit it all out as pellets.
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