Category Archives: happy

Hello. And we’re back to our unregularly unscheduled program – “Blogging One Year On – Part 3 of 7″ or “where our hero’s heart get’s broken”


Well you can’t have a story without some romantic angle, cause apparently according to 83% of statistics about statistics, 64% of women like that stuff.

Kill me if you will, but the truth shall make you fret!

So romance… *chirrups of crickets echo in the background*

Right… give me a second….

Aha!

This being a postmodern tale, the happiness and well being of the character is not to be expected nor wanted by the audience. And a happy, untroubled love life? Fuggedaboutit. Which really only goes to say that post-modern audiences like to be dicks to their literary characters. But one must go with the times.

So in the middle of the training montage as Eye of the Tiger blares in the background. There she walks in, already bad news you can tell, as a slew of ninja lemmings throw themselves off a handy cliff in their efforts to gain her attention. But being ninja’s they merely, bounced off the pointy rocks below the cliff face and clambered up it, to once again gaze longingly at her as she sashayed past them. So to those who would sic the animal rights people on me, back! Back! Back, I say!

Glimmering blue eyes, something about having a pretty face, insert your own description of a killer bod, throw in some wit and a sense of humour, mix generously with some sexy, sexy brains, and thus you have the recipe for a vixen which I have little to no defense against. What straight male human being could withstand such weapons of mass attraction?

And thus I was bombed clear out of my skull, the blast throwing me into the morbidly obese arms of Cupid.

But alas, the beautiful lass was a spy for the samurai mole rats, and was only seducing me, with her mixture of intelligence, charm, wit, beauty and some sort of pheromone based perfume, to lead me and my comrade in arms in to a trap, wherein flaming meatballs would shower us with death.

The hussy.

Now let us exit the world of truth, stylised violence and in appropriately short attire for women (yes that is a very, very obscure reference to Suckerpunch), and enter the world of insanity, self-discovery and reality.

Things I learnt from blogging – Part 4.

I’m odd. Weird. Strange. Quirky. Eccentric. Actually, scratch eccentric, I’m no where rich enough to be eccentric. Now I know some of you, in your misguided way, are thinking that weird can be kinda cool. But as me and Girl 1 discovered after some debate on the matter, there are various kinds of weirdness. What you’re thinking about is the first type, the alpha, or “cool-weird”. The person who probably best defines this, is this man:

cool-weird /ko͞ol-wee-rd/
Adjective: strange, but hypnotically and alluringly so.

That’s cool-weird.

Then there’s my type. The betas. Or “awkward-weird”. Now there are of course as with everything various levels of being awkward-weird. At one end of the spectrum you have the mouth-breathers at one end, the end farthest from humanity. You know the type, loud heavy breathing and an unblinking stare , and uncomfortable (for you) movements of the hand in his trouser pocket, as he stares at a point directly 2 inches above or below your navel, depending on his mood.

Ahhh Milton. How much do I adore thee?

And at the other end, those who have accepted their strangeness, but just don’t have the panache (or desire) to be lovingly accepted for their oddity, but they are cool in their own non-socially acceptable way. The Steve Buscemi’s of the world in fact.

awk·ward-weird/ˈôkwərd-wee-rd/
Adjective: see picture above.

I fall somewhere in the middle. Quirky enough that if I act exactly how I wanted all the time, I’d probably be in a nut house, but not fully embracing my weirdness so I don’t act exactly how I want to all the time. I walk the tight rope of normal appearances and my true oddball behaviour. Releasing soft puffs of strangeness when I feel safe enough that the people around me won’t burn me at the stake for those comments and/or actions. Kinda like when you let our those silent farts in meetings that you aren’t able to just get out of (you’ve done them I know you have! haven’t you? aahh crap… am I the only one??).

********

Final Note: Is it a coincidence that all these weird people are wearing glasses? Wait…. Steve Buscemi isn’t wearing glasses… he just looks like he is. Ignore this comment.

Hello, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for – “Blogging One Year On – Part 2 of 7”


Wait, I hear you say, pondering, as we sit side by side on the couch, cups of coffee in hand. You made mine a little too sweet, and its making my teeth ache, but what the hell. A caffeine AND a sugar rush.

“Wasn’t this story about ninja lemmings and samurai mole rats? How did droids get into this? They’re in a completely different time line and genre…”

I scoff at your attempts at making my tale consistent.

