The Titanic sank at sea

It’s ok. It’s all ok. It’s not as if it can get any worse, right?

My mantra for god knows how long has been that worse things have happened at sea. Worse things have happened at sea. It’s true. People fucking die at sea. People freeze and drown and get eaten by octopus. Worse things happen at sea than 6000 words to be written in under a week. Oh, did I mention the lecture I have to give in three days? No? Well there we go.

Oh damn I’m having a freak out aren’t I? It’s angsty and it’s something a teenage girl would say but I’m having trouble breathing. Douglas Adams comes to mind with his everlasting advice of “DON’T PANIC” but I’m not panicking I’m just freaking the fuck out.

But worse things have happened at sea.

Packing things away, getting ready to go.

I have a lot of drafts. My blog is a drafty place. Here they are.

-Untitled
So you see there’s this guy, right, and he’s with his girlfriend on the bus (where I seem to encounter a few interesting people these days) and they’re having an argument or a discussion or something. I can’t tell from where I’m sitting. What I can tell, right, is that the girl’s mad at the guy or concerned at the guy or something. Basically she’s the one that’s in some form of distress. Now, this damsel is doing the works; concerned frown, short, quick gestures with her hands and a little bit of hope lingering on her lips. The guy though – this swooping knight in shining armour that’s supposed to rescue her or something – he’s just like sitting there confused. He’s got a little frown too, right, but it’s a frown like he doesn’t know what to do.

I can sympathise.

Anyway, so this girl who’s talking to him about her parents or her problems or her choices or whatever, she gets a little mad. Like, angry mad, right?

—

-Untitled
So, I’m a room. It’s a big room, a little too big for my

—

-Because anything else I write is riddled with too much feeling
Films! I’ve been holed up in the flat sick as a dog for the past few days so I thought I’d recount some of the films I’ve watched. And other things. Like TV.

First up is the much too short Afro Samurai which I will let people borrow as soon as I make my way through the special features. The only problem that I’ll highlight first would be the appalling lip-syncing. It’s as if Samuel L Jackson looked at his characters and said “Fuck it, I don’t want no mother fuckin’ restrictions on my mother fuckin’ lines” so there’s the occasional weird jarring when the character is shouting and good old Samuel is whispering something. Other than that everything was seamless. I watched it over two days and I really wished I could’ve watched it in one. The animation was seamless, the action was perfect, and I only saw a single example of a reused scene. And the teddy bear! I liked him better when he didn’t take off his mask but still he was awesome all the same. It was brilliant.

Another on the anime list would be the second series of The Big-O which I’ve laughed at so many times just because it’s slang for orgasm. It’s a classic series, made by the same people and (roughly) at the same time as Cowboy Bebop, and it’s occasionally very ridiculous. The age on it shows in its story and characters, but it’s made up for by the style and the overall feel. The main guy’s car is pretty awesome, and Big-O itself thankfully spirals away from the generic design of most mecha-suits. It’s surprisingly easy to get into for a second series. Usually shows require in depth knowledge of the previous series before moving on to a new one, but this one sits you right in without missing a beat. Though, saying that, I do wish I had seen the entirety of the first series; I have vague childhood memories of watching it and becoming perplexed at the surreal stage sets at the beginning and end. Still, it’s a good show.

Took another bash at Lucky Number Slevin the other day and by God I forget how much I love that film. I think it’s the amazing cast really (with the exception of Josh Hartnett, but he actually manages to pull off a good show this time round), but just the overall art nouveau style and Noir-ish sentiment going along with whip crack dialogue makes it phwoar. I know that previous sentence made no sense but hey ho.

—

-Untitled
Right now I’m a little annoyed and very tired but mostly just feeling annoyed at myself for making the silly promise of not stalking people. See if I stalk people then I can justify feeling sad right now, because then shadowy thoughts are confirmed and

—

-Untitled
I have a new bus now. It’s better than the old one, in that it’s ten minutes faster and doesn’t go through the area that makes me ashamed to be human.

The part I like most about this new bus route though would be the walk I get when I step off it. My old bus deposited me in the centre of Glasgow, right beside a newsagent that sold my brand and a cash machine if I was low on change. And a bakery. That was nice too I guess. But this new bus deposits me a good five minutes away from my old stop, right in the middle of the merchant city.

—

-You’re barred, mate
“That guy is a fucking wank!” he yells, slurring but eloquent. He takes a drink from his glass (his ninth pint that night, lying to his girlfriend beside him when he whispers it’s his third) and slams the bottom back down on the table. He’s a dick. He’s a complete and utter dick, but somehow I like him. He was at least more interesting than anyone else sitting at the table.

“Yeah, but why is he a wank?” I ask too flippantly, too casually, realising as soon as I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. I had mistaken him, just in that single moment, for someone else.

