A sad song about lemons.

2007-11-08T23:55:00.000+02:00

But is it arson?

2007-09-01T00:16:00.000+02:00

My blog update on Nick

2007-06-20T12:45:00.000+02:00

Hello everyone, man and woman that reads this blog sometime.

Today I am going to talk about my friend Nick, because I think it will be fab.

Okay so this is Nick. I drew a picture of him too. But Nick does not really look like an anencephalic circle. He just looks that way because I can't draw. I am very sorry Nick. You might wonder why Nick is not smiling, because circles drawn in MS Paint smile usually. If you want me to be very honest I don't know either.

Smile, Nick!

As you can see, Nick loves to smile! Like really, I shit you not.

Nick sometimes like to tell people that they smell. This is very weird because some of them don't smell at all! I'm really serious about this. I smelled them myself. Also I wash every day so I don't smell either. So sometimes I wonder if Nick is just smelling things.

Here is a picture of Nick telling people that they smell. Nick doesn't really say "LOL", by the way. I just thought it would look nice. Also I don't think he says "u" with a letter u. But you can never be sure with Nick.

Nick smells special. You can usually smell it from two meters away. The smell is hard to describe. It is like old laundry and sunshine and deodorant, except without the deodorant sometimes. It is a nice smell. I am not the only one who thinks this!!! in case anyone out there thinks I am a weirdo or like fun-smelling people because I am a fetishist. Amber also thinks that the smell is very nice. Amber looks like a kitten. Amber is adorable and I wish they made plushies of her so I could buy one and dress it up in my old grey socks. They are good grey socks in case you might think I am cheap.

Nick has a twin brother. His name is Timothy. They look similar but not like the same or anything. Timothy also smells special. It is nice.

Nick and Tim take turns smelling like laundry and sunshine.

Nick likes to be on the computer. I drew him sitting on top of the computer because that's being on the computer too. Ha ha ha. GET IT? What, you think that is not very funny? Well you suck dongs too, meanie.

A lot of people say that Nick looks like a bunny. This is true. Nick looks like a bunny only with not so much fur and no ears and no tail and he would look strange on the cover of Playboy. On the picture you might think you are seeing two Nicks or maybe Nick and Tim, and you might be suprised! Don't worry, you are not drunk or dying or anything. That's just Amber behind Nick giving him bunny ears. I am sorry for the inconvenience or if you think that Nick looks more like an alarm clock there.

Sometimes when I want to mess up Nick's hair it doesn't work because Nick wears gel and it gets hard. Do you know what else is hard? Yes you are correct. A calculus test is very hard too.

Here is Nick with Jeremy. They are BFF. No BFF does not mean Big French Faggots. It means Best Friends Forever...Frank. I don't know where Frank comes from but you can be very sure that Frank has a handlebar moustache and doesn't mow his lawn very often. As you can see Jeremy is the only one smiling in the picture because cool people usually smile like that. But if you look very carefully you can see that Nick is smiling inside.

Nick's other BFF is his left hand. Naughty Nick.

Nick is also a compulsive liar.

But Nick is still awesome and love.

Sometimes Google spits in my meal

2007-06-06T05:51:00.000+02:00

I'll be looking for pictures on Google ImageSearch, and there will be a result that is so explosively irrelevant that it makes me question what kind of sick freak likes to label their fruitbowl photos with tags like "College School Sluts".

Here is a result for 'hot lesbian cop'.

It just looks like a County board meeting to me. Where is my hot lesbian cop? I don't see it!

Maybe I'm just not as perceptive as some. Maybe the lesbian cop is hidden somewhere in this picture, in the disturbingly shiny table. Maybe she is seeking refuge behind the pasty posterior of Master Jim and his receding hairline. The guy second to the left looks like his incognito disguise is slowly sinking into his big doughy face, while he can do nothing but resign to his fate of many chins and looking like a Jewish bagel.

The best thing about this image is probably the checkerboard tie. It looks so debonair, so out of place in this dismal scene of conservative shareholders and laser hair surgery candidates.

What about 'hunky men in hammer and sickle attire'? I wish to soothe my eyes with images of sexy virile males who like to indulge in the healthy sexual liberation that comes with donning communistic paraphernalia.

Thanks Google. Way to remind me that women sometimes like to carry their offspring on their back, slung inside what looks to be a gigantic tablecloth.

This is a result for 'quantum physics'.

I'm not sure as to the significance of this one. Perhaps quantum physics is somehow required to explain the need to hoist his sizable goods up in a socially apprehensive fashion. Maybe science isn't really the answer to everything and what we see here is just God holding his string-bikini together in a desperate bid to prevent his crotch from leaking out and beginning the reign of the Beast.

I used to want to be a marine biologist. That was until I realized it was a thankless profession, anchovy reek and nauseating seasickness aside. Looking at National Geographic, being too lazy to change the channel and subjecting myself to many a dolphin documentary, it occurred to me that there must be a lot more 'unhappy marine biologist's than the world lets on.

What part of "UNHAPPY" don't you understand, ImageSearch? Screw you. Now I have a headache.

'will ferrell with his eyes far apart'. I think he'd look a lot better that way.

It looks like Will won't need his eyes far apart any longer. Hawaiian Hillbilly and his man-eating guitar got to him first.

'treehouses that are painted red'

As you can tell, I'm very lazy with this 'blog update' thing. They just sort of trail off into nothingness as I feel it steadily less necessary to move my fingers in a meaningful fashion.

Hey guys, A road trip!

2007-05-13T09:08:00.000+02:00

Take this turn!

The conflicting internal observations of Carl Reuters

2007-03-22T19:44:00.000+02:00

I do not muse. I simply drawl from between my thighs and hope that my audience is unable to tell the difference. In my case, the fact that the writer is the sole reader defeats the purpose of my small cultural rebellion.

I blame inanimate objects for my marital troubles, simply because they seem to be the only manifestations of this wretched physical world men have not thought of to use as scapegoats. In the grand scheme of things, this is of small consequence. But to me, the overwhelming logical sensibilitly of the notion is enough to keep my mind occupied for days on end.

The day Carrie filed for divorce, I was less than surprised. After all, the mundane routine that all marriages are susceptible to have finally taken their toll and formed tired rings around her ankles (housesocks have been reknowned for comfort, but in this case even they can become bothersome). I said to her, "You can keep the furniture, and the children, and my red diary. No, not the one covered in leather. The other one."

“Joke some more, Carl.”

She replied that we do not have children, and that I do not have a diary other than the one covered in red leather. Her failure to mention the furniture confirmed my suspicions that they are indeed the objects of her desire. My wood had become obsolete.

I will continue calling Carrie 'dear' and 'love' and 'sweetheart', not because I mean it - but because like a tap unable to control the rancid droplets falling from its maw, I cannot stop them spilling from my lips. I soothe the awkwardness by smiling in a whimsical manner.

"You'll miss me," I mumble impishly.

"Will I?"

Self-sufficient wench. She will miss the smell of ink as I sprawl my notebook on the kitchen table to dry. She will miss the taste of scotch and tobacco on my collarbone. She will no longer experience the same anxious thrill as I lock myself in the master bedroom to reshuffle my priorities. What has the old pleather sofa to offer, that I do not? It cannot reveal her amorous nothings for what they truly are, though granted she whispers them no longer.

_

I found this document in my school flash disk required for IT class. This is the reason why my marks are so low.

2007-02-23T23:29:00.000+02:00

Monday

Dear Diary,

I am sad, so I bought you.