PFFT! <– *me scoffing at you*

And as with any story so ridiculously implausible that it HAS to be the truth, there’s an answer to your question.

Time travelling droids. Well not on purpose, but they got caught in a wormhole after they used an escape pod after their ship was boarded by these dudes in completely impractical white uniforms. Seriously, white? On soldier dudes? As if there wouldn’t be a penis drawn on the back of someones helmet the minute they were issued…

If a male robot likes to love another male robot who am I to judge? The short one is a smart arse though…

Anyway, those droids joined me on the unicorn, but they weren’t the droids we were looking for so we tossed them off the side just as the guitar solo came on.They ended up on some desert world and did some stuff. I think there was a movie. Which goes to show you that this must be the truth since, the droids contributed nothing to the story, and one of the lessons we learn growing up, is that just because you want someone to play a particular part in your story doesn’t mean that they will.

And now for the version of events that happened for those of you still stuck in the Matrix.

Things I learnt after a year of blogging – Relationships.

Reading through my disastrous attempts at relationshipping the past year, I have come to one conclusion which I’ve probably have come to before, and if so then please change that previous line to “I have reinforced a previous conclusion”. And that is I suck at relationships. Friendships are fine, hell I’m awesome at those. Don’t ask me why I suck at romantic relationships, I haven’t delved that deeply into that broken and shattered aspect of my personality, sparkling like an insane disco ball in the nether regions of my soul. I just suck.

But I’m fine with that.

Because another thing I’ve discovered from reading a years worth of angst ridden yearnings (well okay there’s not THAT many) is that I’m a helluva lot happier when I’m happy being single than when I’m happy being a couple. It’s like being in a relationship (and being happy within that relationship) is like having pizza. BUT! being single AND being happy about being single is like having pizza, beer, a lazy Sunday afternoon and the entire series of Firefly on a big TV screen.

Shiny.

Hello, this is the tragic part of my tale when my ninja lemming trainer is killed or “Blogging – One Year On. Part 4 of 7”


I see you pondering there.

You read that right. This is part 4. Which has come right after part 1. I’m doing this to show to you that time is a construct (I only have the vaguest notion of what this means because my tutor at University who used it constantly was incredibly attractive) and this blog is avant garde like that.

So, no I am not hiding posts from you. Okay, another lie, I am. But with a relative definition for the term “you”. This entire series has been hidden from one specific person, and instead for reading about ninja lemmings they are being treated to the etymological history of the word “booby” and “tit” as it evolved from bird names to synonyms for a much loved part of the female anatomy. And why it is that when Sir David Attenborough says such words it makes me chuckle.

But you don’t want to hear about that…

So for the story,

…. Shashimi my ninja lemming trainer, throws himself in the path of runaway meatball covered in flaming tobasco sauce in order to save me. I cried. I cried like a baby. An angry, angry baby. I then used the skills imparted by my late great trainer, and using the Spaghetti-Noodles-of-Mayhem-&-Chaos and the colour mauve as my weapons, I assaulted the meatball catapult and killed the samurai mole-rats mole-ratting it (since they weren’t “manning” it obviously) to the last one.

Deadlier than you could possibly fathom. Unless you can fathom stuff like “Does wobble of the spinning top at the end of Inception mean that that it’s going to fall and therefore everything in a movie filled with actors and special effects can be thought of as “real” rather than a “dream”?” If you can do that, death dealing meatballs should be no problem.

Stay tuned, for the next installment! Whichever part of the story I feel like telling you after this bit anyway!

Now for those who are dismissive of this story as the schizophrenic ramblings of a poor deranged soul, I offer you this self-indulgent and self-involved realisation.

One of the things I learnt from a year of blogging is that my moods are mercurial to say the least. Looking back on posts written in almost euphoric highs and then comparing those posts to the ones written which are downright Hamlet-ly melancholic. A doctor I was dating once supposed that I could possibly be hypomanic/cyclothymic (essentially a much more tame version of bi-polar disorder), but I got too weird and she left before she could finish her diagnosis.

She was probably onto something, but the highs are just so much fun that I kinda think I don’t want to be fixed. But of course the lows taste like the fetid remains of a 7 day old skunk, after being left out in the summer sun. So maybe I should look into it…

Hello quickie post


Happiness is a nice warm bed after pulling an all nighter.

That is all.