I will always be different

not out of choice, but out of necessity.

It would be naive to believe otherwise.

A well sighted human functions differently to a blind man. A man with an open wound must function differently to a healthy man. Sight I have, but not enough. I have the pain of a wounded human yet no marks to show.

By my next birthday I will have spent twenty years hoping there will be some way of overcoming my poor sight and five years hoping for a cure for my unusual nerve condition.

Is it not time I gave up on such things?

Yes.

And I have, not out of choice but out of necessity. I am bored of "what-if's" and silly little waves of optimism - they achieve nothing, yet still I find myself being re-aquainted with my little friend who names himself Hope but he has left me and in his place Reality has stepped in.

Never will I see. Never will I live a day without physical pain.

I feel like I am sixteen years old again except this time I wont allow a pain consultant to raise my hopes with various drugs and strange ideas. I have just wasted three years of my life living under the impression that trifluoperazine will fix everything.

I am angry, angry at my sixteen year old self for believing such things were possible, angry at my seventeen year old self for allowing that belief to carry on - angrier still that at the age of eighteen and nineteen I still allowed that hope to grow stronger. Why did I get my hopes up? Why for one minute did I believe it would be that easy? Was I really that desperate to find a way of reducing the retarded nature of my nerves that I failed to see it was illogical and stupid? Did it really mean that much to me. Why did I allow my own stupidity and naivety to cover logic and sense?

I do not know, all I know is that I never want it to happen again. The disappointment is too painful. And I can only blame myself. It's about time I grew up.

I thought I was cynical before. Apparently I intend to take cynicism to a whole new level.

FML

Fuck my liver, as in, my liver is fucked.

My answer to this somewhat problematic issue? Drink myself silly on a daily basis so I don't have to admit it to myself whilst sober. Wow. Nice logic there Nim. Well, it works for me.

I wish people would offer their views on it and then shut up. Or just say nothing.

I know you care, and I know you give a shit but that doesn't mean I will openly admit to caring and giving a shit myself. Nor does it mean I will go and make my suggested doctors appointment. If I'm ignoring my doctors advice, odds are I'm going to ignore yours also.

I don't want sympathy, nor do I want words of wisdom on the matter. I would prefer it if everybody joined in with me and my beautiful facade of not caring for it does make things so much easier. I don't care if you consider it to be an unhealthy way of looking at it, but that is how I intend to go about dealing with it so either join me or fuck off.

I can no longer be bothered with people.

And just for the record. Just because I am not taking my meds does not mean I am in no pain. Constant cramp in ones shoulder gets tedious. I am moody, if you don't like it sod off.

I have some vodka waiting for me.

Goodbye, all.

Happy fucking Christmas.

(I pray God it's our my last)

I think it is about time

I gave up on my father.

Every time I come home from a term of University I somehow manage to convince myself that maybe next time I see my father he will have changed. I feel guilty for hoping my father will change. It comes accross as being very ungrateful. I love my father, I think this is what makes it hard.

I do not think I ask much of anybody, I certainly don't demand anything, but a small amount of compassion would be nice every now and then. I do not think this is too much to hope for from ones parent. Time after time, however, my father does prove me wrong with a nice constant flow of unsypatheric, hurtful comments, which in all honesty, are nothing short of rude. And they are certainly condescening.

Maybe it is naivety, or maybe it's denial. Maybe he is just a cunt. I know not. But I have given up. I am fed up of being on the recieving end of comments which achieve nothing but belittle the effect my shoulder has on my life. Apparently, the situation regarding my shoulder is ridiculous. No fucking shit. I know it's ridiculous, I am the one who fucking has to put up with it. Apparently, the situation regarding my shoulder is a perfect excuse for laziness. Excuse me? Apparently, if I am able to lift my fork in order to eat my dinner I am able to do everything else also, and apparently, denying this is stupid. Well, you know what father, sod you. I can no longer be bothered.

My father does not understand why I am currently in quite a foul mood. According to him I am being over sensitive and stupid - again? I think my father should broaden his vocabulary.

I probably am being a little over sensitive about my shoulder. But for once in my life I think this is kind of justifiable. After three years of asking to be put back on a specific pain medication which my doctors didn't want to put me on I found a doctor who was willing to give it to me. Eventually, hope was in sight. There was a high possibility of eventually being on a medication which would significantly reduce the pain I am in. Awesome. However, it backfired. I had a nasty reaction and am once again at stage one; I am in pain and there is jack shit I can do about it. I had been hoping for three years to be put on something that would help, my wish is granted and it fails. Yay.