Tuesday

Dear Diary,

I don't feel like writing about why I am sad.

Wednesday

Dear Diary,

Today I saw an assortment of peculiarly-coloured airplanes.

Thursday

Dear Diary,

Today I wasted five minutes of my life videotaping a dog jumping over a fence.

Friday

Dear Diary,

I realized a large chunk of my soul is missing, thanks to the internet.

Saturday

Dear Diary,

Today I briefly entertained what life would be like if I manually amputated my left arm.

Sunday

Dear Diary,

My neck has seized up from my attempts to make sleeping seem like deep thinking.

Monday

Dear Diary,

Today I felt ashamed for laughing at Bob Sagget's name.

Tuesday

Dear Diary,

Today I experienced Writer's Block before I started writing.

Wednesday

Dear Diary,

Thanks to a laundry mishap, I am forced to wear odd socks.

Thursday

Dear Diary,

Today's attempt to tan the undersides of my arms ended in disaster.

Friday

Dear Diary,

Will I receive the same love if I were a burn victim?

Saturday

Dear Diary,

Today I felt a need to calculate the time I would save if I bypassed all my daily hygienic routines.

Sunday

Today I overestimated my ability to fly.

Some think smoking is abhorrent.

2007-01-22T06:33:00.000+02:00

To whom it may concern

I was shaving at a convoluted angle when I received a call from one of your telemarketers informing me that I had won ownership over a small (thought thoughtfully-shaped) rock in the South Pacific. This call rendered me suitably irate as I had gotten the cord tangled around my nose, which, I am not ashamed to admit, resembles the beak of a toucan. This, however, is not the reason for my addressing you in this heartfelt letter filled to the brim with my blind anguish.

After the initial congratulatory news, I noticed that the man speaking (introduced by himself as 'Bradford') seemed to have a slight ashen lilt to his tone; akin to that of a man who makes it his habit to chainsmoke 40 cigarettes a day. He sounded as if he were about to dissolve into profuse coughing any moment, which put me on guard as being stranded on the phone with a man hacking out his respiratory organs is an awkward social situation indeed. Then, infuriatingly, I thought I could hear the faint sound of flint, striking against each other in the background. Because I am a gentleman, I will refrain from voicing my speculations as to what was happening at that moment. However, I can assure you that if I were correct about his actions, he would have been doing something both pitiful and hideously obscene.

I cannot believe that you would let your employees smoke so much. It is irresponsible on your part as the owner of your treacherous audiophilic business to allow for your callers to disturb and frighten clients with threats of dying of lung cancer. You could be losing customers, revenue, and hundreds of lives. I hope you think about that very carefully. From my brief 2-minute exposure to Bradford's auditory persona, I am able to deduce that he is of the very scourge of society; a man who would not think twice about kicking a blind man in the money tray, a felon who does not hesitate taking that extra pump of the Steers' excellent mustard sauce; a tramp who inserts his business into other peoples' toilet towel cardboard tubes. Please speak to Bradford about his tobacco-addiction, and if he fails to remedy his nicotine problem, I'm afraid you'll have to kill his wife.

Thank you.

Regards,

Baldrick von Staten

Ewan's leatheresque pants antics

2007-01-07T06:44:00.000+02:00

This morning I was engaging in a dream in which a small paraplegic dwarf took residence on my face, gradually inserting both legs into my nostrils before jacking himself off vigorously once he was sure his stiletto heels had been successfully planted deep in my olfactory tissues.

Unceremoniously, I was awoken by my dad watering his garden, generating a sound that I previously only possible via the ejection of whale semen. I resigned myself to fate, and being secrectly angry as I burrowed my head into my blankets and attempted to fall asleep again. This endeavour was unsuccessful, partly because my sinuses felt like I had been snorting crystallized acid, and partly because my dad had taken to loudly conversing with a neighbour living two blocks away.

By then I was more than moderately pissed off as I hoisted myself into an upright position and discovered that my head must've shattered into 37 seperate pieces while I'd been sleeping. I made a mental note to thwart any future 'elevator dreams' I may have the misfortune to dream about in the future.

I decided the only way to take control of my current predicament was to walk to McDonald's and buy myself a pound of lard to scoff. I made no effort to look good, chalking it up to the fact that I wanted to at least blame something on my cold before it evaporated.

Surprise! I was served by a gangly, misshapen man with a nametag that spelled out "EWAN" in Times New Roman. I have had many experiences with Ewan, most of them revolving around Chicken McNuggets, missing sauce and his perilously tight pants.

A friend and I have complained on the 'Customer Satisfaction Surveys' about the nature of Ewan's demon trousers: Aside from being grievously underwashed, they also wrap around his bow-shaped legs like clingfilm on a block of rancid, stained cheese, leaving little to the imagination and displaying his sizeable package for the world to see. However I don't think they took us seriously enough. The next week I returned as a regular customer to see Ewan's pants as tight as ever with what looked like a small codpiece adorning his nethers.

So I stood there, barely able to keep my eyes open and thinking "I really don't have time for his distracing body-hugging shenanigans", when I accidentally looked down and discovered that his pants were...LOOSER. I was so happy I would have cried right there except it may have been embarrassing to do so.

Of course, there was a catch.

When I returned home and looked into my bag of hotcakes, there was no syrup.

Aaaaaaaagh.

The dance of the Predatory Flagpole

2006-11-16T06:45:00.000+02:00

Q: Dear Jim

My brother has recently started to eat nachos with tomato sauce, despite my best efforts at convincing him that doing so is a symbol of homosexuality. Can this be helped?

desperate - Dan, Gauteng

A: Dear Dan

No.

Q: Dear Jim

I just started my period. Can you help me?

lost - George, Nelspruit

A: Dear George

Your dick is bleeding. Seek medical help immediately. And remember not to zip up too quickly next time.

Q: Dear Jim

Quite recently, I bought a magnificent leopard-spotted leotard. But yesterday while wearing this new outfit, I found a ticket on the ground that said "Do Not Machine Wash". I hesitated on keeping it, since it was my moral duty to return a lost ticket that had been bought by someone else. But I was too lazy to find out whose it was. So I kept it. Later on that day, it started to rain - and despite the packing on my garment clearly stating it was "98 Waterproof", I developed a big wet patch on my back. What is the meaning of this? Should I got for a refund?

angry - Marcus, Cape Town

A: Dear Marcus

What you found was not a ticket. Your washing tag fell off. This, in turn, created a sizeable hole on your back that will widen at thrice the pace a lunchline lengthens in prison. In fact, by the time this reaches you, you should already be naked. There is nothing you can do about this. And if it says Made in China on the packaging, you cannot hope to get a refund. So light a few Cuban cigars and be happy Marcus.

Q: Dear Jim

Why does everyone say I'm a criminal? I'm a good boy. I go to bed at eight o' clock every night I promise.

sad - Fred, Nelspruit

A: Dear Fred

That studded belt your uncle Holiday gave to you for your 31st birthday does not belong around your ankle. There are several other appealing alternatives on which to wear it. You could put it on your hips. Or if you're feeling really naughty, you could put it on your waist.

Uncle Jim's Advice Column for the Blunted

2006-10-28T09:20:00.000+02:00

Dear Jim

Q: The thin brown strings on my head are always getting long. Not only that, but the brown strands in my no-no places are also lengthening. I'm really worried because I've had this disease since birth, and all the doctors I've been to say that they have no cure for me. What is wrong with me? Am I dying? Please help!

anxious, Brent - Pietermaritzburg

Dear Brent

You are not alone so don't worry. The brown strings prevalent on your head are called hairs. What they have been doing all these years is growing. The shocking statistics are that up to 100% of all humans experience hair growth at some point in their lives. In fact, it is so overwhelmingly normal that it leads me to suspect that the doctors who have no cure for you are referring to defects of the brain inside your head as opposed to its brown stringy packaging. You are not dying. So stop being a drama queen and be grateful you're not bald like me.

