I hate Christmas. I really fucking do. Apologies for such vehement expletives, on this, the high holiday of cheer, but the whole point of public publishing is honesty, is it not?
Before you condemn me as some heartless 'Scrooge', let me just clarify that I am
actually not an unfeeling, anti-social bitch. (Whoops, I'd better reign this cussing in before I am declared a potty-mouth and completely dismissed) Fact of the matter is that I am VERY feeling, VERY caring, and VERY sentimental. That is exactly why I find Christmas so painfully excruciating on so many levels.
Invariably there will be rows (either between family members or you and your partner) over whether the turkey has been cooked long enough, who ate the last piece of pie, and why Shrek is playing on telly when there is vintage Top of the Pops to be had over on BBC 2. But all this is bearable, and not what causes my heart to plummet and my soul to whither. Being a reflective day, and one where everyone is closeted in with their nearest and dearest, drinking, celebrating, and generally being jolly and stuffing their stomachs to piggish points, there is very little else to distract you when you mind starts wandering and you begin to recall the many Christmases of your life.
Some memories will be brilliant, but some will be sad. The passing of years smacks you straight in the face and there is no way to deny that you are getting older and the magic you remember as a child at Christmas simply can't be recreated…
I happen to be paired with a 'non-magical' partner. By this I mean I am with someone who is the antithesis of wonder and spontaneous joy. He is very pragmatic in his outlook and likes 'to-do' lists and schedules. He quite simply cannot comprehend the nostalgic joy of watching cheesy Christmas movies curled on the sofa drinking wine and feeling all warm and cozy. (He eshews Christmas music for 'Queens of the Stone Age' and will happily bury himself in writing code and generally faffing about on his laptop throughout Christmas day with scant care and concern for the anti-climatic feel he spreads throughout our home.)
Nonetheless this is still not the reason I hate Christmas. I blame it on the diet of happy families and unrealistic expectations that I was raised on in North America. All my favourite television shows, magazines, and general pop culture itself made me believe and hope and expect that one day I too might have loved ones gathered around a fire, laughing, celebrating and generally enjoying life (and each other).
The truth – at least in my family – resembles that not a bit. We all love each other, but find it increasingly impossible to communicate inoffensively. Some of us are too sensitive, and some of us not enough. Some of us perpetuate false empty cheer, getting annoyed by long faces, and others of us can't help but wear sombre smiles and wry grins whilst attempting to simply 'get through it'.
I think the bottom line is that if you are HAPPY in your life, you have friends, a great job, loved ones, and a contented outlook – well then Christmas is just merry-fucking-tastic. If on the other hand you are miserable, lonely, unfulfilled and generally angst-ridden, then Christmas will merely bring out the worst in you and cause you to slide down that slippery slope of nostalgia and regret.
Before you know it you will be staring blankly at the telly, daydreaming all sorts of crazy thoughts, and pouring booze down your throat faster than is sensible in an attempt to anesthetise yourself from feeling…anything.
On that (not) cheerful note, off I pop to begin my day with a big glass of champagne. I don't feel like it, and indeed would rather curl up in my bed with a good book, some heroin, and loud music, but that can't happen so I will do the next best thing and 'play along'- my pragmatic (and utterly OBLIVIOUS) partner looking on absentmindedly and wondering why I ain't full of Christmas –fucking – cheer.
'Merry Whatever' everyone….'Sister Scrooge' xx
Monday, 31 December 2007
Sunday, 18 November 2007
Happy Sunday
You hear nothing from me for ages, and then BOOM - all the sudden the lady comes over all prolific with no less than two entries in under 24 hours. There's a simple explanation: Procrastination.
I should be killing myself packing up boxes, filing my tax return, cleaning flat, making phonecalls, sending emails, paying bills, buying groceries, organising sock drawers...you know, that sort of thing. Instead I find myself glumly hunched over my Mac, lukewarm cappucino to my left (as of yet untouched), and surveying the cold, drab day outside my huge kitchen window.
I actually have so much to do that the temptation to simply bankrupt the day and crawl back into bed with a book looms ever so temptingly in the horizon of possibility. Of course, that's not what will happen. I shall sit here for another twenty minutes or so, head in hands, trying to find a way through the poorly constructed maze which is my mind, and eventually, with a great sigh, I shall push my chair back from the table, click my laptop shut, and shuffle upstairs to get on with it.
I guess it's about that time. Will keep this particular moan short and not so sweet. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hatching a plan to treat myself to several episodes of 'Lost' which i've saved up but not had the time to watch. A giant dose of escapism with a sprinkling of organic 'Green & Black's' chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.