I should give up on the idea of change. Then I will not be disappointed and everybody will be a winner.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I am in a fairly decent mood today. And by fairly decent I mean good. I am confused. I will not lie.

I woke up with the worst period pains, ever, as in I think they are possibly the worst cramps I have ever had in my life. I'm not allowed codeine so there was jack shit I could do, my shoulder was also being a right cunt. Yet all morning I was chatting away to myself in a proper cheery manner.

Maybe it's some psychosomatic thing to do with the fact I am on drugs which I know have a fairly high possiblitity of being helpful. I don't know, but it hasn't half confused me.

It's not right. I like being a miserable cunt, damn you. Ah well. I might as well make the most out of it. Hah. I'm a right weirdo.

Your face resembles an arse.

Gutted in your face/arse.

Yes, well, your arse resembles a face.

So? I'd rather that than the other way around.

I wouldn't, it would mean I'd get a proper close up view everytime I took a shit.

This is a conversation I just had with myself
It amused me. Rather a lot.
I have issues.
I apologise for said issues.

Fake Christmas was bloody awesome. I now own lots of foamy, dinosaur and ben 10 stuff. This makes me quite the happy bean. I ate lots of tasty food. And listened to lots of shitty music. Twas amazing.

Fake Christmas will kick the bum of real Christmas. Maybe the above conversation is between Real Santa and Fake Santa? Who knows.

Today I had to buy the worst bog roll ever because I didn't think I had enough money on me for Andrex. I had to get Tesco Value toilet paper, I got back to my room and discovered there was an extra quid in my pocket. I am so fucking inimpressed.

I have shiny blue drugs. This makes me happy. But I'm not allowed to take them with my codeine. I am in pain. I probably will be for a week. I cannot afford to purchase illegal drugs. FML.

Grasping at straws

in a desperate attempt to find happiness.

Two years ago, I decided that moving away from home would achieve this goal. It didn't. Before that, I believed that isolating myself from human beings would get me somewhere. It didn't. Last year I thought that maybe material objects would provide me with some sort of rapture. Again, it didn't. A few months ago I decided that another move would do the trick. Yet again, my plan failed. Although, backfired may be a more suitable term.

Whilst I love being far closer to my catalyst than I was this time last year, the rest of my time is spent in a far more isolated manner than I could have ever imagined. Don't get me wrong, the time I spend with my dragon is wonderful - I visit her most weekends, and often stay longer than I should, but I am undecided on whether this joy is worth the price I pay when I have to return home. I am reluctant to refer to it as my home; rather, it is a room, in which my belongings sit.

I miss the friends I made last year greatly. To be able to knock on a flatmates door when some company was desired is something I took for granted last year. This year is so different; I barely know the people I live with, and am yet to befriend anybody on my course.

I lead a life of solitude, or at least part time solitude.

I wouldn't say I regret the move, but I can't help but think that I may have been happier had I decided to stay. Had I have stayed in Lancaster, however, I know full well that I would have regretted staying there.

I guess sometimes you just can't win.

Blah. Blah. And, Blah.

Since discovering that Mr. 7UP (whatever his name may be) was an albino I feel somewhat obligated to purchase his brand of carbonated drink. Now, I'm not overly fond of 7UP, yet still I find myself purchasing it. And it is growing on me. Rather quickly. In fact, I like the stuff. Hmm. Bias opinon much? Possibly. I'm going to blame it on the albinism, it seems a perfectly valid excuse when one takes into consideration the circumstances.

My life, it seems to consist of many strange loyalties, yet I don't have much to show for it. It makes me quite sad. Sometimes I wish I had the balls to be a cunt. Yes, the irony in that sentence was fantastic. See, if I were to be a complete and utter cunt to the world I'd have a legitimate reason for being a lonley bean.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Anyway.

Today has been quite dull, and highly frustrating. The most important Christmas present I have ordered has not yet arrived. I have crippled my shoulder, so now I am genuinely unable to write the last 750 words of my essay. I'd rather write the fucker than be a crip. Gah. My mother phoned and woke me up just as I fell asleep. And when I went to the doctors I forgot to take my fags so had to purchase more, so now I have two open packs which is annoying, although it will save a trip to sainsburys tomorrow.

I don't think I ever stop complaining.

The highlight of my life, currently, is the imminent arrival of fake Christmas.

