underneath that joy division poster
"I stooped to pick a buttercup. Why people leave buttocks lying around, I've no idea."
- A Bit Of Fry And Laurie
You know when you write something that's really good?
We're not talking just your day-to-day fairly fantastic or moderately mind-blowing here, but really, really, supremely "Oh, would you look at that, my limbs appear to have fallen off as some sort of reaction to how fabulous this is, isn't that nice?" good. So good that, after wondering why your chair appears to have morphed into a big chunk of air, you realise that you are in fact falling down an enormous cavernous hole in the floor. And so you think to yourself, "Honestly! Men! Always leaving the lid to the infinite pit up!", because this thing that you've written is actually literally ground-breaking. *
* Go ahead. Cringe. Hit me over the head! Currently, I'm doing both. With gusto.
Something really, really good. Something so blindingly brilliant, in fact, that its mere existence makes the Universe simultaneously implode and explode (and it's quite hard for your average space-time continuum to do both at the same time without taking a breather in between, because imploding involves sort of combusting inwardly since you don't want to get anything on the carpet in case you have visitors for tea, and exploding is more of a case of, "Ah, sod it, they can just circumnavigate my splattered remains.", and the two don't coexist easily).
And so you think to yourself that, well, you need to share this with the world quite promptly, by whatever means possible (like, oh, I don't know, off the top of my head, a Livejournal entry), because not doing so would mean ridding the world of the chance to read something beautiful, and this would probably lower your chances of decent non-standing seats in Heaven.
But, then, you start to mull the whole thing over, and you suddenly think, is this really good thing really a good thing (I mean, its name would probably suggest that there's a certain quotient of really good in there somewhere, but...)? Is the never-ending fame and wealth that will undoubtedly accompany this REALLY AWESOME THING worth it?
Because, first of all, you're going to lose all your old friends! They only liked you when you were poor and feeble and had to polish their shoes with your own spit and ragged clothes in return for their generous friendship! "Never mind," you say to yourself, "never mind! I'll just use my limitless cash to buy some new friends! Friends who have discovered shoe polish!". But they're not going to stick around, are they? The truth is, you will end up sad! And alone. Also, sad.
So, of course (of course), you come to the conclusion that it's really not worth it. You have foreseen the future! You must destroy all evidence of the LJ entr-- nameless bit of writing! And then, you can't update your journal for just over two months (which, funnily enough, happens to be about how long it's been since I last updated properly), during which time, you will find yourself drafting an entry that is so mind-numbingly mind-numbing (similarly to this one, purely coincidentally) that you have effectively developed an exciting new strain of anaesthetic! That is how it works.
You know, it's funny that I should happen to mention this sublimely crafted excuse for not updating one's journal since September the 28th, isn't it, because... well, as a matter of fact, nothing of the sort happened and I'm just a lazy arse who isn't prepared to deal with the muscle expenditure caused by moving your fingers backward and forward in a keyboard-formation, but I thought that slaughtering as many of you with the longest explanation in the history of the world might make it harder for anyone to ask me questions like, "Hey, where've you been?".
But, hey, you'll never guess what (well, okay, if you own a calendar, have some notion of time, and aren't wearing a tinfoil hat at the moment, the amount of actual guessing involved might be quite minimal)! It's 21 days until Christmas! Last year, I didn't get excited about Christmas until about April, by which point it was, conceivably, slightly too late for tinsel-related merriment -- but, this year, I fear I might actually be too Christmassy! I can only possibly uphold this level of festivity until about next Tuesday at the latest!
For Christmas this year, I would like one of those video iPods -- I truly believe that there is no feeling quite as beautiful as being mugged while watching one's favourite television programme in crystal-clear 24-bit colour. Unless, of course, one's favourite television programme happens to be one of those reality shows where supposed celebrities eat bugs (read: people who appeared on TV holding a "Hello, Mum!" sign in 1985, and now plan to broaden their Irritating Greeting range to assorted members of the extended family in a jungle setting), in which case no one would want to come near you, let alone nick your possessions.
I actually employ a fail-safe security system along these lines on my own iPodular device. Whenever it's unattended, I leave a lethal cocktail of songs playing on a continuous loop: Coldplay remixed by James Blunt and the entire musical repertoire of the Cheeky Girls generally does the trick. First, Chris Martin's dulcet tones lull your average mugger into a deep, coma-like sleep, the likes of which can normally only be obtained by swigging a large mug of cyanide. Then, if they ever wake up, then it'll be to the sweet sound of civilisation crumbling (affectionately called Cheeky Girl 1 and Cheeky Girl 2 by their parents). By which point, they're generally too busy gently weeping to actually nick anything other than a Kleenex.