Happy Sunday people...
I should be killing myself packing up boxes, filing my tax return, cleaning flat, making phonecalls, sending emails, paying bills, buying groceries, organising sock drawers...you know, that sort of thing. Instead I find myself glumly hunched over my Mac, lukewarm cappucino to my left (as of yet untouched), and surveying the cold, drab day outside my huge kitchen window.
I actually have so much to do that the temptation to simply bankrupt the day and crawl back into bed with a book looms ever so temptingly in the horizon of possibility. Of course, that's not what will happen. I shall sit here for another twenty minutes or so, head in hands, trying to find a way through the poorly constructed maze which is my mind, and eventually, with a great sigh, I shall push my chair back from the table, click my laptop shut, and shuffle upstairs to get on with it.
I guess it's about that time. Will keep this particular moan short and not so sweet. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hatching a plan to treat myself to several episodes of 'Lost' which i've saved up but not had the time to watch. A giant dose of escapism with a sprinkling of organic 'Green & Black's' chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.
Happy Sunday people...
Saturday, 17 November 2007
Panic Sets In
I wish I had something interesting to say. As it stands i'm stressed out of my mind trying to do a million tedious but time-consuming tasks these days. I was struck dumb this past week when after countless weeks of hassle, and great expense, I finally managed to secure a new competitive mortgage on my flat...only to discover that my mortgage isn't up for redemption for another year...whoops. "Bye Bye hundreds of pounds...see ya laaaaaater....."
Top of the stress list at the moment though is trying to pack up what feels like millions of personal possessions and getting ready to move into a new place in less than two weeks. When I say 'pack' what i really mean is that this afternoon between reading a really compelling autobiography and doing my second load of washing (rock n' roll i know) I transferred all my belts and scarves and hats into a suitcase. Yep. That's it. (Now if you knew what a fashionista I am and a downright hedonistic clothes-horse, you would understand that this was no small feat...nonetheless it hardly constituted preparation for a giant move - merely an attempt to blot out panic and pretend at being productive.)
At any rate, all my possessions can arrive at the new place in giant bin bags for all I care. A far more worrying dilemma is that the very next morning after the move I'm meant to be on a charter plane to India. I can hear you moaning now, " She's moving into a new place AND has to jetset to Goa to work on her tan before Christmas...must be horrid for her, poor thing"...
But actually it is. First of all, I have not had the time to obsessively do a million sit-ups a day to get in body-baring-bikini shape for major beach action lately...nor have I had my vaccinations sorted so that when a rabid dog bites me I'm not buggered (I actually did almost get bitten by one such foaming-at-the-mouth dog last time I was there so i'm not being a drama queen). I haven't managed to get my Indian visa yet (a feat in itself involving ridiculously long-winded forms to fill out, ugly passport pics to get taken, and puzzling queues to navigate in the early morning) and I'm purposely not allowing myself to imagine the 9+ hour charter flight from hell with annoying fellow passengers.
No, I'm merely trying to work out whether the mad family who are selling us their home will be out on the agreed day, whether they will renege on their word and leave us absolutely NO furniture (thus necessitating Christmas din-din's being eaten on the floor with only a wood-burning fire to give comfort) and whether I am making a huge mistake moving from my central London flat (five minutes walk from Big Ben) to a slightly less central zone 2 (the horror!) location.
Either way it's a done deal, have bankrupted myself in the process, and am paying a premium for a nice enough new home worth probably half of what i'm paying for it, only it's got this amazing balcony off the master bedroom and that's where I'm going to compose my first novel, write a killer track and drink copious bottles of red wine whilst surveying the dirty ol' London.
I've got it all figured out see...
Top of the stress list at the moment though is trying to pack up what feels like millions of personal possessions and getting ready to move into a new place in less than two weeks. When I say 'pack' what i really mean is that this afternoon between reading a really compelling autobiography and doing my second load of washing (rock n' roll i know) I transferred all my belts and scarves and hats into a suitcase. Yep. That's it. (Now if you knew what a fashionista I am and a downright hedonistic clothes-horse, you would understand that this was no small feat...nonetheless it hardly constituted preparation for a giant move - merely an attempt to blot out panic and pretend at being productive.)
At any rate, all my possessions can arrive at the new place in giant bin bags for all I care. A far more worrying dilemma is that the very next morning after the move I'm meant to be on a charter plane to India. I can hear you moaning now, " She's moving into a new place AND has to jetset to Goa to work on her tan before Christmas...must be horrid for her, poor thing"...