Once upon a time there was a very neurotic dinosaur...

To be reminded of a harsh reality always comes as quite a shock. This is undeniable, and expected. But when this reality is one you have begun to believe to be something which doesn't hold as much power as it previously had, the shock involved is substationally larger when you realise once again that is just as powerful as it has always been.

To be assaulted by a close friend is never pleasant, but when such an assault leads to a broken bone which then develops into a nerve condition which comes to be a part of my daily life - even now, four years and two months later, it's not overly surprising that this harsh reality of mine affected me rather a lot.

I didn't talk to anybody for a good two years. The prospect of any human contact made me feel queasy. And to have somebody touch my left wrist was a terrifying concept that I hoped would never become a reality. I was a mess. Then, along came my catalyst. The first time she came to speak to me she grabbed me by the left hand - a friendly gesture, but my worst fear, so I suppose it is kind of ironic that now, she can hold my hand freely and I wont even think twice. I wont lie, it took time. And lots of it. But I had learnt to trust my catalyst - or rather, she had taught me to trust her - something I will be eternally grateful for; it's kind of like a physical proof that the trust exists and I like that. But where I have become so comfortable in the company of my Fitz I guess I'd managed to somehow convince myself that at long last I was getting over my huge issue of human contact.

This weekend, however, prooved otherwise and resulted in I, the Fool, looking like a right plonker. Someone I know I can trust, somebody that I know wouldn't hurt me, someone that I sholdn't be scared of grabbed my wrist when I was least expecting it and once again I was consumed by my own oh-so familliar, irrational wave of fear.

It was embarrasing. It was scary. And it was also somewhat dissapointing. To be reminded so easily that something you wish to erase from your memory still affects you to such a great extent can't really be anything else, apart from disappointing.

I don't want this stupid fear to be a part of me anymore. I want it to go away. I don't have the energy, or will, to go through what I went through with my catalyst for every single person I meet. My answer? It is still the same as it was four years ago; avoid people, don't get close enough to them to allow them to hurt you. It's quite simple, although it must be said - it's quite lonesome too, but in all fairness the pain one gets from being lonley differs greatly to that of shitting yourself every time somebody goes near you.

I may well turn into a hermit one day. I guess that's okay.

Hello. I am a title. How are you?

I would like to run away to a happy place. Although I suppose it could be argued that I am there already.

I blame matchbox 20.

Tomorrow I will be able to run to Nottingham. This makes me happy. I say run. There will be no running. There will probably be walking in a fashion similar to that of a drunkard. Being drugged up to ones eyeballs does have amusing side effects as well as helpful ones. I walked into my door today, I have dropped my cigarettes countless times, and I have walked to and from my bed a few times more than necessary for no reason other than I wished to sit down. No logic.

Tomorrow I shall also get my blood stolen. I am worrying about this far too much. I am quite the neurotic dinosaur. I have to go on my own. This makes me sad. But I am nineteen years old, it is about time I grew up and realised there wont always be an unfortunate hand for me to squeeze to death in my moments of need.

I have nothing else to say today, unless you are some creepy northern guy in which case I have just pointed my middle finger at you. Hah.

In stories it makes happy endings possible.

Love is a funny thing. It consumes everything; reservations, logic, truth yet leaves things like beauty open for viewing. It's a well known fact that I am in love. It is also a well known fact that I have always been told that my feelings are not reciprocated to the same extent, I have known for what seems like forever that it will go nowhere. So why will my head (my heart?) not give up on the idea.

Not that I want it to particularly. Loving somebody gives me a reason to exist. It has consumed me, without it I am nothing, and without it I would not want to exist.

It's probably killing me, or rather, I'm probably killing myself. I mean, having a desire for something you know isn't possible seems kind of ridiculous, and the cause of a lot of unnecessary pain. For instance, you apply for a job - one which you have not enough qualifiactions for, one which you lack vital experience for, one which ultimately you know you will never be offered - yet you still find yourself applying. There is no logic. But if that job meant so much to you then you would apply regardless. I see the job application, I fill the form out, I just never sent it off. Or maybe I did, and it just didn't arrive in time.

I feel so bad for comparing somebody who means a lot to me with a job description.

I think my problem is that I'm happy being second best. I've always been content with not being number one. It's part of who I am.

I can't help but feel that I have lost my best friend to a certain extent since she has moved on with her life. She's still here, she always will be; she's promised me that, and I can trust her. But a physical presence isn't the same as an emotional one.