Dear Jim

Q: Yesterday, out of the blue, I stopped breathing. I then attempted to buy a doghnut from the corner cafe but the till attendant ignored me in favour of a short fat farmer. Today, for some unknown reason, my family threw a party in which all the attendants cried and ate asparagus from plates. They also seemed to bow down to and offer their utmost respect to a rock on the ground. I have bowed to it and found it redeeming. Is this a new religious cult? Can I join? What do I have to do for initiation? What are the laws and customs?

eager, John - Grahamstowm

Dear John

Q: From your above letter I am able to discern that a) you are dead and b) you haven't noticed. Apparently the people around you have. You may be stupid. Crying at parties can be fun for the individual but can be a real mood-ruiner. And minus points to you for not inviting me to the reception - asparagus happens to be my favourite food. I am guessing you died from an overdose of hallucinogenic drugs, as you have obviously mistaken your own gravestone as a religious deity. Keep worshipping that rock with your name on it, you self-loving fuck.

PS: Try walking through a wall. You may find it fun.

Dear Jim

Q: I have a pet goldfish called Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is gold and white. He is a good fish. He is my soulmate and I keep him on a leash when I take him for walkies around our block. But today he stopped moving and he wouldn't jump through his favourite hoop. What can I do to help him?

lovingly worried, Jarrod - East London

Dear Jarrod

If I were in your shoes I would also be worried about little Lucius - if I hadn't paid attention to the 'walkies around our block' part of your adventures with him. Lucius the fish has gone to a happier place, one where he does not have to develop lungs to be able to live. Left with his small fishy carcass, you have little leeway for extravagance in your dealing of this matter. A viable option is to flame-grill him for a nutritious, light supper. Or, if it is the motionless bit of the deal that you are worried about, you can drop him from an elevated place in order to induce some movement (you may have to repeat this). Don't stop dropping 'lil Lucius, now - he might stop moving again.

I have addiction problems.

2006-10-17T08:18:00.000+02:00

It took me some time to come to terms with it. It was not willingly, nor do I intend to do anything drastic to remedy it. But I feel a need to vent, because it is so embarrassing that I trust posting it on the Internet would be a better option than, say, screaming it to every blonde person I walk into at the local friendly grocer.

From the day I was conceived the notion that the Internet is the number choice for confessing shameful, sordid secrets, from chewing used gum or unrolling 2-ply toilet paper, separating the layers and re-rolling it to make two rolls to having disturbing dreams about Lysol or crying to outdated Martin Luther King footage. Who could possibly find the motive and the means to ridicule it? As you're all aware of, the World Wide Web is full of charming, sensible, articulate and courteous people who respect each others' opinions, and any person who is rude or outrageously insensitive would be arrested and chucked into an internet prison filled with text-only documentations on how to make 60 prawn souffles in 50 minutes or how to dress like Liam Neeson or some or other horrendous crap like that.

But I digress. I guess I'm too shit scared to type this out aloud for fear of your collective actions (even if you are all charming, sensible, articulate and courteous), so I'm unconsciously trying to delay the process. But the time has come.

...I'm addicted to Solitaire.

Now, this is no 'Every day I think about Solitaire and have an unexplained desire to play it when I am exposed to certain foods'. We're talking HARD CORE SOLITAIRE INFATUATION. We're talking 'Every minute of my existence feels empty if I do not have the means to stack red and black cards on top of each other to create an even bigger pile of cards that, depending on the position of Sagittarius tonight, may or may not vomit bouncing simulated monstrosities when I finally win'.

I admit - I love Solitaire. It has seen me through the dullest of days; in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in trouble and out.

In fact, I once had a dream that I was in the act of moving the red Queen Of Diamonds onto the black King of Spades, and the Queen spoke to me and told me she did not want to be moved because she was racist. Also that she didn't want to sit next to him on the taxi home.

Then there was that other time in which I had to choose between living, dying, and being printed into a card with that awesome old-school rose pattern at the back. Natually I chose living, but it was a close call. Dying sounded much too exciting for me to contemplate not choosing.

Then again, if my sole purpose in life was to drag cards in an endless nightmarish train of red and black, I'd be contemplating suicide too.

...wait, what?

Jack and the Beanstalk (without the Jack, and possibly without the beanstalk.)

2006-09-09T19:04:00.000+02:00

We are growing plants in lasagne-trays in biology.

We had to divide into groups of 8, which didn't sound like such an ardous task until the back group realized we were only 7. Anyway, no one else wanted to join our group because our group consisted of 7 cellphone-wielding alcoholics, including the resident stoner, someone with a prison record, one unstable partygoer, the insane borderline adult, a pseudo-goth, someone really apathetic and one part-time student -- the worst recipe for success available. The part-time student was really a last resort.

"Oi, that group over there, you have to have 8 people before I'll give you the stuff. Otherwise you'll get no marks."

"Shit, how many people are in our group?"

"Six, if you count him."

"We still need another two..."

"Quick, who's absent?!"

"Tjad...and that scary girl from Botswana -"

"Okay, Tjad's in our group. He's never here anyway; we don't even need to tell him what's going on."

(He did, however, get his revenge several days later when he finally pitched up:

"Tjad, stop moving our radish shoots into the upperclass-motherfuckers' tray!"

"I refuse. It looks so empty..."

"But...why? You're in our group!"

"...I am?")

So, the biology teacher, who really doesn't like us as a result of that one time when we laughed pointedly at his sock tan, refused to give us seeds or a lasagne until we had 8 members. We couldn't find any. Eventually the general consensus was, "Fuck it, we'll bring our own fucking beans, and our own damn lasagne tray."

This adamance lasted until two more people decided to migrate to our group. To tell the truth, we tackled this assignment with the same fervent, unwavering enthusiasm we would a colonoscopy. It was heartening when a few days later our tray was the fastest to grow though, and the straight-A-overachiever-bourgeoise-motherfuckers with their damn upper-class haircuts group had a tray that was so waterlogged their beans rotted.

In other news, I officially sound like a self-help book. I believe I have finally merged with my well-worn copy of Toxic Parents to become one big walking, life-changing cliche. I can't help it. It worked.

That Lazali guy

2006-09-03T05:39:00.000+02:00

As I am sitting typing this, my head is still reeling from an awesome and admittedly slightly traumatizing event that happened today. I was initially shocked and stunned by the memory, but as it came worming back to my consciousness like some sort of cat burglar, I felt I had to put it down in text for me to scoff and perhaps vomit at a few years down the line from now.

Aimee and I went to the mall after school today to pick up her cellphone which had gone in for repairs. We were in our brown school uniforms, creating that much desired special effect of looking beautifully generic. I digress.

This was all well and good, and even the operation was more complicated than I anticipated (they couldn't fix her phone so they gave her a new one - she was initially upset about it ["It's just not the saaaaaaaaame!"] but after discovering it had bluetooth on it things became of the 'up and up' variety), it got better after we had a couple of double-cream frozen yoghurts. Incidentally I also wanted to vomit but I was too ashamed to admit it.