But actually it is. First of all, I have not had the time to obsessively do a million sit-ups a day to get in body-baring-bikini shape for major beach action lately...nor have I had my vaccinations sorted so that when a rabid dog bites me I'm not buggered (I actually did almost get bitten by one such foaming-at-the-mouth dog last time I was there so i'm not being a drama queen). I haven't managed to get my Indian visa yet (a feat in itself involving ridiculously long-winded forms to fill out, ugly passport pics to get taken, and puzzling queues to navigate in the early morning) and I'm purposely not allowing myself to imagine the 9+ hour charter flight from hell with annoying fellow passengers.
No, I'm merely trying to work out whether the mad family who are selling us their home will be out on the agreed day, whether they will renege on their word and leave us absolutely NO furniture (thus necessitating Christmas din-din's being eaten on the floor with only a wood-burning fire to give comfort) and whether I am making a huge mistake moving from my central London flat (five minutes walk from Big Ben) to a slightly less central zone 2 (the horror!) location.
Either way it's a done deal, have bankrupted myself in the process, and am paying a premium for a nice enough new home worth probably half of what i'm paying for it, only it's got this amazing balcony off the master bedroom and that's where I'm going to compose my first novel, write a killer track and drink copious bottles of red wine whilst surveying the dirty ol' London.
I've got it all figured out see...
Friday, 2 November 2007
"God Save The Queen...I’m A BRIT At Last!"
Yesterday i offically became a British Citizen. This means that I can vote, go on the dole, get through the fast queue at Heathrow, and moan about how this country is going to the dogs with the best of them. The journey which began a few months ago in front of a dodgy computer in Elephant & Castle, trying to pass a ridiculously detailed citizenship test, ended fittingly in a sweltering hot town hall with sixty other people (mainly Nigerians - but more on that later) singing the national anthem.
We were told to arrive at the Town Hall precisely at 1pm and told we would be out of there around 3:15pm. I realised this was wishful thinking when an hour later i was still jammed in a room painstakingly waiting for my name to be called out so that i could go up to the front, obtain a sticker with my name on it and make sure my outfit pasted muster (apparently no jeans or trainers were allowed and two Afganistani young men were sent home to change as was a Bulgarian fellow).
Luckily sometime around 2:30 a group of us who had recieved our name tags were ushered upstairs for some 'refreshments' and to wait while the rest of the soon to be Brits were checked in. I slunk to the back of the room and buried my head in a book for the next hour or so whilst everyone else partook of the juice being poured from cardboard boxes and watered down coffee...there were even a few biscuits to be had from the look of things...all served with utter contempt by substitue dinner ladies behind a makeshift table.
Soon the room swelled by a ridiculous amount and I realised this was because most people had come with 'guests' and I was starting to feel clautrophobic and was wondering when the hell the ceremony was going to start. It wasn't until 3:30 that we were actually seated and the given a ten minute lecture on how to behave during the ceremony. I would have thought this a pointless exercise, but my fellow passport-hungry peers were nodding with such enthusiasm that perhaps not.
Given that we all had to say our names aloud and then go up and receive our certificate to general applause, have a hand shake with the deputy mayor (a sweet but impossible to understand West Indian man with an indecipherable thick heavy accent) and pose for a picture (which we were told we could purchase later on for £15 to remember our 'special day'), the ceremony dragged on. I used the time to take note of the crazy sounding names and everyones country of origin.
Of the sixty or so of us present the breakdown was as follows: 85% Nigerians, 10% other African countries, 5% other (I was sole Canadian, there was one Aussie, on Kiwi, two Chinese, three Yugoslavians and one Vietnamese...).
All in all I am rather pleased. I've waited many years (almost 13) for this and i can finally cross off 'become a Brit' from my various to-do lists i've had over the years. It's been sheer laziness that's kept me from doing it, but I'm grateful I did at last. Now maybe my accent will come on with leaps and bounds and I'll stop being treated like a damn tourist.
Or maybe not.
We were told to arrive at the Town Hall precisely at 1pm and told we would be out of there around 3:15pm. I realised this was wishful thinking when an hour later i was still jammed in a room painstakingly waiting for my name to be called out so that i could go up to the front, obtain a sticker with my name on it and make sure my outfit pasted muster (apparently no jeans or trainers were allowed and two Afganistani young men were sent home to change as was a Bulgarian fellow).