People have told me, more than once, that if seeing my best friend with her husband-to-be is as painful as I say it is then I should ask her to choose between the two of us. I think that is the most ridiculous suggestion I have ever heard in my life. I can't even begin to contemplate how selfish and hurtful that would be. One. Why would I let something as stupid as jealousy potentially ruin the best friendship I've ever had, and two; when you love someone your main priority in life is their happiness, regardess of anything. My life is a lot better when in the company of the person I love. I don't even want to begin to think where my life would be without her. She is the only person capable of making me happy. I'm not going to do anything that would have even the slightest chance of losing that. And three. As odd as it seems - I am happy for her. Ridiculously so. I mean, seriously, where is the logic in wanting to take something so wonderful away from your best friend?

Everybody dreams of falling in love.

It should come with a warning.

Ah well. I'm a dinosaur; we're loyal beings and friendships mean a silly amount to us. I still have my catalyst, I should stop complaining. She's probably going to eat me when she reads this, and then she's probably going to tell me that I haven't lost her at all, and then I'm going to feel very silly and then she's going to agree and then I'm going to apologise. And that will be that.

"But for here, for now, just between us two, and for no other reason save I am me and you are you, I tell you this. I am glad, glad that you are alive. To see you take breath puts the breath back in my lungs. If there must be another my fate is twined around, I am glad it is you."

He leaned forward then and for an instant pressed his brow to mine. Then he breathed a heavy sigh and drew back from me. "Go to sleep, boy," he said in a fair imitation of Chade's voice. "Tomorrow comes early. And we've work to do." He laughed unevenly. "We've the world to save, you and I."

Tis the season to be jolly. My arse.

The dinosaur, quite frankly, is fed up.

After four years of living with a rather odd, rather under-estimated, rather painful nerve condition I can safely say that I have had enough. I quit. I admit defeat. It is over.

If you are bored and wish to expand your knowledge of strange things google "reflex sypathetic dystrophy". Then have fun mocking me.

Isn't it amazing what a lack of codeine does to ones sense of "I'm not going to let some lousy pain condition get the best of me" way of living?

For somebody who likes to consider themselves to have a nice high pain threshold I can't help but feel rather embarrassed, for I cannot help but feel like at this moment in time, to the casual onlooker, it must look like I am reacting like a bit of a prune.

After a very pleasant weekend with my best friend I am not very happy to now be in a position where I am muttering profanities to myself, complaining of self-induced stomach cramps, whilst snivelling in a somewhat unattractive manner because my shoulder is presenting me with a pain I am apparently unable to deal with.

Dinosaurs deal with pain, it's what we do best. Well, what we did best because apparently that skill has gone out the window. And to be completely honest, I, myself, quite fancy following it.

Title.

When people see me they think I'm crazy.

Paranoia does silly things to people. At this moment in time I know it is silly, but earlier, I was convinced everybody I walked past thought I was crazy; Not good crazy. Bad crazy. This would be okay if it was a one off. But it isn't. It will be back again tomorrow.

I think I'm crazy. My best friend would tell me otherwise.

I don't know what to think anymore.

Fuck?

Nim has no money, again. Nim wishes she was exaggerrating. Nim spent it all on paying off her credit card, and New Rocks, and Kingdom Hearts, and fags, and Christmas presents, and alcohol, and plushies, and lots of other wonderful things. Nim does not resent spending her money, but Nim does wish it wasn't all gone.

Oh well.

When I have my time machine everything will be okay again.

Self pity has hit the dinosaur once again.

My life seems to have taken a very similar pattern to that of last year, except this year I don't have a Jac to knock on my door to see if I'm still alive, or a Fleen to keep me company each evening on the land of msn.

I moved to Derby and Fleen got a life.

I could drop dead and it would probably go unnoticed for a good three days.

This idea appeals to me somewhat.

What a retard.

Today, has apparently not been my day. It has gone five o'clock in the evening and I have just made a rather unfortunate discovery; I have been wearing my underpants inside out, all day.

Sleep deprivation is obviously getting to me a little more than I had first thought.

A pointless post.

I have spent my life running away from things I don't like; whether in a metaphorical manner, or indeed a literal one. For example, I should currently be writing my assignment but instead am writing my blog, I see a spider and run a fucking mile - unless it has cunningly placed itself between me (sitting on the bog) and the door, in which case an exception is sometimes made.