The apparent normalcy ended shortly after we acquired the phone and started walking around. Below is what happened in script format because I am too lazy to narrate this post and failing to inject painless humour into it like some kind of awkward reverse-liposuction deal.

Me: I'm damn bored.
Aimee: Ja well...MY PHONE HAS BLUETOOTH ON IT!
Me: NO WAY!
Aimee: YEAH IT TOTALLY DOES!
Me: WHOA!
Aimee: Hey, Craig sent me airtime.
Me: Oh no!
Aimee: Look they do piercing at that shop there! Come with me to go have a look -
Me: Haha, oh shit, I thought you were joking about getting your nipple pierced.
Aimee: Meh, you need to be 18 and have an ID...
Me: Well, that's a pity. Hey look, it says you can get your shaft pierced here! Does that mean -
Aimee: Mary, shut up, you're embarrassing us!
Me: Oh come on! You don't just come across this kind of thing every day!
CREEPY STORE CLERK WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE ON INTERPOL'S MOST WANTED LIST: Oh, no, no, that isn't penis piercing.
Aimee&Me: ?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: It's not on the penis, it's actually by one's ear, here *motions to ears in borderline comical manner*
Me: Oh, I see! Whoops, I thought it was, you know...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yeah, it's a common mistake
Me: *looks sad*
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: *perks up* But I have a piercing on my penis!
Me: Is that so?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yes! As a matter of fact, I did it myself!
Me: Wow, wasn't it sore?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yes it was! I did it myself, in fact. I don't know what it's called, but there is one that goes THROUGH THE URETHRA, it's called a Prince Alber -
Me: What about didoes?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Well, I've never actually heard about them...
Me: Really? They're quite common, it's those ones around the glans *motions with hands*
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Oh, I may have to check that one out. But with the Prince Albert, you have to sit down when you urinate, like a girl, because the urine seems to splash everywhere -
Aimee: ...
Me: ...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Goodness, I think we're embarrassing your friend here.
Me: *turns to Aimee, who has suddenly become bright red*
Aimee: *laughs nervously* Well, I wouldn't get my penis pierced, but I was sort of checking out the nipple piercing; I want to get mine done...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Oh, nipple piercing! You'll need and ID for that.
Aimee: Yeah...:(
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Or you could just bring a guardian or consenting parent; I'm sure it'll be fine. I actually have a piercing on my nipple too *touches nipple area*, but I've let it close now. I only pierced my nipple to get closer to God...
Me: I'm starting to realise the ramifications of standing here and listening to this crazy dude.
Aimee: Let's go?
Me: Yeah.

And that was the end of that.

My bedroom smells of Faeces

2006-08-04T18:04:00.000+02:00

As the title suggests. (the capitalized 'Faeces' is entirely intentional!!1!)

My dad has been fertilizing his garden with a mixture of chicken manure and the sweat from the tumour on Satan's ballsack. Ideally the latter ingredient would probably cause the plants in the garden to wither and die of unnatural causes, but whoever said life was fair?

Anyway since the front garden is directly positioned in front of my room and consequentially me, I am subjected to the olfactory disaster that is mounds of chicken shit and heaven only knows what. You're probably looking unimpressed and either tempted to or in the act of asking "Why the fuck should I care?", but the truth is this: I don't know why.

I've tried deodorant, room freshener, even perfume - all have been in vain in that they fuse with the smell to create an even more disgusting and life-draining than the original scent. It can be likened to a cockroach in its sheer refusal to die. I'm sure if the smell were a person and you chopped his/her/its head off, it'd still run around for ten days until it eventually dies of starvation. That was a bad analogy.

Anyone have any advice as to how to get rid of the smell so that it will not penetrate my dreams and cause me to die in my sleep? I'm afraid that if I close my eyes to sleep and let the aroma come into contact with my unguarded, unprotected and unwashed body, I will be unable to mentally will it from killing me softly.

My teeth are fucking huge

2006-07-01T17:22:00.000+02:00

Today, as I shuffled into the bathroom and scrutinized my crusty, sleepy self in the mirror, the epiphany occured to me that my teeth are fucking huge.

My dentures are very cunning entities. They are large, but not misplaced - in layman's terms, if I keep my mouth shut, nobody would be able to experience their unholy size (as well as that one questionable tale about the party in which I was blackmailed into frotting with a washbasin). I smile with them anyway.

So, having nothing to report on for the past week or so (except for said washbasin incident which I am unlikely to recount in an unaltered state of consciousness), I have decided to make this update about my God-given chewing utensils and how they transcend the proverbial barrier between 'huge' and 'absolutely fucking enormous'.

That, and I was at the mall today and managed to flip off about 3 racist fuckers and a little kid who wouldn't stop screaming. She was with her mom and beating her fists on the ground in the accessory store because she wanted something and could get it. Her mother looked flustered and embarrassed, and while she was scanning the landscape, little doubt desperately trying to locate the lucky [sic] husband, I grinned at the little fucker at my heels and gave her the ol' one-finger salute. It was satisfaction at its finest.

I also happened to meet some old friends from my olde girls' boarding school with a rather high demographic of lesbians. It was nice.

Also, a few days ago the particularly malevolent strain of motherfucker who lives a few doors away from my current residence decided to mow his lawn. I hate his lawn; it always inexplicably smells like feet, and the smell lingers for days afterwards.

...the reason why I despise this so much is because I burnt the muffins I was making, and I can't open the windows for fear of the house becoming a warm and loving home for said delightful, podiatric aromas.

Lastly, comfort food is good. It has seen me through...ish. I won't say what.

Superego to the rescue! (not really)

2006-06-22T23:06:00.000+02:00

Superego: Hey you.

Me: You're talking to me?

Superego: Yes, you. Hear me out, you denial-wracked little shit.

Me: I'm not here.

Superego: That conflicts greatly with the fact that you are replying to me.

Me: This isn't happening.

Superego: Drop the Radiohead, you pretentious mass of unfathomable failure. We need a looong talk.

Me: Do you really have to bother me just as I'm eating my third Oreo McFlurry? Of all times! Why now?!

Superego: Well, yes. You've been ignoring me these past few months as part of your silly little 'growth and development' phase, causing your head to swell to twice its size and fill up with an alarming quantity of flammable gas. I'm here to tell you that you'll be going down very soon, and you won't know why you're sinking.

Me: You're a little behind with the news. I'm down already. You don't have to rub in the fact that I'm unloved.

Superego: ...oh. Ahem, well, you don't know WHY this is happening, right?

Me: Actually I do. It's because things just didn't work out, and I should take the good with the bad and just let things go.

Superego: WRONG! It's because you, pseudosane little girl, are an inconsiderate asshole.

Me: I could do with a backrub. And I have chosen YOU, beloved nagging Superego, to be the lucky one who provides me with it!

Superego: You don't deserve one. In fact, you don't deserve that McFlurry you're eating, you don't deserve to be sitting at the computer this moment, and don't even get me started on how you don't deserve the peristalsis that allows for ingested wads of food to move along your various filthy digestive canals. In fact, I hope you die from respiratory failure.

Me: I sense a pattern here.

Superego: It's not a pattern. It's just you.

Me: Fuck you.

Mr. Hershey wraps his lies in gold foil and a paper flag.

2006-06-19T04:57:00.000+02:00

I went to school for no apparent reason except maybe to satisfy my innate masochistic cravings by sitting in a room in which I only knew one of the other twenty occupants and attempting to entertain myself with various nearby objects to provide myself with the illusion that the 5 hours in which I was there was significantly much shorter. I do not recall if it was successful or not. What I do recall is drinking various carbonated beverages that ran straight through me like rainwater down a cheap chimney and eventually manifested themselves as a frequent, irrational longing for the bathroom. Almost all of my wiser friends were absent. I felt like an ass.