—

-Untitled
Lets take a second here, shall we? Just a second.

I had a good day yesterday (if you take away the sole reason which made it not a good day, but we won’t go into that)

—

-This post definitely isn’t about you
Unless you’ve found me somehow which I doubt

How do you do it? How do you creep under my skin so easily?

I’ve complained about my bad memory before. I’ve been so angry at myself for saying things and then forgetting them so I can’t apologise. In a sense it gives me the ultimate freedom, that I can say and do pretty much anything I like and within a week I’ll forget I ever thought about doing it. But it comes at such a cost when someone reminds you of you’ve said and done, when they tell you meaning to be a funny little anecdote and it sounds like something you would say and so it’s likely that you did say it (but sometimes you are reminded in hot headed revenge, which sucks really).

So I have a horrible memory. Truly horrible. But then why can’t I forget on command? No, lets be specific, why can’t I forget you on command? Yes you

—

-This post probably is about you
If you still read here

I’m gonna pull you in close,
Gonna wrap you up tight,
Gonna play with the braids
that you came in here with tonight.
I’m gonna hold your face,
and toast the snow that
fell.

I can’t remember the last time I got high. I just have this one memory of one fantastic time. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe from laughing. I danced and some people faced my selotape. I woke up with cotton mouth and a cut on my forehead.

—

-Tiredness kills
And maims and injures and hurts. But mainly it kills. It kills a lot of good people.

It’s worse than alcohol really. Alcohol is bad, I know, but it’s not as bad as being tired. When you’re drunk you’re loud and obnoxious and you do things you wouldn’t usually do, but when you’re tired your mind shuts down. Completely. The biggest regrets I can list in my life are things I’ve said or done when I’m tired.

But let me define this tiredness. It isn’t the eyes burning sluggish tired. It’s a whole different tiredness altogether. It’s a tiredness that takes hold when you’re about to fall asleep, or when you’ve just fallen asleep, and someone disturbs you. You say and do so many things because you are so tired. You can’t think. Images blur in lust.

—

-Untitled
Oh lord oh lord you’ve made it.

You wanna drag your hearse in? You wanna rush your-?

Be my fucking guest.

Here are things that you don’t want to know about me

I love the smell of my urine after I’ve had a few cups of coffee.

The thought of a girl having an orgasm makes my stomach twist and my mind cloud pink.

I once ripped my banjo string during sex. It hurt.

I can’t work a condom.

I often smell of shit.

The slightest thing can put me into a horny frenzy. An example of this would be glimpsing the top of some girls stockings.

I think about my ex’s when I masturbate. Sorry to any of them who read this.

I love the word cunt.

My Dad is ashamed of me, and I am ashamed of him.

I lie about things before I can stop myself.

I use people as a means to an end.

I learned how to do this from TV.

I know my dreams will come true.

Interjection

I can find nothing to blog about anymore. Yes, this is a phase, yes, it will be over. But will it be over in twenty-one days?

I like making things cyclical. Whenever I start a notebook I try to finish it a year after it was started, or after some big event. Notebooks signify a beginning and end for me. Blogs are the same. Things begin, things end, and I like recording when they do.

I have a notebook lasting my entire first year of university. One page at a time I budgeted and doodled and left myself scathingly witty comments. And a year to the day I started it I finished it. Another notebook was started the day before my relationship with Charlotte began, and I finished it the day after it all ended. Four previous blogs also stand testament to this.

And so I have twenty-one days. What should I write about?

I always seem to get myself into the funnest trouble ever

Lets put it this way, inaction is more preferable than action. So much more preferable. If you have the choice of doing something and doing nothing at all then it’s going to be a good bet that you’re not going to anything. You’re just going to sit there. But the problem of sitting there is that, while it is easier, it’s worse. If you just sit there you get bored. You get hungry. It’s like a slow torture really. And everything kind of builds up around you. The dishes don’t get done, you don’t shower, you don’t even go to bed. You just sit and you don’t do a thing.

I think I’ll get up now.

No restraining order can keep me from you

Ok, I have a stick in my hand. It’s long and pointy. No, it’s sharp. Really sharp. It’s so sharp that it’s got blood on the tip. I don’t really know who’s blood though. Probably the poor fucker before me.

Anyway, here I am. I’m on my island again by the way. I’m just on my island with my stick and a hulking organism in front of me. I say hulking, but it’s quite small, it’s throbbing in a way that seems justified to call hulking. It’s small and it’s slimy and hard but soft. I sometimes forget it’s there, you know? Like how sometimes you forget you’re on a bus; you still know it, but you’re not thinking about it, so you’ve forgotten about it. Anyway, now I remember it’s there, and it’s there right now and I have this stick in my hand. So I poke it. I poke it really hard. It makes a farting sound and the point of the stick is shining again with more blood. I poke it again and again and it just farts and slowly tries to crawl away.