Luckily sometime around 2:30 a group of us who had recieved our name tags were ushered upstairs for some 'refreshments' and to wait while the rest of the soon to be Brits were checked in. I slunk to the back of the room and buried my head in a book for the next hour or so whilst everyone else partook of the juice being poured from cardboard boxes and watered down coffee...there were even a few biscuits to be had from the look of things...all served with utter contempt by substitue dinner ladies behind a makeshift table.
Soon the room swelled by a ridiculous amount and I realised this was because most people had come with 'guests' and I was starting to feel clautrophobic and was wondering when the hell the ceremony was going to start. It wasn't until 3:30 that we were actually seated and the given a ten minute lecture on how to behave during the ceremony. I would have thought this a pointless exercise, but my fellow passport-hungry peers were nodding with such enthusiasm that perhaps not.
Given that we all had to say our names aloud and then go up and receive our certificate to general applause, have a hand shake with the deputy mayor (a sweet but impossible to understand West Indian man with an indecipherable thick heavy accent) and pose for a picture (which we were told we could purchase later on for £15 to remember our 'special day'), the ceremony dragged on. I used the time to take note of the crazy sounding names and everyones country of origin.
Of the sixty or so of us present the breakdown was as follows: 85% Nigerians, 10% other African countries, 5% other (I was sole Canadian, there was one Aussie, on Kiwi, two Chinese, three Yugoslavians and one Vietnamese...).
All in all I am rather pleased. I've waited many years (almost 13) for this and i can finally cross off 'become a Brit' from my various to-do lists i've had over the years. It's been sheer laziness that's kept me from doing it, but I'm grateful I did at last. Now maybe my accent will come on with leaps and bounds and I'll stop being treated like a damn tourist.
Or maybe not.
Thursday, 4 October 2007
"Tragedy...When the Feeling Comes You Can’t Go On...It’s Tragedy"
Lying in bed the other night with my man, we had a most interesting conversation about how some people are just tragic and/or lead tragic lives, while others seem able to pass through life unscathed and untouched by tragedy altogether – regardless of what hardships they might endure. (Well it WAS interesting until I made a particularly good point and was pleased by the immediate lack of retort – then realised he was snoring.) But I digress. Allow me to explain.
In my mind, tragedy is like a magnet. If you possess certain pre-determined magnetic qualities yourself then you will find yourself at the mercy of all life has to throw at you. You'll be making headway in your life and then one day all of the sudden you'll find yourself yanked cruelly backward as if on a leash. Tragedy is a cruel master, if only because it allows you great swathes of time in which you are not burdened by sadness or riddled with pain. Sometimes you can even feel as though you might be normal and your past has merely been a series of unfortunate events which have conspired to make you miserable for a time.
But alas, tragedy will seek you out when you least expect it and deliver such a devastating blow to your innermost soul that you wonder if this is 'it'…if it is going to be what finally pushes you over the edge and lands you in 'crazy street person' territory (well they had to start somewhere didn't they?). Either you or your fellow tragic loved ones will be pulled down and under, helplessly struggling like doomed carp.
It doesn't seem fair. Others seem to be built a different way and utterly immune to tragedy. As if sporting different circuit boards in their souls they by no means escape hardship (death, disease, disappointment, loss…all those lovely rites of passage). Yet somehow, vast groups of mankind appear to remain free of the tragic element in their lives, and just, for lack of a better term, 'get through it'.
I can't 'get through it…never could. Secretly I am envious and puzzled by those who can. I feel things more than most people. My whole family does. Certain moments and events are painted with such bittersweet strokes that I emerge changed and altered in some way. My life often feels like a Russian novel whilst others appear to be living in a modern day sitcom.
I suspect it has something to do with possessing a higher than average emotional I.Q. That is just a theory of course, but one I'm sticking with as it's the most complimentary. The other possibilities don't bear thinking about thank you very much.
Let me give you an example. Suppose you one day come across an old yearbook. A normal person might reflect on funny or especially poignant memories from that time, while idly wondering what their old mates are up to. Me, well I slip soundlessly into a 'K-hole' of sorts and allow my brain to revisit another time. I thrash soundlessly inside while mentally and emotionally reliving hardcore memories and am thrown off course for the rest of the day.
You see my past is so riddled with tragedy and tragic moments that it's almost like an acid-flashback and the pain is practically as intense as it was when first experienced…just farther away. That is why I have to be careful listening to certain songs at certain times. If I'm not I'll be swept away by lethal tides of nostalgia and longing which prove dehabilatating and render me useless at doing anything but starely fixedly into the distance and trying frantically to reign in my emotions.
