A Goblin
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sirsandgoblin's LiveJournal:
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| Tuesday, March 20th, 2007 | | 4:34 am |
Disruptive Interludes
Has it gone? Someone answer me, has it gone? How can you tell? Why should you ask? Is such constant self-evaluation entirely neccessary? Questions questions questions. You are what you are, things are how they are and always will be. Still want to know though. Has it gone? | | Monday, August 28th, 2006 | | 5:04 am |
I want to just shit it all right out. It's all constipated. It's definitely shit, but the shit won't budge. I can entirely understand why some people think that they can get it out physically. But they just get their hands covered in shit which doesn't help anyone. I'm going to continue trying to work it out with a pen. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say. I'm not sure they meant it like that though. I think I've come over all abstract. | | Saturday, August 12th, 2006 | | 4:02 pm |
So a week ago me and my wee drummer chum were in the Cardiff barfly watching some reasonably good girl punky rocky rock group thing and we decided that by next summer, we would try and get some sort of band together and be playing gigs in places like that very barfly. Yes. So far I've learned the major chords on guitar and got on board a proper guitarist, a violinist, someone who's really good at beatboxing and a person who can hit a cowbell quite hard. It's going well. We're going to rock. | | Friday, August 11th, 2006 | | 2:55 am |
I can't work out if i prefer the advert with the autistic boy who counts each and every one of the sprays from a time release odour thingy, over about a week, or the one for leg wax with a bloke who suffers from premature ejaculation and chronic fatigue. Having said that, I'm always impressed with the numerous adverts that try and make women feel as shit about themselves as possible. I know the equal rights movement has started to work, in so far as they've started making men feel shit with ads along the line of "You think you've got some self confidence about your wrinkles, she thinks you're a haggard old pervert" but it looks like the female ones will be way ahead in confidence destruction for a long while. The one where they mark out every woman on the street with a colour over their head is quite special. Each colour represents a different way in which their hair has failed. It's basically a colour code for which of their haircare products will cure whichever godawful problem. Slightly frizzy hair, somewhat limp hair, whatever, they have the cure. Well maybe. Given that all the women in question are models, it would be difficult to see their point even if they had one. They're all so disturbingly beautiful, their hair would make little difference to their appearance anyway. But then, hair rarely does anyway. It's only if someone's hair is completely absurd that it's noticed. In fact, as far as I can tell, it's only women who notice frizzy hair or split ends or hair problems in general. Maybe that's why the advertising works. I'm going to get some collagen shoved up my arse for luck. | | Wednesday, August 9th, 2006 | | 4:20 am |
The Boring Football Match Drinking Game.
To be played during particularly uninspiring football matches. Originally included such rules as "One drink every time possession changes hands" and "Finish drink on a goal", caused near-vomitting after ten minutes. Every five minutes, on the five minutes, take a drink. Throw in = 1 drink. Free kick = 2 drinks. Goal kick = 2 drinks. Corner = 2 drinks. Yellow Card = 3 drinks. Red card = 5 drinks. Goal = 5 drinks. Inspired by Arsenal. | | Friday, August 4th, 2006 | | 3:53 am |
They're coldplayesque generic shite, I don't care, I think Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars is an utterly beautiful song. Utterly utterly beautiful. I might be a bit emotional though. Or maybe I just really really need a proper weep. *waits* | | Monday, July 31st, 2006 | | 4:27 am |
So my brother wanted to go for a big drive (road trip I suppose) with me, which made me happy, not least because I don't get to see much of him these days and we used to spend all our time with each other. Being me, I'd got to thinking that he hated me. I think that of most people though, it doesn't take much, I know it's stupid brainwrongs though. Other than you lot, etc etc. Anyway, I thought he thought I was a wanker or something, you know how spazzheads brains work. Stupidly. I mean, let's face it, we spent all our time with each other when we were little. God, we spent nine months in close confinement inside another woman together, not many people do that. Anyway, to get to my point rather than rambling on about the revelation that my twin brother doesn't actually hate me and that I am a spazz, he said, we should visit Dottie. He didn't say Dottie, he said Ed, but he's met Dottie from when he's been here in Cardiff and he's aware that Dottie done bad with gravity. I said, yeh, we should, so long as you think driving down south is a better idea than driving somewhere nice. I'd best ask Dottie about it. He might want to freshen up before he sees my sexy brother again. | | Sunday, July 30th, 2006 | | 3:16 am |
I woke up shaking.
It hasn't been this bad in ever. People will be very pissed off with me if I so much as stopped fighting for a moment though. They seem to take it personally. I don't know that holding it together can actually last. I'm going to need reinforcements if this is to work long term. | | Wednesday, July 26th, 2006 | | 6:51 pm |
| | Tuesday, July 25th, 2006 | | 4:07 am |
| | Friday, June 23rd, 2006 | | 12:23 am |
Moan moan moan.