After this relatively exciting convention of Very Bored People I decided to go to the mall because the taxi I ride everyday stops right in front of said mall - a sure sign of my destined path. I navigate this lovely assortment of retail facilities, marveling at the splendid wares displayed in the shiny windows and galloping through the friendly crowd with an expression of childlike wonder only seen on the faces of kids below the age of six as they behold an empty Christmas stocking. I lied. That would be embarrassing.

The only thing I bought from that visit was a bag of American chocolates, specifically 'Hershey's Kisses'. I have no fucking clue why 'Hershey' decided to name his little bag of dump-esque confectionaries 'Kisses' because they sure as hell don't look like 'em. How does a accurate chocolate representation of a kiss look, anyway? Like two of them cheesy Valentine's chocolate lips melted inexplicably into each other? I wouldn't buy those, they look unappetizing even as blueprints in my head. So what I'm essentially saying is that I would buy and place into my mouth little shits wrapped in foil instead of the more graphically accurate Siamese lip things? Would it make more or less sense? Why am I rambling? Was the Brazilian soccer team tactical or were they just plain lazy? Can I come in?

Last but not least, today is the sixth day mom has been back from overseas. Good-bye five consecutive days of eating hard chicken! Hello contant mental abuse and death threats!

Some stupid bullshit

2006-06-15T15:23:00.000+02:00

Mary's Preposterously Inaccurate Guide To High School

Cliques are very developed. If you're having your first day at your new school, make small talk with as many people as possible. Chances are you'll hit off with somebody and then have a clique of your own!

The quality of the clique depends on which social caste you inherently belong to. Caste mobility is possible but rare. I mean, if you're a really dirty hippie and you decide to take a shower one day, maybe you'll get somewhere, but from what I know Really Dirty Hippies take up only a small percentage of a school's learners.

Here is a basic social pyramid:

Teh Kewl Kids

(Preps, jocks, cheerleaders, plastics, popular people)

You must be extroverted, have an extremely good sense of style, have all the right connections, and be good at some kind of sporting activity. Note that a lot of popular kids may come off as snobby, but that's only because you're jealous. Some are great people but you get the fakes too. So watch out.

Teh Cult Leaders

(???)

Cult leaders command a certain amount of respect, sometimes even from members of Teh Kewl Kids. A cult leader my not necesserily have a cult but possesses the potential to develop his/her own manic following of worshippers. You need to have a good yet unique sense of style, but not so 'unique' as to employ recyclable waste as potential textiles. You must also be attractive to a certain degree, and this is more essential in the CL level than the KK level. You'll also need to be witty, articulate and have an admirable level of physical strength or breast cup size. Develop a quirk or a few prison gang tattoos. Aim to inspire fear, awe or any other emotion that does not result in you getting thrown into a trash can. Connections in the NP and KK a big plus.

Teh Normal Peepz

(Normal people, artists)

This is the level of kids who're picked on, not because they sport a marketable amount of acne but because they're just THERE. Kewl Kids may pick on NPs when they have nothing better to do. Don't let it bother you. There is nothing wrong with being so obscure if you died on gravel no-one'd stop stepping on you until you've completely decomposed. Normals are a mixed bag. Sometimes you may find the odd mutant Smartie that shouldn't be the colour that it is (layman's term: really insufferable), but it all depends on who you talk to. Normals are the easiest people to make friends with.

Things NOT to do at Normal level in case you really desire to be demoted:

- Play more than 20 hours of D&D a week
- Play more than 30 hours of video/computer games a week
- MMORPG, RPG, or any kind of activity that requires you to dress up on a day that is not Hallowe'en
- Maintain less than 5 friends
- Sport non-perennial acne that can be harvested in kilos at any given time
- Wear clothes that imply you shop at garage sales
- Wear t-shirts branded with esoteric (read: nerdy) indicia
- Eat fast food to the point of morbid obesity
- Have a breast reduction

Teh Cultists

(Goths, Punks, Emos, Poets etc.)

Cultists receive the trashcan treatment very often, or at least are regarded with some trepidation from other levels. I don't know what else to say that will not make me sound like a biased shagball of death, so this is all you have on this level biatch. Oh, and sucks to be you if you're pale and scrawny and don't look attractive whilst being so. Really. Cultists are generally nice people on the surface, but I wouldn't know.

Teh Stoners

Stoners are laid-back, easygoing people who may or may not have a good sense of humour. Provided their stash hasn't run out yet. You may want to seek connections at this level to bring you your pass to the Higher Dimensions. Intelligence is also alarmingly high here, particularly on political matters.

Teh Geeks

(Band geeks, computer geeks, botanical geeks, film geeks, science geeks etc.)

Geeks are people who are fascinated by one facet of human/nonhuman culture. Anything is capable of having it's own specific type of geek, be it books or shipping crate plastic wrap. Such people will know a lot of terminology from heaven knows where and will look at you funny if, for instance, you have no idea what a 'droog' is. Geeks are picked on a lot. Your typical geek cannot stop having wet dreams and masturbating to the avatar of their interests (like film geeks won't stop jacking off to 'A Clockwork Orange'). Geeks tend to talk a lot and if you share the same interests with a geek, be prepared for an informative lecture filled with friendly information and the odd bathroom break.

Teh Nerds

You know who they are. I'm too lazy to write any more. I think I have carpal tunnel.

Teh Rest

If I've forgotten ye Furry Diaper fetish cult, chances are that it would be right here. Gimme yer lunch money. And yes, I lack breasts of adequate size, but who gives a shit when I can beat up the Down's Syndrome kids for their lunch money.

And that's it. I am aware that this report may suck very real ass, but no-one's forcing you at gunpoint to read it, and if they are, I hope they fire real quick because I'm tired of rambling about something I have no idea about.

Disclaimer: I confess I have no idea if the above post is factually accurate or not because my high school's weird and anyone'll be friends with anyone else for some reason unless they're really nerdy, weird, flamboyantly homosexual (the closet ones have friends too), geeky or if their crotch is hanging out.

My cheap blue-cocaine habit (Good Times Reminiscience pt. 1)

2006-06-09T22:00:00.000+02:00

I am writing exams now - an ardous task that surprisingly is less stressful to me than normal schooling. Because I am a natural underachiever with extremely poor taste in career options, my subconscious has egged me to partake in figurative suicide by choosing subjects like Science, Physics and IT. Studying for these subjects usually involve me sitting in my bed eating food that may be conducive to cancerous tumours that will occur somewhere in the depths of my digestive tract and simultaneously discreetly picking my nose and reading an Augusten Burroughs novel.

This approach has accompanied me throughout much of high school, and so far has never failed me in my expectation that it will just Not Be Effective.

It comes to be that I am sitting in the exam room, chewing on the scarf I coaxed a friend into giving me (read: threatening metaphorical physical harm) and raising both eyebrows at "Calculate the force exerted by a twenty-foot dumptruck on the decomposing carcass of some kind of dugong (NB!! The dugong is in 37 seperate pieces of varying size and shape!!)" whilst simultaneously wishing I could raise just one for dramatic effect.

I settle for just skipping the questions that I find are out of the limits of my capabilities, which results in me finishing the exam five minutes after I start. This results in me becoming a little crestfallen and wishing I'd done actual studying the night before as opposed to partaking in distasteful activities whilst consuming copious quantities of Chernobylic lard in my bed.

