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[14 May 2008|12:51am] |
Hello.
I've had a night I can only sum up as moribund. I'm looking forward to my holiday really becoming a holiday when I am actually not working tomorrow. Or today, as it is now. It's not really a holiday yet. I'm off every Tuesday. But Wednesday is a different matter.
How are all of you? In good spirits, I trust. I am too. I am struggling daily with the desire to get out of the house, to redeem the day through social efforts, to drink a little to sleep. I find days difficult if they're not ended with a bookend.
It's as if the day just doesn't end properly, if I don't.
I must be good tomorrow. I've no need to go out and drink until the play on Friday, after all. I'm only going on that day. I really should make an effort to stay in. I should finish some books. I've had one for three years, and never finished it.
A big reason to me going out every night is that I hope Rebecca will be out. She's almost a running joke now. I've never felt quite so attracted to a girl for no good reason. It's as i've stated in the past not good enough for me to be sexually attracted to a girl. And yet, Rebecca is irresistible. Despite that fact, I can't approach her. Because of said dilemma.
It's sad, because I like to daydream about Rebecca. Daydream being a rather silly and childish term for it, but there you go. I'm like that. I'm a man who likes dream. I like dreaming about lying against her in the dark, murmuring into her hair, tangling up in her arms...sliding a finger down her side, to her waist, purring delicious excitements into her lips. Brushing the hair from her eyes, kissing her forehead.
YEOW. I think i'm a bit randy. Know those things I said I could not write about earlier? Yep, that's one of them. Sex. A shame really, because writing my nauhgty thoughts keeps my blood flowing.
Damnit.
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[14 May 2008|07:51am] |
I can hardly breathe. I have to keep choking. It's happened before. I think that's what I get for being on holiday. I had a dream where I was out running at seven thirty in the morning.
And i'm awake at seven fifty in the morning, now. The whole point of being on holiday is NOT having to get up early and do anything! What's wrong with this situation? Exactly! See you later then!
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[14 May 2008|01:10pm] |
This morning I saw a show on Channel 4 called "Just shoot me". I didn't think anything could be worse than "Everybody loves Raymond", but apparently I was wrong. Anyway, to me, the title is like a request or an order, because when I watch it I feel like shooting every single cunt involved.
Fucking hell. Anyway, in the show is a fake magazine called "Blush". It's one of those style magazines for women, which are supposed to be a bible like guide on how to make you look like every single other woman out there, caked in smears of fucking make up and identical. Stupid fucking world.
I digress, it also for some reason uses the cover "quotes" as sort of sub headers for that part of the episode. An intriguing concept in a crap show. It's so annoying that I wouldn't stop at gunplay, i'd skullfuck the corpses, the fucking twats.
Honestly, it's that bad. There's one bloke who looks like a Micheal J Fox with curtains, and is about 500 times more annoying. And doesn't shake. There's some stupid fuckin' bitch I never knew the name of and didn't like anyway and was in some shit other thing or other. And the rest are yawn city. One of them looks like Matt Lucas would (Google it if you're not aware) in a suit with some hair, and NO PERSONALITY.
One of those magazine quotes fired up the imagination anyway. I might do a fake ladies style magazine, called "FEMME" or something.
This quote then, said "What drives your man crazy?"
I don't know if that meant mad, or sexually aroused. I wish they'd just write "What makes your man want to spunk his fuckstick?". In any case, I imagine it's a load of stupid bollocks designed to slowly erode the self esteem of the woman involved, while at the same time appearing to be useful advice.
Anyway, men are easy to work out. They're disgusting, vile creatures. I know, because I am one, and I know what the male brain is capable of. Luckily, I have a brain to verify to my cock and balls what is sexy, and what isn't. But fuck it, you could just write this:
"70% of men like moonlit walks, and ballroom gowns. Or you could just put on a corset and ram your fucking foot up his arse."
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[14 May 2008|03:38pm] |
The reason i've been dragging my heels for the last year with my poetry, is a story that has now been going on for longer, in fact for three years. It's the story of Ink Roads.
Ink Roads didn't have a name when I wrote it. It didn't need one. It's a simple truth that emotion drove me to wrote it, rather than planning. I like emotive writing, it's real and of the time, and it's entirely me. Me is in touch with my inner poet and soul, see.
I had a pen once. It wrote some things,
lots of things. Paper drifted in front
of it, like a white road.
something to write about, i thought,
i could fill up that road, with people,
diners, drivers, and rivers.
moonlit nights and sweet kisses
all with my pen.
my nib broke one day, and the ideas
faded. Nothing left but a truck of ink
and my words bleeding into the road.
This is it. It's my favourite poem, ever. Nothing i've ever done touches it, or will. It's mine, it's like my child, it's beautiful, and it's pure. And I...er...sent it to Poetry.com. Why? I don't know. I thought it a good idea. I didn't realise they're whore it back to me and try to sell me things. Which they're still doing.
And this is why i've not made any efforts to get anything I do published. I'm scared of two things, one, rejection. Not that that is really an issue to me anymore. Two, I don't want any cunts rendering the meaining of what I do null and void by sending me e-mails offering me the chance to win an urn with my fucking name on it.
It makes me sad, because at the time, in that very moment, I felt i'd really summed up one feeling at the exact time I felt it. And it's sort of been lost amongst all this bullshit.
I shall remove it from their site. It is my poem, and my copyright. I will have it's meaning back, for me and me alone.
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[14 May 2008|08:24pm] |
What the fuck has happened to my font?
Fuck it, I said. It's the first playhouse night, I said. I might as well go out and enjoy the festivities, I said. Plus, it's my holiday. Plus, i'm feeling a little groggy from a cold, and alcohol is a medicine. Plus, I deserve it. I can fucking sort myself out next goddamned week. So there.
I need no further excuses.
I don't know anymore if i'm going to the states. I can't get in touch with anybody stateside, and I need concrete plans before I can actually do anything. And as time passes, fares get longer. I'll still be going, one day, but I don't know when.
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[14 May 2008|09:41pm] |
Poor Rangers. Such drama. Such a tragic end to a tight match. Almost there, but not quite. The UEFA cup will not be going to Scotland.
Next week is the Champion's League Final, which WILL be going to either Manchester or London. I shall be going to watch it with Stuart (Bell Stuart, not Megaphonic), and i'll be cheering on Chelsea.
Before all that, no work, and lots of good times assured. Firstly, let's have some fun mingling with the playhouse fraternity, eh?
See you later.
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