I've tried everything and I'm still miserable. It usually lasts for a few days but it just won't go away this time. Two bloody weeks. I've tried everything to stop it. Well not everything, but I've forced myself to do stuff and not just hide in bed. Which usually helps, but I still feel miserable. Moan moan moan, whinge whinge whinge, I'm so spacky etc etc etc. God but I do wish it would FUCK OFF. Cunt. And now all my trousers have decided to fall to bits all within a few days of each other, so I'm going to have to go clothes shopping in my pants tommorow. With a fucking lobster hanging out my arse. Fucks sake. Having a fat cunt of a hangover of course, doesn't help matters right now. Current Mood: Unpleasant | | Tuesday, June 13th, 2006 | | 1:35 am |
I do get wound up by stuff.
Immediately afterwards, I realise I shouldn't have. I mean, I rant at things and have a go at stuff, but I'm not wound up about it. What I get wound up about, I keep quiet about, which is probably why I'm wound up by them. I get wound up about having to do the washing up all the time. Except I probably do no more washing up than anyone else. And anyway, it's not something to get wound up by anyway. I get wound up that my parents nag at me about what I want to do for christmas or my birthday, because i try not to think about it because for no known reason thinking about such things make me miserable. Even though they're doing it because they want me to have enough say in it to not get miserable. The reason they're doing it is to avoid making me miserable. And it does work, it works in its way, it makes things slightly better. I just get too lost in my own self-obsessedness to realise it. I get lost in it all. It works itself round and round until it's four in the morning and I've not got to sleep, then I realise that i've got lost in it all and climb myself right out and it's all like the climax of some sigur ros track and I'm happy and drift off to sleep at last. I always thought that thinking too much was what got me in to this mess in the first place, but thinking beyond that seems to have lifted it right out. But then thinking that it's all lifted out and put into place won't work, I need to realise that I need to start it all over, but keep concentrating. And that it's not all a sigur ros track. In fact, it's all shit. It's all shitty shitty shit, a big pile of shit. But instead of avoiding it, I should be rolling in it. Sexy. Sure, I'll take the jabs to stop me getting infected, but life, it's rolling in shit. You just have to have had the relevant innoculations. I noticed today actually, that a lot of footballers fall over. What's that all about? | | Wednesday, June 7th, 2006 | | 2:01 am |
I don't know.
I don't know what or why or anything of anything. I can't you know, just, can't. I do know now that you can love her more every time you thought you were at the top point of loving her. That hurts. It all hurts. Everything seems to hurt. Hurt? More sort of dull ache. But particularly unpleasant ache. The type that won't go away. You can't pay for that sort of wisdom. You wouldn't want to. I don't think being older does anything but make you more aware of the dull ache. Or less. Or just better at knowing how to cope with it. YOU CAN'T BUY THIS SORT OF WISDOM. I need to not be scared of doing things I like before I can do the things I don't like that constitute a proper life. Now that really is scary. Not as scary as being more in love than you can cope with. I sometimes think I don't want to cope with it, but then where would I be? Nowhere, that's where. And less. I don't just not want to cope with one thing though, but I do, I don't but I do. It's not easy. It never is. Once I can cope with that, I'll cope with everything. Except that I won't, nobody does, they just do. I'll fake it. It feels like I missed my teenage years while the whole time sat watching from the front row. And not just watching, taking part. Now there's a thing. I definitely missed the whole point of it, or the whole of it, or just every bit of it, except that I know I was there. I think looking back is the problem. Looking back and realising my GOD what a hash you made of that. A whole seven years wasted and wasted and wasted and every time I look back it's so clearly been wasted but I don't stop wasting it. Or I do, but when I look back on how I did, it's still wasted. How miserable. Maybe looking forward instead would be more productive. But there's not much to look at. Well there is, but I just. I can't see it. The thing is, now, instead of looking back and MY GOD what a waste. I just look back and think, MY GOD, what a waste before I met her. Although still a waste, but, less of a waste since. Somehow. Maybe, just maybe, MAYBE, maybe gin. | | Tuesday, May 16th, 2006 | | 12:54 pm |
| | Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006 | | 2:17 am |
| | Friday, April 28th, 2006 | | 2:08 pm |
| | Thursday, April 27th, 2006 | | 12:52 pm |
I did it!