Psychosis allows no exceptions but instead constantly reminds me of things I have tried so hard to forget or re-creates things in ways I know they can't have happened. However, being a part of my mind it has the capability to convince me otherwise and I find myself believing my own Hellish fictions.

People assume psychosis is not much more than voices inside ones head. I wish it were that simple.

Psychosis will put emphasis on things you would normally consider unimportant. Or skew ones judgement of things. I like to describe it as an intoxication of the mind. When you have had a few drinks you see things differently, you will say things you wouldn't normally say, think things that normally wouldn't occur to you. The bliss, however, of alcohol is that one can consume it in vast amounts and reach a point where the mind almost stops. Psychosis, for me, doesn't seem to hold this quality, instead it will fade to a point of slight irritation; a feeling of awkwardness or uneasiness, or develop to a point of sheer frustration. A frustration I wont even bother attempting to describe. The results of which are often quite embarrassing and are preferred to be undergone in solitude.

I complain about such things, yet on the extremely rare ocassion it leaves me I am left in a great state of worry. It being a constant thing, when it does go, you can't help but feel something is missing. And that thing is your mind. I fear things which would probably be considered daft; I fear that I may have forgotten how to think for myself.

To lose ones ability to think would mean losing ones ability to express intellect. To me, that sounds foul.

This isn't really going anywhere. I guess it never does.

Pretty red stamps.

This afternoon I was awoken, not so rudely, by my catalyst, as she gave herself the task of saving my ass. I can quite honestly say that I do not envy her. However, I am ever so grateful, for if I do manage to pass this module credit goes to her.

She was on the phone to me last night for over four hours encouraging /forcing? me to write my assignment, the deadline of which I had already missed. Now, my catalyst blames herself for this personal error, which is a most absurd and silly thing to do. I have told her this many times, but it appears to fall on deaf ears. Regardless, we managed to complete the assignment - I say we, I should probably say she as I was acting more like note-taker whilst she were dictating the plot in small, easy to digest pieces. A slight exagerration? Not really.

The piece of work still needed to be handed in. My plan was to stay awake until the University opened, get the bus to campus and hand in my assignment. My catalyst, fully aware of how my plans often fail me, phones me at one o'clock this afternoon to find me still in bed, half asleep - although comatosed is probably a more accurate description - unwilling to drag my arse out of bed. A good ten minutes later there is little progress but eventually I am coaxed out, but this does not pass without complaint. There is a lot of complaint, consisting mainly of unintelligible grunts.

I am going to thank my Catalyst now for not giving up and putting the phone down on me as I did in fact make it to campus and I did manage to hand my work in. My submission form also got a special stamp. A rather large stamp, which is bright red, and capitalised, and says the following: LATE.

I was proud. I felt catered for. My university makes stamps that are visible to the partially sighted individuals on the planet. Although, I am quite certain that everybody in the room must have seen this stamp also. Yay. Well, I did my service of good will today, I gave everybody else who was handing assignment in a wonderful ego boost. Aren't I nice?

Last night I dreamt of cocaine and rehoming beloved pets (poor Cosmic Freda). That can't be right.

In other news; my poor knuckle is rather swollen and a nice shade of "ick". I am still a miserable cunt. I love my catalyst dearly. And I hate you all*.


* Isn't it amusing. The one person who reads this is excluded from this statement. How ironic. I don't know why I write a blog.

Nim. A human being who epically fails at life.

That would be my definition if I were to ever appear in a dictionary.

Today, I have unofficially dropped out of University to opt for a much preferable existence consisting of my bed and not much else. I love my life.

The End.

Six hour phone calls

make me very happy.

Nothing much is learned in these conversations, I wouldn't be able to tell you what we actually talk about because it wouldn't actually make much sense and it certainly wouldn't sound very exciting. It's not exciting, it doesn't need to be but it is certainly something with makes my existence much more enjoyable.

I suppose the point is that these conversations are always with my catalyst. I mean, if I were talking to my mother on the phone for such a prolonged period of time I would probably go insane; in a bad way. But really, I suppose nothing can really be said for my sanity as a whole so that was probably a bad word to use. I'm not being funny but a sane person probably wouldn't, or shouldn't, talk on the phone about nothing for such a long time.

What amuses me most, however, is the fact that phone calls don't appeal to me, generally. I am usually one of these people who when required to talk on the phone to somebody manages to make a complete and utter twat out of myself by forgetting to talk. Not very helpful, really.