(No offence intended, obviously, to fans of either of these vapid piles of tripe-- er, musicians).
(Unless, of course, by 'offence', you mean 'offence', in which case, lots of it intended. With knobs on).
Someone had one of those speck-of-dust-with-mp3-capability-sized iPods at school the other day, though, and I've realised, to my shame, just how much mine has let itself go. I mean, seriously, over the last few months, it has piled on the pounds! I'll be getting it an iBeat Anorexia t-shirt for That Thing That Happens In 21 Days. Really.
Anyway. What's happened since I last updated? Very little.
There was this Speech Day at school thing about a month ago, where I discovered that a lot fewer people had left the school than I'd previously thought. I kept almost asking people who are apparently still in several of my classes whether they were enjoying their new schools. And my dad took a camera, which allowed me to collect evidence for the project I tentatively call Wherin I Prove That My Father Probably Has Some Kind Of Camera-Holding-Still Gene Deficiency (Perhaps No One Ever Told Him That It Is Traditional To Shake A Polaroid Picture Like A Polaroid Picture After The Polaroid Picture Has Actually Been Taken). Well, actually, that's the abridged version of the title -- the original involved turnips and Yemen -- but I wanted to go for something a bit snappy.
Here you go (helpfully annotated):
And, here, some fireworks that look a bit like boobies:
Hee.
In the last months, I have mostly: been grumpy, visited Goethe (well, his institute), written House fanfiction, been slightly grumpier, discovered a few enemy spies, been even more devastatingly grumpier, and devised full and intricate plans for the immediate invasion of Poland. You haven't missed much.
That should be all. If you managed to reach this point, then send up a flare (like in Harry Potter! Harry said, "Periculum!", and I said to Kelly, "Hey, that means 'danger'!", and she gave me the most spectacular 'So, that's what the point of four-and-a-half years of Latin was, eh?' look I've ever seen in dim lighting), and someone should be with you in a minute.
See you all in another two months!
P.S. glitterfaeiry! Are you okay?
- A Bit Of Fry And Laurie
You know when you write something that's really good?
We're not talking just your day-to-day fairly fantastic or moderately mind-blowing here, but really, really, supremely "Oh, would you look at that, my limbs appear to have fallen off as some sort of reaction to how fabulous this is, isn't that nice?" good. So good that, after wondering why your chair appears to have morphed into a big chunk of air, you realise that you are in fact falling down an enormous cavernous hole in the floor. And so you think to yourself, "Honestly! Men! Always leaving the lid to the infinite pit up!", because this thing that you've written is actually literally ground-breaking. *
* Go ahead. Cringe. Hit me over the head! Currently, I'm doing both. With gusto.
Something really, really good. Something so blindingly brilliant, in fact, that its mere existence makes the Universe simultaneously implode and explode (and it's quite hard for your average space-time continuum to do both at the same time without taking a breather in between, because imploding involves sort of combusting inwardly since you don't want to get anything on the carpet in case you have visitors for tea, and exploding is more of a case of, "Ah, sod it, they can just circumnavigate my splattered remains.", and the two don't coexist easily).
And so you think to yourself that, well, you need to share this with the world quite promptly, by whatever means possible (like, oh, I don't know, off the top of my head, a Livejournal entry), because not doing so would mean ridding the world of the chance to read something beautiful, and this would probably lower your chances of decent non-standing seats in Heaven.
But, then, you start to mull the whole thing over, and you suddenly think, is this really good thing really a good thing (I mean, its name would probably suggest that there's a certain quotient of really good in there somewhere, but...)? Is the never-ending fame and wealth that will undoubtedly accompany this REALLY AWESOME THING worth it?
Because, first of all, you're going to lose all your old friends! They only liked you when you were poor and feeble and had to polish their shoes with your own spit and ragged clothes in return for their generous friendship! "Never mind," you say to yourself, "never mind! I'll just use my limitless cash to buy some new friends! Friends who have discovered shoe polish!". But they're not going to stick around, are they? The truth is, you will end up sad! And alone. Also, sad.