She told me how and she was right. Doing what you thought impossible gets you such a buzz, even if what you thought was impossible was something people do normally, without going sweaty and vomitty. You have to keep pushing. Pushing boundaries! Yes. They're shit boundaries though, like going out the front door, or buying a can of pop at spar.But if you stop pushing, the boundaries close back in. It's a constant battle. DON'T GIVE UP. You cunt, don't bloody give up. If you have a problem, you don't deal with it by sitting back and letting it take over. You fucking well do something about it, and by fucking shit cocking cock you make such an arse out of yourself on the way. But at least you're not sat at home, letting it shit all over you, and worst of all persuading yourself that it's okay to do this because this is how your illness makes you feel. Go forth and sweat, vomit, weep in public. They're just signs that you're bothering to push it. If your body vomits and spacks up royal whenever you have to ask for directions, then SPACK AWAY, because by the end of the day, you'll have stopped spacking, but you'll still know where you're going. | | Wednesday, April 26th, 2006 | | 12:40 pm |
I don't like reggae
First match of the season, you see world class players. £35, for the whole season. And there's Robert Croft, the first ball you see of the season, and it's Robert Croft. Who cares that you only turned up two hours from the end of the first day, that you've only got two essex players out, that the two in now are just plodding up the lead, dull as fuck, 200 partnership. Wharf sums it up after he gets knocked for four by yelling "THIS IS FUCKING SHIT", resulting in unhappy mumblings from the older crowd members. But you're there, with your dad, and he loves it as much as you, and for the first time since he got it, he's forgotten he ever had a cysty lump. Croft lumps another average one down at some essex kid who you'll never know, it goes straight to the keeper, and it's the best fucking day of the year. It's on. It's summer. You promise you'll go the next day, watching your team slowly drown, read the paper, snacks, lunch, sunshine, a few beers later on. Nothing unexpected, nothing new, nothing speeding past or crashing into stuff, just a few pensioners somewhere behind you rambling on endlessly about the intricacies of top spin while Simon Jones signs a tiny bat for some exciteable kid at the outfield. Nothing's happening. And you won't want to go home. | | Tuesday, April 25th, 2006 | | 11:27 am |
How can you tell if you love someone?
What it is, is, they call you a cunt. You don't take it as being offensive, it's not endearingly matey, but what happens is you realise that you're a cunt. Then they tell you to stop being a cunt. Now, you've been a cunt for ages, and you were well aware throughout that you were being a cunt. Other people have told you before, but when they tell you it, it just becomes a part of you. People accept you for it, even come to like that part of you. But when the person you love tells you you're a cunt, you realise that it doesn't have to be a part of you. It's just become such a major part of you that the way you live and the way you think has become moulded around it. Yet here this person comes, and because you know this person so well, because you respect their opinion, because basically, they are now a new part of you, when they point it out, you realise it shouldn't be there, there's no room for it. You want to fill up any spare space with this person. They're not replacing the cunt part, it's just you want them to take up as much space as possible and quite frankly, the cunt bit doesn't need to be there. They've already filled up a fair bit of space otherwise you wouldn't be listening to them like this. I think that when you let someone wash through you like that, you love them. You just have to make sure the wash doesn't drain away. | | Monday, April 24th, 2006 | | 11:56 am |
I wrote something last night.
I say wrote, it's more scrawled. I was properly ginned up thanks to my flatmate and I must have written this just before falling asleep. "Dear Bmi, I was just wondering, and I hate to be so anally specific, but, why exactly are the prices on your flights between Cardiff and Edinburgh so varied? For a flight there and a flight back (in other areas of the transport industry, these are conveniently lumped together as a return ticket) I can pay anything between £60.00 and £260.00, depending on the time and date of each particular outgoing and incoming flight. I might understand if, say, weekends or mid-afternoon flights weere more expensive, or if you got better service on some than others, or if you could see the fucking moon in full macromicropixel clarity or something, but the only thing I can work out is that you have got your eye on each and every flight and you change the price based on the exact popularity of every single price. If so, this is near psychotic attention to detail opportunist persuit for money. I imagine it's this sort of thing that makes the rich rich in the first place. Fair enough. Just don't you ever fucking dare try and give me any of that "we care about our customers" bullshit, you clearly just want as much money as possible. I just wish to god it wasn't at my emotional expense. Sure, take all my money, that seems to be what makes me happy. But in return, can I have more than pins and needles and the knowledge that I won't be able to afford to see my girlfriend again for months. I'm sure we could come to an agreement, whereby you keep getting happiness out of my wallet, and I keep getting happiness out of where you are capable of taking me." It went on into a general rant against all public transport and by god it got sweary. Then there was a picture that claims to be Dr Zoidberg and a speech bubble with him telling me I'm a whiny thoughtless twat. Hooray! I'm getting attention! |
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