Anyway, my point is this; Talking to a dragon for a long time about nothing much makes a dinosaur a very happy being. What does make me giggle, however, is the fact that said dragon thanks said dinosaur for said phonecall, when really said dinosaur feels they should be thanking said dragon for said phonecall.

I think we are both grateful for long conversations in which nothing much is gained. I say "nothing much" when I should probably be saying "everything" - being the strange dinosaur I am I realise that my perspective of many things changes whilst talking to my catalyst. I say I realise, I don't actaully seem to realise until afterwards when everything rushes back to normal after the phone has been put down. And now I am rambling, much like I do whilst on the phone. A lot of words with not much progress.

Impressive.

I think the moral of the story is this. Nim does in fact have a voice, if you have never heard it you are obviously not worthy of my time. In which case you deserve to be laughed at. Hah.

She says, "It's 3am I must be lonley"

It's not three am, but that is not the point.

You know you've seen better times when you're sitting on your larrysome whilst listening to Rob Thomas, meanwhile trying to figure out how you managed to get through a pack of twenty in less than 24 hours.

I need to sort my life out.

I would, but the solutions are all quite daunting, so somehow it's easier to put it on hold. But really, there is only so long one can put their own life on hold. A few months ago this method worked quite nicely but time moves on, even if I don't. As do the people I share my life with. Not that I resent them for doing so, it just simply emphasises the fact that something does need to be done about my own life.

As much as I would like to put an end to some of my crazy, or find a way of resolving my issue of loneliness I have a feeling that realistically I will probably continue to ignore the matter, whilst attempting to convince myself that I am actually perfectly satisfied with where my life is headed, or rather where it isn't headed.

Either way, I'm probably fucked.

Mouldy Turd Nuggets.

Last night I went to bed (unless you are being technical, in which case I went to bed this morning at silly o'clock) after being up for about 36 hours. I was quite the tired bean. I set my alarm as I usually do.

This morning I woke up to the jolly theme tune from Biker Mice from Mars. I dozed. I dozed again. And then I dozed some more before coming to the nasty conclusion that I really must get up for I had a lecture to go to. I got up. It was more effort than I would have liked. I had my morning cigarette and then I showered. I then started the half hour walk into town. Being a drama student does mean that my lectures are a long way away. I try not to complain. I think happy thoughts about how much fun I will have for three hours before walking back. I purchased my usual pack of twenty, lucozade sport and sandwhich on the way.

I arrived. Ten minutes early, in fact. I was quite pleased with myself. I had a cigarette. I then began to notice a distinct lack of students. I thought nothing of it and had another cigarette and a bit of my drink. But still nobody arrived. I checked the time. I aimlessly wondered around a little. I checked the time again. It was two minutes past one. My lecture was meant to start at one. I contemplated the walk home for a good ten minutes.

I decided to get the bus back. I stood at the bus stop. I waited. I had a cigarette. I waited for 13 more minutes. Buses are meant to pass every 9 minutes. Odd. I'd been waiting at the wrong bus stop. I was not impressed. I walked home in quite a moody manner.

I got back to my room which still contains week-old rice. I checked my emails. I discovered I had no lecture. Well, I could have told myself that before checking my emails quite frankly. I then discovered that this week is apparently "writing week"Wait, "writing week"? what the hell is "writing week"? I mean, seriously, what happened to reading week? I guess it's a drama student thing.

I could have still been lying in bed. Or rather, I could have gone to collect my parcels which contain amazing things. But no, I walked to a lecture that didn't exist and then I walked back. It wasn't a particularly interesting morning. I think the most interesting thing about it was probably the rather clever combination of vulgar words escaping from my mouth.

I'm gonig to bed.

A piece of literary genius.

A poem of farts today did make my day. That probably tells you something about my maturity levels. I could blame the alcohol, but that would lessen the worth of such an amusing piece of writing. I like how my friends write about about such topics in such ways. It makes me happy.

Robots in Disguise.

Today I purchased a t-shirt which doesn't fit and wrote a press release for a product that nobody would buy. Let's just hope that there are lots of people in the world who, like myself, buy things which serve no practical purpose.

I'm relying on the stupidity of others to be successful? Impressive.

I hope you're not looking for an interesting title.

I was told to write this blog. That fact amuses me rather a lot for I was always under the impression that people wrote blogs out of choice in order to share carefully selected moments of their lives with the world. I don't really have this need. My life is quite ordinary*.

*Replace ordinary with boring and this description becomes much more accurate.

But a blog I shall write, and a blog hopefully you will read.