Thinking about it, that may be the source of my pathological love of books and movies. I am the ultimate escape artist – always have been. Even as a child I knew that I was in for a wild ride, and I learned early on that if you have nowhere to run then you may as well hide.
So I'm off to do just that. Chapter four....page sixty-three....
In my mind, tragedy is like a magnet. If you possess certain pre-determined magnetic qualities yourself then you will find yourself at the mercy of all life has to throw at you. You'll be making headway in your life and then one day all of the sudden you'll find yourself yanked cruelly backward as if on a leash. Tragedy is a cruel master, if only because it allows you great swathes of time in which you are not burdened by sadness or riddled with pain. Sometimes you can even feel as though you might be normal and your past has merely been a series of unfortunate events which have conspired to make you miserable for a time.
But alas, tragedy will seek you out when you least expect it and deliver such a devastating blow to your innermost soul that you wonder if this is 'it'…if it is going to be what finally pushes you over the edge and lands you in 'crazy street person' territory (well they had to start somewhere didn't they?). Either you or your fellow tragic loved ones will be pulled down and under, helplessly struggling like doomed carp.
It doesn't seem fair. Others seem to be built a different way and utterly immune to tragedy. As if sporting different circuit boards in their souls they by no means escape hardship (death, disease, disappointment, loss…all those lovely rites of passage). Yet somehow, vast groups of mankind appear to remain free of the tragic element in their lives, and just, for lack of a better term, 'get through it'.
I can't 'get through it…never could. Secretly I am envious and puzzled by those who can. I feel things more than most people. My whole family does. Certain moments and events are painted with such bittersweet strokes that I emerge changed and altered in some way. My life often feels like a Russian novel whilst others appear to be living in a modern day sitcom.
I suspect it has something to do with possessing a higher than average emotional I.Q. That is just a theory of course, but one I'm sticking with as it's the most complimentary. The other possibilities don't bear thinking about thank you very much.
Let me give you an example. Suppose you one day come across an old yearbook. A normal person might reflect on funny or especially poignant memories from that time, while idly wondering what their old mates are up to. Me, well I slip soundlessly into a 'K-hole' of sorts and allow my brain to revisit another time. I thrash soundlessly inside while mentally and emotionally reliving hardcore memories and am thrown off course for the rest of the day.
You see my past is so riddled with tragedy and tragic moments that it's almost like an acid-flashback and the pain is practically as intense as it was when first experienced…just farther away. That is why I have to be careful listening to certain songs at certain times. If I'm not I'll be swept away by lethal tides of nostalgia and longing which prove dehabilatating and render me useless at doing anything but starely fixedly into the distance and trying frantically to reign in my emotions.
Thinking about it, that may be the source of my pathological love of books and movies. I am the ultimate escape artist – always have been. Even as a child I knew that I was in for a wild ride, and I learned early on that if you have nowhere to run then you may as well hide.
So I'm off to do just that. Chapter four....page sixty-three....
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Things That Go Bump...
Made the mistake last night in bed of watching 'Stir Of Echoes' - a horror film starring Kevin Bacon. Amazing i know, that I could be scared out of my wits by a film that stars Kevin Bacon - but there you go. Every single time a movie starts and that creepy music begins and the camera starts sweeping across ominous barren landscapes or creepy grandfather clocks or scary house interiors, I know that I should just click the remote control and switch to an old 'Friends' rerun or a music video channel. But i just can't help myself.
You see i LOVE scary movies...but i hate them too. Like rubber-necking a fatal accident on a congested motorway, I just can't help myself from looking. I mean, to be fair, there is only one type of horror movie that i absolutely can't bear and that's the kind that involves supernatural ghosts/demons/other miscellaneous spirits. Anything to do with the supernatural that involves apparitions or deeply evil voices speaking forth from innocent looking kiddies gets me every time.
The problem is that when i find myself alone at night my brilliantly over-active imagination often conjures things up and I find myself imagining I can almost see/hear things that go bump in the night. It's the frustrated actor in me i suppose, but i'll tell you what, the mind is a strange thing and shadows and house creaks at night often fall prey to my strange mental wanderings and i find myself cursing the last horror flick i saw.
Strangely enough, for whatever reason, I find myself able to watch gore or people being sawed up into tiny pieces. I actually sat through 'Hostel' (which I must tell you is only for the strong of stomach) which depicted rather realistic torture scenes and hacking people to death. I was repelled but intrigued. Go figure (maybe i'm a sicko at heart?!)
