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.
So romance… *chirrups of crickets echo in the background*
Right… give me a second….
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.