There is still, I dunno, AN HOUR AND A HALF left of our two-hour Physics exam. So naturally, being unable to occupy myself with meaningful activities such as masturbation for fear of being arrested for public indecency in the middle of an important academic assessment, I had to sit around and entertain myself in ways that will not bear any legal ramifications; activities that were very difficult to think of indeed.

Between looking at the pillow-biter in front of me who is trying to scratch his scrotal sack whilst maintaining a professional facade and sitting trying not to let my thoughts dwell on the debilitating numbness invading my buttocks, I had a flashback. Or maybe I fell asleep and dreamt. Whichever.

~~~~~

I don't have a locker at school. I didn't have the money at the beginning of the year and what I had I wanted to spend on more worthwhile things (read: junk food, clothes, self-help books).

If I were to cram all the books I needed in a day into my bag, I'd have scoliosis by now from hauling that kind of luggage around. To remedy this situation, I usually 'borrow' people's lockers or take the easy way out, which is basically the age old 'I-"accidentally"-forgot-my-books-at-home' technique.

A prime candidate for this trick would be my Physics textbook - it is unethically thick and printed on heavy paper, which serves no use other than to enable its use as a heavy-duty doorstop. So usually, I leave this book at home and share Nicko's book (if she brings it).

This is all well and good. Except for the Physics teacher's 'NO SHARING' policy, no doubt spawned by a serious lack of Winnie-the-Pooh videos during her childhood. Or she had a difficult childhood. I dunno. To be honest, I can't even imagine her having a childhood, but I'm derailing.

So, it was a typical Physics lesson, except something in the air was bad and this resulted in the teacher smiling as she vehemently chased the people who did not have textbooks out of the classroom. Since I had left my book at home, I had to follow suit. Thankfully for some reason Nicko hadn't brought her book either, so we went and sat around with the other exiles.

After what seemed like half an hour of sitting around doing generally fuck-all, I stuck my hands into my pockets dejectedly in an attempt to look cool.

The 'looking cool' endeavour was not successful, but to compensate for this lack of stylishness I found a rock of blue copper sulphate in my left pocket for some reason. I think I may have stole it on my failed quest to steal the flood-aid canned food at the back of the physics classroom.

I played around with this, rolling it in my hand and attemping to crush it with my cellphone. To my delight, the rock scattered into fine powder when I pressed my cellphone onto it, screen down (in retrospect this was not a particularly wise idea as my screen became more scratched than it already was). I made a few casual remarks on how the blue dust in my lap resembled fairy dust and made all sorts of quirky and mildly retarted musings while the people around me rolled their eyes and pretended not to know me.

It was then that the thought occurred to me that I could be REALLY FUCKING BADASS by inexplicably picking up a drug habit. I mean, the 12 year olds are doing it, so what's the harm in trying to get with the younger generation? Of course, I was way too scared of the 'consequences' of snorting the real deal, so I deemed the copper sulphate my ideal gateway drug to the High Dimensions.

I take this dainty powder and brush it onto my ID card that has a really unphotogenic picture of me at the front. I used the back of the card after I was reminded of this fact in a painful manner by the resident popular guy who pointed at my card and sniggered, "Heh heh, your picture's pretty funny hey.". I glared at him in what I hoped was an intimidating and slightly indecent way and pulled out my debit card that I was carrying around with me for no apparent reason, proceeding to cut thin blue lines from the potentially narcotic substance in front of me.

Me: Hey, Sam, you have paper on you?
Sam: No, sorry I ate it.

Me: Kyle, d'you maybe have paper for me?
Kyle: Heh heh...that picture's pretty funny...your glasses look ga -
Me: ...you fat frostie.

Me: Nicko, pass me some paper please?
Nicko: ...so like, I'm asking my bro for airtime and he gives me R29 for the wrong cellular network. Now I have no idea what to do with this voucher cuz -
Me: ...is the voucher made out of paper?
Nicko: Um...YES????
Me: Nice. *makes a grab for the voucher which happens to be in Nicko's inside blazer pocket*
Kyle: Hoo! Hot lesbian action!

Eventually I am able to wrestle the voucher from Nicko's grip ("I'M NOT LETTING YOU SHOVE MY VOUCHER UP YOUR NOSE!!!!!!"). I roll it up and brace myself.

Sam: Oh my god.
Nicko: You're insane.
Kyle: Your picture's pretty funny hey...I mean, your hair's like, all -
Me: Oi! Stfu!
Lyle: Oi Nicole! I want your cellphone!

I stick the rolled up tube of paper in my nose and position it in front of one of the blue lines. I inhale deeply and force myself to think of coconuts and not lung disease and that black lung on the anti-smokers' pamphlet I found in my bag last year.

Nothing happens. I do not transcend into an all new dimension filled with chrysanthemums and machine elves forcing me to build things using my mind and a single oversized block of Lego. I sit there and stare at the onlookers with a disappointed expression on my face.

Then came the BURN.

It seared throughout my sinuses like I'd inhaled a thousand little shards of satan's toenails. I coughed and spluttered and made movements not unlike those of an epileptic at a disco.

Sam: Oh my gosh are you okay?
Me: grrgghebgsonofamotherhugging*cough*biatchifuckedurda*cough*ddycuzohshit*cough**cough*imfucking*cough*beautifulomgitscomingrun.
Nicko: ...you retard.
Kyle: Hur hur, why do you have permanent marker all over you photo? Your nose looks-
Me: WATER GODDAMMIT!!!!!!

~~~~

And then nothing else happened because the reverie...thingy ended and I needed the bathroom but we weren't allowed to go because it was an exam.

Possibly retarded but definitely overly whiny mandatory 'My Family Consists of Nutters' blog post.

2006-06-07T16:39:00.000+02:00

Inspired by a comment made to me that went somewhere along the lines of questioning what kind of fucked-up family it takes to spew out a mental deviant like me, today I feel a need to type up a lengthy (uh, sort of), in-a-nutshell bio of the constituents of my family.

Male Parental Unit

In denial of his steadily increasing age. Indulges in porn when he thinks no-one is looking. Very specific about gender roles (read: chauvinist). Believes that it is every woman's life-goal to marry a rich man. Doesn't do shit around the house but likes ordering the females of said house around. Of the pretentious, church-going sort and expects entire family to do the same or risk being 'disowned'. Frequently backstabs every single member of the family. Of the dangerous "Cook me dinner and wash my clothes, bitch!" sort, but in a weaselesque, passive-agressive manner.

Female Parental Unit

A veteran of a former physically and emotionally abusive marriage and sees this as a valid reason to project said abuse on her unfortunate offspring. Is secretly lazy. Pretends to be a socialite and exude immense amounts of wisdom from pores, but this is all a facade. Frequently backstabs the half-siblings that do not contain her genes. Enitre family afraid of her sheer brute strength.

Half-sister (eldest)

Neurotic unhygienically challenged housewife who believe that even clutter is pathological (this is not true except in the cases of the clutter in my room). Has poor sense of style, resulting in a fair amount of suffering for the victims of her hand-me-down clothing. Can develop terminal signs of stress from seeing that THE LID OF A PICKLE JAR IS NOT STRAIGHT. Frequently backstabs rest of siblings, but verily regards parental units as God (one entity).

Half-sister (not-so-eldest)

Is overseas due to her reluctance to live with parental units. Is frequently mocked by parental units and stars in various fables whose morals all seem to be synonyms for "DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE UNTIL YOU'RE 30 AND MARRIED".

