I'd say 'stay tuned', but that would imply that:
I) I can carry a tune.
II) This is a tune.
III) This is the telly.
IV) This is radio.
V) This isn't stupid.
VI) This is worth returning for.
And I would hate to disappoint you, loyal man. Also, in case this goes too far down and we lose the post below which rambles on about your paper, Thomas, will you send me a copy when you've finished writing it? I don't want to critique it or anything - that's reserved solely for people who I think are idiots - I am just interested to see where you have taken the idea/why. :).
That's how. For now. Sorry. British children's television reference.
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Apparently "I got the time wrong", and so I do in fact have another 10 minutes until I have to leave. I'm assuming that when my friend told me that "I had the time wrong", what she really meant was "I only just got in from whatever I've been doing and thus will be late to our meeting, hence why I am pretending that you said we should meet later than you actually said. I'm doing this to cover up my own inadequacies even though I know you said 2.15, not 2.30, because I have the text message right here -- just like you do" or something. I love her to pieces, but my lord her time-keeping is an abortion of woefulness. I'm not a stickler for punctuality. And by 'I'm not', I mean 'I am'. So yes, I'm just going to ramble benignly until I have to leave. I don't want to crunch into my hot-topic just yet, because it would be awful for me to come prematurely to my nexus. No one wants an intellectually premature nexus ejaculation. That would be appalling. Imagine the horror. Wow, I didn't do too well at this whole 'harmless rambling'. OK, harmless. Yes. I was in a café this morning with my friend - I'm just Mr. Popular today - and there was this adorable little boy, called Noah. He was such a sweetheart and Heidi got all emotional and started getting her brood on. If low levels of bloody oestrogen cause that much maternal instinct then I'm fucking glad I'm not a chick. Damn, she almost broke down in fits of tears simply because he sat there banging his head against a chair and then saying "ow". He was at that annoying age where they're incredibly perceptive, too, and intuitive. I meant to say something like "if we're not ready for it", and accidentally said "if we're ready for it not" or something, and he just turned to me with this simpering (can a child simper? That's not the word I wanted. I wanted something that begins with 'c' but I can't remember what it is. Coy. Coquettish. Something like that, but not those. That would be disgusting) grin and said "NOT". I was like,... oh come on, my stupid lack of ability to speak is being scrutinised by a fucking four-year-old. That's not a good situation to be in. Not good at all. He was a darling though. Really nice café too. It's a great discovery when you realise there is a place you can get takeaway coffee on the way to university without having to go a step out of your way. That's awesome. She's such a sweetheart, the woman who owns it: keeps giving us free internet, and ludicrously over the top drinks just because we've been in there once or twice. She helped us house-hunt. With a giant magnifying glass.
Sorry. Good news is that I have to leave now. Normal service will be resumed later when I can be assed. Never fear that my blog is going to descend into the hormone-addled, emotional liturgy of an adolescent self-pitying moron. If it does get too stilted and self-degrading please step in and punch my repeatedly in the face. That would go nicely with my BROKEN HEART AND SOUL. Ha. Life.
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You know why I fucking hate cleaning? Because you can't achieve anything. Ever. Literally. And I mean literally in its literal sense. As in there is no possibility of achieving anything. You can spend fourteen-hundred-million hours dusting, only to find that three days later you've got dust on every single surface. Plus it means that when you tell people they spout that utter rubbish that "most dust is made up of human skin". Well, no, it's not. Try to back up your mindless claims with something other than "someone told me". Yeah, someone once told me that God created the world. Most dust is made up of crap. Dirt and shit that falls off every surface and object. Not skin. Get out. You don't deserve skin. I'm going to make a rug with your skin. And what's with these wipes that claim they can clean everything, and repel the dust from accumulating afterwards? Isn't that just a flagrant lie? Based on my case study of my room, over a period of a day it is clear that there is no such thing that repels dust. It just... lands, and sits. Then there's vacuuming, or hoovering -- whichever you prefer to call it. Even the fact that it has two names irritates me. I hate it. Go away. It's just. Grr. Especially because our vacuum cleaner is so ineffectual, it's like breathing gently on a kiln to heat it up. A puff of wind trying to move the Goliath of fluff which somehow seems to think it's allowable to fall off everything I own. Someone needs to make clothing capable of staying together. I can't help but feel we'd complain if other things we used fell apart after 8 uses. I know I'd get pretty annoyed if my roof caved in every time it rained. Also, tumble drying: fuck off. Stop shrinking everything. Who invented this? A mangle would have been much better. Someone invent an automated mangle, and then send me one. And make it foldable. But self-put-upable. I don't want to have to employ manual labour in order to dry my clothes. Oh and if anyone thinks I should use an airer, they can fuck off. I can't use an airer because I'm too lazy to put it up. They're like the Rubik's Cubes of household practicality: no one can use them, and they serve no purpose thusly. What a fucking horrible sentence. Sorry I'm swearing so much, but I seem to have spent the past three days constantly surrounded by kids - which sounds good - and have I have had to censor any kind of expletive that might escape from my lips. I did try replacing swear-words with nouns, like "what a walling bottle day" for "what a fucking shit day" or something. Turns out it's incredibly difficult. You end up replacing the nouns with other nouns, so you end up saying "what a fucking shit wall", which makes no sense: I don't have the training, nor qualifications, to judge masonry or the quality of a wall. I know that mortar is a useless weapon on most games made before 2004, and that it has something to do with sticking bricks together - but I don't think that qualifies me to make a judgement on the poor walls. Mother-lighter walls. So that can suck my towel. Also, other cleaning like polishing. Who even does that? Who has stuff to polish anymore? The only things that are worth polishing are things that you should touch as infrequently as is possible, because they're always priceless. Which is a stupid concept. 5000km of Britain's roads are worth roughly £65 billion, but we cannot value your chintzy little Toby Jug. Or Tobie. I don't know do I? I'm not some kind of 'expert'. That's a misuse of that word. You should only be allowed to call yourself an expert if your training is in a field which has some practical use. Antiques have absolutely no use. Except for increasing polishing. The stretched corollary to that being that anything qualifies as an 'antique' increases enslavement, and the hiring of slaves and servants. Your hoarding directly sets back the forward movement of human rights. How does that make you feel? Your whole profession undermines the advancement of fundamental human rights. Ha. You're a horrible person. Unless you're that orange guy who is on TV, although not so much anymore. He was great. It was like he glowed. I once caught radiation-poisoning simply from being in the same house as a TV which had him on once in a while. I almost died. Like that guy who got poisoned. Russian? Something like that. God knows. My general knowledge suffers when I'm just typing non-stop and not even bothering to put in paragraphs, or impose any kind of structure on things.
I'm done. Tired. Etc..
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