I reach down and pick it up and it seems to shrink in my hand. It’s cold, but I don’t know if it’s just cold because my hand is so hot. My skin feels like it’s burning with anger you see, I forgot to mention that. Everything’s so angry about me recently. I was wandering by a bridge and found myself wanting to demolish it, just punch it into dust. Anyway, so I’m holding this thing in my hand is trying to get away, but at the same time it’s trying to stay because it’s warming up. I poke it with the stick again and the farting noise sounds more like a snarl, so I bring the thing up to my ear and I can hear it whispering. It’s whispering gently, but the pace is so rapid. There’s this long string of obscenities, constant and flowing like a silent, angry river. I poke it again and it snarls, but it sounds hurt. So I poke it again and again and again but the little bastard won’t die.

Oh, and before I forget

Fuck you fuck you fuck you. I know I’m a screwy little fuck up and I have no right but fuck you because goddamn if you make me feel bad about myself.

It’s time to go

liar liar pants on fire halfway down the telephone wire

I have a problem with smelling bad

It’s true. I have a problem with smelling bad. It worries me. I’ve got to spend excess time out of any residential home, so if I smell then it usually means I smell from 10am to 10pm. Sure, I can get a can of deodorant and gas chamber myself into smelling nice, but it’s always there. The fear of the smell, the feel of the smell on my skin. Usually it feels warm. Not a clammy sweaty warm but just like my skins becomes a warm blanket. It’s become infected with this smell and I know that the smell will be there until I scrub it off. Until then it’s just waiting for me to let my guard to, for me to run out of deodorant.

God. I feel all warm. I wish I could sweat and get it over with. The anticipation, the waiting, the fear of the smell coming that makes me pace myself on hills and take off my jacket if I’m too warm. If I smell then I smell and I can douse myself in scent again.

This is an unrelated tangent, but I feel like I should mention it. I was at a house party the night before last and I got really drunk. It was one of those times where I poured double measures too early and drank quickly because I was bored. Basically I got pretty wasted. Eventually there was throwing up and a shower scene and toffees flying at an amazing rate that it gave me a fat lip. But that’s not the point of the story. There was this guy there, some guy I don’t know but I think his name was Stuart. He had a shaved head and wore square glasses. Black shirt, dark jeans. Maybe a tattoo somewhere maybe. The point is when he got drunk, he got quiet. He might’ve mixed his drink with a good number of drugs, I don’t know, but he pretty much stayed suspended in different spots for the entire night. Now when I get drunk I get loud and more arrogant than usual. Everything’s funny, and despite my wit and charm being somewhat dulled by the alcohol, they’re both still as quick as ever. Quicker maybe, with less hesitation like a drunken foot pounding on the accelerator.

Anyway, this guy, this maybe Stuart, he was watching me. He had his eyes half closed, the pupils rolling lazily but still looking at me, and half-heartedly trying to lift a glass to his lips. I sauntered over to him and sat on the couch, looking at him and grinning like a fool.

“You alright mate? You look wasted.”

The way his head moves is like the way the world turns; slowly, but with a definite purpose. He blinked one long heavy blink and tried to sneer.

“You,” he told me, slowly, powerfully, meaningfully, unendingly, “are a fucking dick.”

“Yes,” I retorted straight away, “I am. But you’re the only one who’s noticed it so far.”

He continued his long rolling stare for a while before lifting his arm to my face. It was a slow cumbersome movement, and with great effort he lifted his hand and dragged it across my face. He seemed to pinch the air at my chin, and with all the drunken strength he could master his pulled his arm away and it looked like he was throwing something out of sight. He leered at me a while longer before I grew bored and started talking to an American named Emily (I mention her name because it’s one of three names I definitely remember). I turned round again briefly and he was gone, and I never saw him again.

Oh! And I just found out I don’t have to be in class again for 2 hours. This has made me so happy because I’m drowning drowning drowning in everything.

People I know (4)

This is Ross. While he was not the first person to give me weed, nor the first person to hook me up with a nice stash, he was the first who showed me how fun it could actually be. He was there on my eighteenth birthday and plagued me with shots of alcohol. He gave me my first Jager-Bomb. My first Cement-Mixer. My first Car-Bomb. He’s made me throw up more times than anyone has before in my life. He carried me home after I fell from the kerb and sprained my ankle. He put me to bed when I was so completely wasted out of my mind. He took me for a drive when I was so angry at everything and gave me a cigarette when I made a snow-angel on the road. He gave me cigarettes when I was out and stole mine when I had too many. He was my player 2 in Halo 3 and he was always on hand with a hangover cure. He has given me so much music and opened doors to a world of experiences.

But now, because of my brother, we can’t really be friends anymore. Which fucking sucks.