I forgot I had this blog! I’m back now, everyone can stop doing other things like worrying and wanking and crying. I’m back. Come. Embrace me.
Al Gore is a prick.
The feeling of completely giving into your demons is hopeless, but when you can’t climb your way out of such a hole, you tend to crouch down and call it home.– Nikki Sixx (via vitlers-hagina)
Wrote this one on my old blog on 09/02/2011
Do you have kids? Of course not. Like me and 95% of all people, everywhere, at all times, you are probably terrified of them. Rightly so, too. Children are the epitome of moral innocence. That’s not a good thing, that means they have no idea what right or wrong is. To children, “Don’t touch that” means “Yes, pick up that knife and try to draw on me with the blade”.
Children know exactly when and how to scare you shitless too. I was babysitting my little brother once, and at about 1am, he decided to start crying. I got up to give him some milk (that’s all baby’s need to heal them, like Superman needs the sun) and make sure he was alright. I picked him up, sat him on my knee, gave him milk, and just as he was settling down, he stopped drinking, looked out into the dark hallway… and screamed. Not like crying-screaming. It was a proper bloodcurdling, nightmare inducing scream of pure terror. I, of course, had no idea what to do. I was looking out into the hallway, searching for whatever evil had done this, but to no avail. There was nothing there. I spent the rest of the night and the remainder of that week thinking there was a ghost or mass murderer in the house. Thing is, if I ask my brother now, he has no idea what I’m talking about, he completely can’t remember it. This is, of course, because that was a lie-scream. It was a complete dick move. There was nothing there. He just wanted me to be terrified and he knew the power he held over me because of his innocent infancy. God damn him and smart, creepy children everywhere.
Children are this scary and dickish for one reason and one reason only. That’s right, everything that watch on TV, every book they read, and every single toy they have. Just that one reaso– shit.
And here they fucking are:
IN THE NIGHT GARDEN
WOODY THE COWBOY AND HIS HORSE, BULLSEYE
BARNEY THE DINOSAUR
WHATEVER THE FUCK THIS IS
That’s what the generation of tomorrow is watching. By the time they are in power, I will have killed myself out of pure fear. Many of the things you see above you have probably seen before, either in your waking nightmares, or that time that car hit you or even perhaps your parents tried to sacrifice you to Satan for “financial” reasons.
After researching all these pictures, I no longer feel love anymore. Also, another eye is growing on my neck. Please send help.
Anyone seen Henry Cavill as Superman for the upcoming Man of Steel? Holy fuck! Look at his eyes! He’s just made you pregnant. You are fucked, Crime!
Sixx:A.M - “Life Is Beautiful”… one of the first songs that got me out of depression. (That’s really cheesey, but fucking true)
Another old blog piece I did, from 29/01/2011
It’s a New Year, and it would seem some people still can’t function in a normal society.
Now let me start of this rant (because, yes, this is a rant), by apologising for this little spout of negativity, one of my new years resolutions was to be as positive and, well, nice as possible.
I returned to work this year with this very attitude. Bear in mind I work in Post-production, and most of the people I come in contact with think they are made of unicorns and gold plated… gold. They get me so angry, the part of my brain that creates analogies, similies and metaphors curls up in a fetal position and cries itself to sleep at night while listening to Evanescence through a tampon.
“Why *sniff* won’t *sob* they… understand… *sniff*?”
I do, however, love my job. Being in the middle of all these people makes me feel better about myself. And to be honest, it’s just the very few who are proper “Media Wankers”.But I digress.
I started the year off with a positive ‘tude. I smiled at people, I gave people uplifting compliments and I slapped a few girls arses. Apparently, HR frowns on this and told me to discontinue this behaviour. Other than that, I had a fairly good day. I left the HR office with my jeans around my ankles (they just didn’t get my argument, how can it be sexual harrasment when I have so much to give?) and left work, homeward bound.
Upon arriving at Picadilly Circus, I noticed the same hustle and bustle I loathed from just a month before. Out of all the things in the world, the tube gets to me the most. I can’t stand people at the best of times, if you’re not my friend and not really hot, or one of my very close friends has given me that look that says “Charles… Be. Fucking. Nice.”, you pretty much have to prove yourself to me by undertaking various tasks, like dying for me in front of my very eyes. It didn’t matter though, because I am positive now. The things that made my blood boil before, I was fucking above them.