Half-sister (not-eldest-no-matter-how-you-look-at-it)

Acutely verbally abusive control freak. Backstabs ever member of family except me (I think). My favourite sister. This is strange.

Other three half-siblings

Overseas and so do not warrant a bio. I am sure they are Extremely Nice People but have not had time spent with them to confirm this notion.

Me

Hopelessly corrupted Former Person With Low Self-Confidence. Openly lazy. Backstabs entire family including self but not to any other member of said family. Possesses a deep cruel streak that is usually apparent in everyday situations that vary in subtlety and therefore can verily be dubbed 'an asshole'. Suffers from extreme apathy and lack of Common Sense.

Raspberry DEATH

2006-06-04T21:37:00.000+02:00

So like, on Thursday I was sitting around being lazy and poisoned. When I got up to get myself more white chocolate, I saw a large, brown stain on the study room carpet. This worried for a while and I started questioning my upbringing for some reason. Then THE STAIN FUCKING MOVED. It zigzagged across the floor with a speed akin to that of families in Ethiopia rushing to approacing food-aid helicopters. I panicked.

Then I put my glasses on. To my dismay, it was a lizard. A fucking huge one that was as long as the distance from the tip of my middle finger to my wrist. I take a little plastic container and I scoop the snakelike monstrosity into it before unceremoniously tossing it out my window. That was the end of that for that particular moment.

So it surprised me (not the pleasant kind of surprise; it was of the 'have a vat of cold piss dumped on your head at 3am' variety) an hour later when I saw a lizard wriggling around next to the towercase of my computer. Was it the same lizard I had deposited two hours ago? Was it a different one? I didn't know, neither did I care. I was way too apathetic to take it out again because my head was pounding with a broad-spectrum-antibiotic induced headache (oh, yes, the food poisoning) and I wanted nothing more than to sleep.

I left it to its own devices for the next few days, watching as it slithered its way across my carpet for the next few days without being any sort of big nuisance.

Today I woke up to Dad complaining of severe diarrhoea. This made me doubt my competency even more because it implies something I had made for dinner last night was Not Safe. I didn't have the same problem as my dad though, so it was probably just him.

We stayed home today and do not go to church today thanks to Dad's 'ailment'. I was feeling a little dizzy as well from antibiotics, so this was a welcome change. This slight happiness was then eclipsed by Dad's insistence that I drink an electrolyte supplement to replenish the nutrients I hadn't lost.

As I swooshed my first gulp of ELECTROPAK down my mouth, many synonyms for it came to mind, the more befitting ones being "armpit hair", "kettle smegma" and "my neighbour's sweaty penis" (fyi, I have not actually tasted said neighbour's penis, but he looks like a horrible person so it should only be fair that I attribute ELECTROPAK's unholy salty taste to his genitalia).

Since I hadn't inspected the packet before delving into the contents of the baggie, I decided to see just what sort of awful shit the manufacturers of this product wanted to 'flavour' it after.

It said:

RASPBERRY FLAVOURED POWDER FOR SOLUTION.

I was incredulous. RASPBERRY! What the fuck?! The rancid liquid tasted more like the bitter, cancerous thrice-removed-second-cousin of a raspberry blown by a toothless mandrax-smoking hobo with halitosis.

I decided to try to forget the trauma of the hideous drink by messing around on the computer and seeing if I could acquire more gay policeman pornography from Google.

Then nothing exciting happened except for maybe when I caught the lizard and contemplated feeding it chocolate.

Fun with food poisoning

2006-05-31T13:47:00.000+02:00

So, my mother is overseas and my sisters are all living away from home. Since I cannot do the same, the resulting predicament is that my father and I are staying in a now rather empty house.

This is problematic, because:

a) My father is household-illiterate
b) He is also very specific about 'gender roles' (cue eyeroll)
c) When not busy working his ass off installing stuff until 8 in the evening he is out buying porn.

So the logical thing is that I should look after the house. Which spawns an entirely new set of issues.

Do the dishes - Fine. Mop the floor, vaccuum the carpets - Gimme some music and I'll be right on it. Scrub the toilets and showers - Okay, bribe me. Cook - ...

The thing is, my cooking is so bad there can be only one way to describe it, and that word is best known as 'genocidal'. Not adding to that fact is my spontaneous acts of creativity that eggs me to create exciting dishes like 'chicken in a bag', 'a single boiled potato' and the ever-popular 'shredded salmon surprise' (the surprise being that there is nothing else besides the shredded salmon).

Also, I am lazy. I just can't be bothered to think of new, exotic ways to cook crumbed chicken for thirty-five days. It also requires a substantial amount of willpower for me to get off my lazy ass and put the meat in the microwave.

So, dad gives me money and I go grocery shopping because he doesn't have time. This is either good or bad depending on how you view your glass of water. The good is that now I can plan what to cook days in advance. The bad is that said meals consist mainly of pre-packaged, 'heat-before-you-eat' food.

I have no qualms about eating vegetables. In fact, I don't really care about them. However, my dad is a health freak, so usually to subsidize his need for healthy food, I buy packets of stir-fry. COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF STIR-FRY.

So it comes to be that there is half a packet of Family Stir Fry sitting in the fridge on a fateful Monday evening. I had just written my Maths exam and was feeling pretty shitty as to my chances of passing. I spot some steak in the freezer and think, 'fuck yeah, comfort food'. So I fry this. Then I rummage around the freezer looking for some vegetables amongst the piles of what looks like gangrenous blue cheese, frostbite in a bag and enigmatic pyramids of black rot.

I find this bag of stir-fry, and it dawns upon me that this dainty packet has been occupying much of my subconscious mind for the past two weeks. "Cook me before it's too late and I become a biohazardous substance," it has begged me. Naturally, I have ignored its cries in favour of ordering pizza. So much for subconscious persuasion.

Anyway, I inspect this packet. The contents look soggy and soft. There are black flecks on the cabbage. The cucumbers are dried up. The carrots have whitened. And for some inexplicable reason, it occurs to me that this mix of spore culture is perfectly safe for human consumption.

What I do is I disguise the stiry fry with some tomato soup, coating it in a gooey red substance. As repulsive as it sounds, it tasted fine that night. Dad and I each ate half of the bag.

The following morning I felt great. Great, as in 'I would very much like to vomit' great. So I'm staring at breakfast (egg soup), and I think, 'what the hell' and I drink the lot. Suddenly I stand up and run to the bathroom, where I bring up the lot, along with some mushed bright orange chyme from yesterday.

Still feeling sick, I go to school to write my Afrikaans exam. About halfway through it, I stall because I think I am going to vomit again. I do. I swallow, because this is a logical thing to do. I finish writing the exam and call my dad and ask him if he can take me home as opposed to me taking a taxi because I am feeling really sick. Dad tells me he is also feeling sick and that he has vomited.

On the car, dad explains that he think it may have been collective indigestion. I nod sympathetically as I think of the two-week old stir fry. I lie and put forth my theory that it could be stomach flu. Dad agrees, and we go to the pharmacy.

I WILL NOT REVEAL TO HIM THAT IT WAS THE MOULDY VEGETABLES. I REFUSE.

Orgasmic fun with mineral turpentine

2006-05-23T11:17:00.000+02:00

I have this very bad habit, and it is graffiti-ing desks with permanent marker or Tippex. I confess that I do not know what kind of satisfaction this kind of activity provides as I am sadly neither hardcore nor badass enough to be of the OMFG GRAFFITI GURU type. All I know is, after the teacher drones on for I while, I will get a nagging desire to write my guess for the winning lottery numbers on the freshly painted schooldesk I sit at.