So, of course (of course), you come to the conclusion that it's really not worth it. You have foreseen the future! You must destroy all evidence of the LJ entr-- nameless bit of writing! And then, you can't update your journal for just over two months (which, funnily enough, happens to be about how long it's been since I last updated properly), during which time, you will find yourself drafting an entry that is so mind-numbingly mind-numbing (similarly to this one, purely coincidentally) that you have effectively developed an exciting new strain of anaesthetic! That is how it works.
You know, it's funny that I should happen to mention this sublimely crafted excuse for not updating one's journal since September the 28th, isn't it, because... well, as a matter of fact, nothing of the sort happened and I'm just a lazy arse who isn't prepared to deal with the muscle expenditure caused by moving your fingers backward and forward in a keyboard-formation, but I thought that slaughtering as many of you with the longest explanation in the history of the world might make it harder for anyone to ask me questions like, "Hey, where've you been?".
But, hey, you'll never guess what (well, okay, if you own a calendar, have some notion of time, and aren't wearing a tinfoil hat at the moment, the amount of actual guessing involved might be quite minimal)! It's 21 days until Christmas! Last year, I didn't get excited about Christmas until about April, by which point it was, conceivably, slightly too late for tinsel-related merriment -- but, this year, I fear I might actually be too Christmassy! I can only possibly uphold this level of festivity until about next Tuesday at the latest!
For Christmas this year, I would like one of those video iPods -- I truly believe that there is no feeling quite as beautiful as being mugged while watching one's favourite television programme in crystal-clear 24-bit colour. Unless, of course, one's favourite television programme happens to be one of those reality shows where supposed celebrities eat bugs (read: people who appeared on TV holding a "Hello, Mum!" sign in 1985, and now plan to broaden their Irritating Greeting range to assorted members of the extended family in a jungle setting), in which case no one would want to come near you, let alone nick your possessions.
I actually employ a fail-safe security system along these lines on my own iPodular device. Whenever it's unattended, I leave a lethal cocktail of songs playing on a continuous loop: Coldplay remixed by James Blunt and the entire musical repertoire of the Cheeky Girls generally does the trick. First, Chris Martin's dulcet tones lull your average mugger into a deep, coma-like sleep, the likes of which can normally only be obtained by swigging a large mug of cyanide. Then, if they ever wake up, then it'll be to the sweet sound of civilisation crumbling (affectionately called Cheeky Girl 1 and Cheeky Girl 2 by their parents). By which point, they're generally too busy gently weeping to actually nick anything other than a Kleenex.
(No offence intended, obviously, to fans of either of these vapid piles of tripe-- er, musicians).
(Unless, of course, by 'offence', you mean 'offence', in which case, lots of it intended. With knobs on).
Someone had one of those speck-of-dust-with-mp3-capability-sized iPods at school the other day, though, and I've realised, to my shame, just how much mine has let itself go. I mean, seriously, over the last few months, it has piled on the pounds! I'll be getting it an iBeat Anorexia t-shirt for That Thing That Happens In 21 Days. Really.
Anyway. What's happened since I last updated? Very little.
There was this Speech Day at school thing about a month ago, where I discovered that a lot fewer people had left the school than I'd previously thought. I kept almost asking people who are apparently still in several of my classes whether they were enjoying their new schools. And my dad took a camera, which allowed me to collect evidence for the project I tentatively call Wherin I Prove That My Father Probably Has Some Kind Of Camera-Holding-Still Gene Deficiency (Perhaps No One Ever Told Him That It Is Traditional To Shake A Polaroid Picture Like A Polaroid Picture After The Polaroid Picture Has Actually Been Taken). Well, actually, that's the abridged version of the title -- the original involved turnips and Yemen -- but I wanted to go for something a bit snappy.
Here you go (helpfully annotated):
And, here, some fireworks that look a bit like boobies:
Hee.
In the last months, I have mostly: been grumpy, visited Goethe (well, his institute), written House fanfiction, been slightly grumpier, discovered a few enemy spies, been even more devastatingly grumpier, and devised full and intricate plans for the immediate invasion of Poland. You haven't missed much.
That should be all. If you managed to reach this point, then send up a flare (like in Harry Potter! Harry said, "Periculum!", and I said to Kelly, "Hey, that means 'danger'!", and she gave me the most spectacular 'So, that's what the point of four-and-a-half years of Latin was, eh?' look I've ever seen in dim lighting), and someone should be with you in a minute.
See you all in another two months!
P.S. glitterfaeiry! Are you okay?