Or so I thought.
I made my way down into the same old dimly lit station and passed through a group of tourists who had decided to discuss how best to put one foot in front of the other. “Haha” I thought to myself. I laughed it off, when usually I would find the leader of the pack and scowl at them for a full 20 minutes, 3 inches from their face.
and maybe growl a bit.
I got to the ticket barriers, where I was bottle-necked in and immediately got stuck behind an old man who was trying to jam his oyster card into the ticket slot. He was also trying his absolute best to ignore the kind, furious-that-he-was-being-ignored Station Assistant. This took about 5 minutes to resolve.
By now, I had turned up Motley Crue’s “Primal Scream” right up to the point I imagined my ears were bleeding and nearby children were crying. This soothed me.
Forgetting how much space my masculine, broad and pretty much God-like shoulders took up, I barged past a few more people, including a little blind orphan (because, seriously, fuck those orphans) and made my way to the escalators.
EVERYONE knows you stand on the right and absolutely break the fucking sound barrier down the left side. I like to get a good run going down these, BUT NOT WHEN SOMEONE DECIDES TO STAND THERE, chatting idley about how they were meant to be aborted at birth and that their new high score on that I.Q game on facebook is now 12 and they totally didn’t cheat. Asking these people – politely mind you – to move only left me open to their sneers and dirty looks that screamed “what on earth does this… thing need to be in such a rush for?”
*Sigh* As you can see, my positively charged armour was dropping off piece by piece, revealing my favourite GnR shirt and rippling, angry muscles.
I finally arrived at the platform, where I was greeted by… no one!
Oh. There wasn’t a dog. Artistic licence, fuckers!
I had finally made it to the promised land. My positivety had completely paid off, here I was, with my pick of where to stand on the whole platform. Beautiful. And what’s that? Here comes my train!
I jumped on. This would be a lovely ride home, just listeing to some lovely heavy metal, maybe a bit of air-drumming and possibly a bit of winking and flexing the biceps at some very privileged young ladies…
Unfortunately, out of all the available seats, The Man Who Bathes In The Shit of A Thousand Pigs decides to sit next to me. Upon sitting down, he burps. Now, I don’t mind too much that he smells. I have a cold, and can just block out the smell somehow. He’s also quite big. I don’t mind that too much either. Hell, I’m not exactly Brad Pitt (I fucking totally am, I just ate loads this weekend and stuff, so like… yeah. That. SHUTUP.) I was annoyed because he had no spacial or social awareness. DON’T FUCKING BURP in the air I breath! Don’t open you newspaper INTO MY FACE! He was all that mattered to me at that moment in time. I fell head over heels in pure, black hatred for him. I was devising ways of killing him using only my iPhone. For a whole 45 minutes. If I wrote these black, dark thoughts down, the Church would hunt me down, excorcise me, then kill themselves to get rid of the taint. The Pope would then personally murder my entire family to make sure such an abomination never rises again.
After the most hateful journey ever (You’re asking yourself why I didn’t just move seats. I’ll tell you why. I thought it would be seen as rude. Oh yes. I’m a tool.) the doors opened at South Ealing station and I was home free. The cold winter air welcomed me like the whore I had left in my bed that morning and God dammit, I kissed back with everything I had. I was interrupted from this imaginary, filthy kissathon by a tap on my shoulder. It was the big guy. He handed me my Superman wallet, and said “You left this on the tube, mate”. I was instantly overcome with feelings of love for this big cuddly man and utter revultion at myself for killing him over and over again for the best part of an hour. “Thank you so much!” I managed to say. “No problem” he said as he hurried back onto the tube. He had actually gotten off the tube before his stop to return my wallet to me.
I got home and slumped myself on my bed. I thought back to the journey I had and realised I was a terrible, terrible cunt. But the best thing was, I knew I didn’t have to be, so fucking hell, I wouldn’t.
No matter what shit you go through in any journey, be it life, the train home from work, or whatever, don’t take it out on the people at the end of it. The could just well be there to have your back when you most need it. It’s taken me this long to realise that.
Until next time, fuckers.