Now usually I do get away with this, even when said desk is completely covered with my lame drawings and replies to the message scribbled by another deskwriter intoning "SAY AYE IF YOU LOVE COCK!" in bold white paint marker.

One fateful day, I was not so lucky. I was told by one of the teachers whose desks I wrote on to completely clear the desk of any and all pennings before I'd get owned by the school Board of Governors.

So today, wanting to atone for my misdeeds, I brought an entire bottle of turpentine and a cloth to school.

To make a long story short, a friend got hold of my bag and had some fun with it. After having said fun (which involved the swinging of said bag and copious pirouetting), she suddenly reported a certain wetness that was leaking from the bag.

Lo and behold. TURPENTINE! The whole bottle had leaked into my bags and drenched my books and things that I usually carry around in there. That was okay, I wasn't too concerned.

But then there was the smell.

It was pretty invigorating, sort of like the smells of fresh permanent marker. I breathed in a few lungfuls. My head started to spin. My face fell as it occured to me that I would be carrying this potentially narcotic object on my back for the rest of the day. I then sort of forgot about it. Nicko reported a headache and an inability to breathe, so I tossed it as far as possible from where we were sitting in Physics. Unfortunately this landed near Nick who asked me tentatively if the smell he was experiencing had something to do with my plans of making prison wine which I had informed him about last night.

Most of the time though, it was on my back.

And that is why I think my head felt like it had doubled in mass when I got home.

After a relatively unexciting meal consisting of mediocre stir-fry I had conjured from a packet, I came to the realization that I had misplaced my keys.

I set about searching for them, checking every nook and cranny and even searching inside my sock drawer for them. This went on for about a quarter of an hour.

It was then that I started talking to the keys. Mostly what I said to them included some or other variant of "Motherfucker" "Fucksack" or "Son of a bitch!".

I wandered in circles for the best part of forty minutes. I must've checked the same places around seven times, to no avail. The turp-induced headache made me wander around like a zombie with a headful of ale and a fistful of stupid.

Around my eighth visit to the computer room, I suddenly noticed the curtains were patterned with flowers. This seemed to me to be a sort of sign, and cue to pass out. I sleep fitfully for half an hour on the floor, dimly aware of my glasses digging into the side of my face.

Against my will, my eyes flew open. I realised I would have to get the fuck up and resume the search for my keys. This saddened me, as I saw that I was in a particularly advantageous position should I abruptly decide to wrestle the couch.

I found the keys. They were in my bag.

And I did manage to clean the writing off the desks. Even though I stripped off most of the paint in the process.

DIY piercing

2006-04-23T20:29:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, in a bid for some badassity I suspect, I decided to pierce my ears.

I recall having my ears pierced when I was four years old, only to have the holes close up because I played with the studs, they fell out and I was too lazy to put any back in again.

A few years down the line I started regretting ever letting the holes close whenever someone'd walk up to me and say, "Hey, I didn't know your ears aren't pierced! Why don't you get them done?"

I would then tell them that I was shit scared of needles, which I was.

That changed the last time I had a bladder infection, though. (had blood samples taken, then was precribed 'Stemitol' which made me develop a peculiar involuntary desire to look up all the time before I was placed on a drip)

One of my friends told me piercing ones ears by oneself involves less pain, since she'd tried it with ice and felt nothing (it didn't work though, because her needle stopped halfway in - so she went to a clinic instead).

So prompted by boredom, peer pressure, a dream to look like a fag and the slightly masochistic part of my persona, I stalked around the house to gather the following implements:

- a sock
- a packet of ice cubes
- a few plastic bags
- drawing pins
- safety pins

I boiled the pins in a kettle and let them sit in there for a while before picking them out. Then, wrapping my right hand with the sock and putting a few ice cubes into a plastic bag, I gingerly picked out a safety pin with my socked hand, cushioned my right earlobe with the icepack and poked.

It was remarkably pain free. The needle popped into the first layer of skin, but stopped there until I shoved it in really hard. After a yell of "motherfucker!", it finally came out the other end of my earlobe with a small pop.

Surprisingly, the hole didn't bleed. So I clipped the safety pin closed and started on the second hole (in the same ear), which involved the same method as that of creating the first.

Poke. Clip.

Left ear. Poke. Clip.

I then had three safety pins dangling from my ears in an odd garage-sale fashion, but I was relatively pleased with the results.

So, I went to bed.

The next morning my earlobes hurt like fuck. I ignored it and focused on how I could go to church without looking like a cretin. I then settled on taking the pins out and leaving them until I could buy studs.

After church I went to the mall and bought two pairs of sterling silver rings (the extra one could be a spare). And a trechcoat.

When I got home, I hastily tried to put the rings in, but to no avail. The blood clots had clogged up the holes and poking them delivered considerable pain and yet another couple strings of "motherfucker!". So got ice, and sought to re-pierce. Problem was, there was a total of 1.3 ice cubes left (with the crushed ice constituting the 0.3).

This time, I used my old computer prefects' badge. Due to the shortage of ice, this time I could actually FEEL the fucking needle going in and popping the skin. Grotesque pleasure at its finest.

Putting in the rings was still a task because the holes were too small - and skew because of the moving flesh. By this time I was on the verge of giving up. So I simply tried forcefully shoving the rings in. No avail.

I straightened all three rings at the bendy bits and tried again. Pop! Woohoo it worketh.

Blood everywhere.

I grinned in a satisfied manner and went off to enter "gay boys kissing" on Google Imagesearch.

Rich oldworld men

2006-04-21T16:52:00.001+02:00

So anyway, my dad is a guy who installs satellite dishes for foreigners in South Africa, providing cable television from his potential customers' home countries.

As a result, our landline telephone number is plastered all over shady, seedy and not necesserily legal places including but not limited to pubs, street poles and public bathrooms.

We also happen to receive a lot of phone calls from said potential customers, and because my dad is usually busy, I take most of them.

One night I received a call from an immigrant who sounded at least 40 years old and spoke with a strange accent - in other words, just another one of my dad's usual customers. So after the mandatory "Sorry, Jason isn't available right now, please phone his cellphone or leave a message", I hung up quickly because there was this great new gay porn I wanted to watch as soon as possible (bikers, to be exact).

The following day, I was suprised to find that the man had called again. The conversation went like this:

"Good evening, is this Mr. Jason's wife?"

"Er, no, it's his daughter."

"Were you the one I was speaking to last night?"

"Yes. Yes I was."

"Ask Mr. Jason how much he wants for you. I like your voice very much, you must be my third wife."

It was at this point which I simply dropped the phone and gaped. Thereafter, I went through several phases:

1 - Surprise (Whoa wtf. Didn't see that one coming.)

2 - Feelings of being flattered (Lol I have a pleasant voice liek go me.)

3 - Anger (The fucking womaniser!! How can he expect to buy women like that?! Not to mention he has two other wives! Piece of shit!)

4 - Disgust (Eeeew...he's old enough to be my dad.)

5 - Balefulness (I WILL FUCK HIM UP THE ASS WITH A KNIFE IF HE DARES TO TOUCH ME!!!!!)

6 - Distracted (Oooh, my new gay porn just finished downloading! Mmm...schoolboys...)

So anyway, I left this entire ordeal clean forgotten. I had better things to do.

Still, mulling over what happened, the incident spawned several ideas for future careers...

Wouldn't it be a great conversational topic if I could say that I'm a phone-sex operator?