Anyway, being a fan of Kevin Bacon I allowed myself to watch half of the movie last night, but when the little boy in the film said (in a ominous husky man voice):
"Leave the boy alone and talk to ME"
that's when i switched the telly off and picked up my library book that I've been trying to get through for ages and have renewed three times and stubbornly refuse to give up on. It's by A.M. Homes and is called, 'This Book Will Save Your Life'. Go figure.
You see i LOVE scary movies...but i hate them too. Like rubber-necking a fatal accident on a congested motorway, I just can't help myself from looking. I mean, to be fair, there is only one type of horror movie that i absolutely can't bear and that's the kind that involves supernatural ghosts/demons/other miscellaneous spirits. Anything to do with the supernatural that involves apparitions or deeply evil voices speaking forth from innocent looking kiddies gets me every time.
The problem is that when i find myself alone at night my brilliantly over-active imagination often conjures things up and I find myself imagining I can almost see/hear things that go bump in the night. It's the frustrated actor in me i suppose, but i'll tell you what, the mind is a strange thing and shadows and house creaks at night often fall prey to my strange mental wanderings and i find myself cursing the last horror flick i saw.
Strangely enough, for whatever reason, I find myself able to watch gore or people being sawed up into tiny pieces. I actually sat through 'Hostel' (which I must tell you is only for the strong of stomach) which depicted rather realistic torture scenes and hacking people to death. I was repelled but intrigued. Go figure (maybe i'm a sicko at heart?!)
Anyway, being a fan of Kevin Bacon I allowed myself to watch half of the movie last night, but when the little boy in the film said (in a ominous husky man voice):
"Leave the boy alone and talk to ME"
that's when i switched the telly off and picked up my library book that I've been trying to get through for ages and have renewed three times and stubbornly refuse to give up on. It's by A.M. Homes and is called, 'This Book Will Save Your Life'. Go figure.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Moronic Morons
It's 1:30am and I'm up with two mentalists having a somewhat moronic conversation about what constitutes a 'moron'. This is somewhat relevant because I was lovingly accusing someone of being a moron and they (rightly so) turned it right back at me and accused ME of being a moron. Upon reflection I had to agree.
A moron is someone who is being a loser but doesn't have to be. Well that's what my definition happens to be anyway. I think though, i'd rather be a moron than a loser because there at least is a nugget of hope in a moron's future, whereas a loser by definition seems to be marked from birth. Again, this is merely my definition.
Why do I and two others find ourselves up in the wee hours of the night discussing something so pointless yet depressing? Well it doesn't help that we're listening to an itunes playlist that borders on suicidal. It also doesn't help that we (okay mainly me) indulged in too many fresh powdered mini donuts about a hour ago and are now coming down off a catastrophic sugar high.
So anyway, being a moron, i'm going to go to bed. Why subject moronic mutterings to the world at large? I'd best brush my stupid teeth, then pop out my contacts and flick them across the room indifferently before burying my moronic self under my cozy duvet.
All you morons out there, please get in touch. We are going to start a new tribe. The Order of the Moronic Morons. In your application please state which attributes you possess which make you suitabe for inclusion. No need to enclose a picture. Beauty is irrelevant. We are only interested in what lies beneath.
Come all ye who are stupid and weary...we shall talk about conquering the world whilst doing sweet F___ all. Come.
A moron is someone who is being a loser but doesn't have to be. Well that's what my definition happens to be anyway. I think though, i'd rather be a moron than a loser because there at least is a nugget of hope in a moron's future, whereas a loser by definition seems to be marked from birth. Again, this is merely my definition.
Why do I and two others find ourselves up in the wee hours of the night discussing something so pointless yet depressing? Well it doesn't help that we're listening to an itunes playlist that borders on suicidal. It also doesn't help that we (okay mainly me) indulged in too many fresh powdered mini donuts about a hour ago and are now coming down off a catastrophic sugar high.
So anyway, being a moron, i'm going to go to bed. Why subject moronic mutterings to the world at large? I'd best brush my stupid teeth, then pop out my contacts and flick them across the room indifferently before burying my moronic self under my cozy duvet.
All you morons out there, please get in touch. We are going to start a new tribe. The Order of the Moronic Morons. In your application please state which attributes you possess which make you suitabe for inclusion. No need to enclose a picture. Beauty is irrelevant. We are only interested in what lies beneath.
Come all ye who are stupid and weary...we shall talk about conquering the world whilst doing sweet F___ all. Come.
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