Don't go for the face?

'Ahhhh fuck.' - Me

So urm, yeah. I've managed to miss two wednesdays, which was the day I'd decided I'd add another post to this little shebang each week (would you say it like that? Shebang? Or shubang? Or, oh whatever, that's not important right now...). It would be at this point that you'd expect me to construct an elaborate excuse involving a dog, a couple of lemons, and a resurrected Rasputin. But there is no 'you' to expect that, you're all a figment of my no longer drug-addled imagination, tempting me with arson and sin. Get out of here, get out. Lalala, lalala.

What I will use an excuse would be the fact that from the moment I got back from my holiday (which was incredibly hot, resulting in me in a permanent state of ‘someone’s poured a bucket over me’), I was blasted with several ‘what the hell?!’ moments. If you recall the phrase ‘you miss a little, you miss a lot’ (I think that’s a quote…maybe), that phrase applies as welcomingly to my life as botox would to Anne Robinson. As such, I spent most of my first week back terribly confused, wondering why this all had had to happen while I was away.

The second week, the one we’re about to leave so graciously, hailed my return to education. Yeah, 6^th form, whoo! It’s all going to be fun from now on, yeaaaah!! Um…no. It’s a bloody shock to the system when you’ve had several months of the most strenuous thinking being ‘which novelty shirt shall I wear today?’. I’m exaggerating of course, that’s what I do. It’s my bread and butter. The STD to my cheap prostitute. Hyperbole runs in my blood, along with all those metaphors.

 As bad as these excuses are, these are the ones I have. Take them or leave them you mob. I guess that this’ll be my ‘again, sorry’ post. They’re becoming a habit, almost as regular as the actual posts. Please forgive me, I’ll be good from now on?

I’ll be putting up something a little more like a usual blog post after this one; try and control yourselves until I do. Don’t go crazy now. You’re better than that.

Yeah, right.

I Shall Be Away, For Many a Day.

'Imagine if I came back, and all of you had died in some horrific accident? I'd log onto facebook and be all 'hey, where is everyone, no statuses for a while'. And then someone would come along, 'I don't know how to tell you this Damian, but they're all gone.' I wouldn't know what to do with myself. Or you might all hate each other? I wouldn't be able to choose who to stay with!' - Me, Thursday.

As the above salvaged self-quote may suggest, I'm leaving. Not Bilbo-style, no. Get with it people, this is the internet. Even if I was in the possession of a magical ring, you wouldn't see me disappear. Unless you're stalking's gone to new heights.

This'll only be a small post. Tiny in fact, as the only thing I really wanted it to do was cover my own arse. I could hear the crowd again, the clammering voices pushing from within my skull, 'oh look, the bastard's given up again!', 'he couldn't cut it, blogging's not for the weak' or 'burn it, burn it all. Set alight the orphanage and writhe on the grass as you hear their tasty tasty screams'. Ahem...

So yes, there won't be any posts for two and a half weeks. No, it's not because I've given up you mob. It's because I'm dying of heat exhaustion in Florida, being talked down to by a giant anthropomorphic rodent. See, you can make anything sound creepy or disturbing if you find the right words. It's just a matter of mindset. Yes, I will continue posting once I get back...there'll probably be plenty to talk about, and even if there isn't I love the sound of my voi-no, wait...I love the look of my words too much to stop now. No, I won't lick that. I know exactly where it's been.

I'll be missing what some people might consider an important part of the year; final GCSE results. Sure, I'll be getting a text from friends who're picking them up (you're such dolls!), but it's not quite the same as that anticipation, the mixture of dread and awe as you savagely tear up the fucker enveloping your achievements. Instead, I'll be waking up to them at 6:00 in the morning. Lovely.

So, um, yeah. Bye. Don't cheat on me. I'll go apeshit. Chimpanzee excrement all up in your grille. Stinky.

I'll be back.

Horrors Are a Doddle; Cider However...

'London scares me, that bouncer scares me, and that tramp over there really scares me.' -Will, The Inbetweeners

I think starting every post with italics, regardless of whether it's a quote or fiction from meself, adds a touch of class to an otherwise classless public show. Like hot rampant sex in a town square, but while wearing top hats.

More than once, at least while it was still airing new episodes, it was (admittedly rarely) made mention that I resembled the above character, Will, in some manner. Whether it was the annoying voice, the abyssal lack of social know-how, or general all-round nerdosity (that should be patented; I'd earn millions!), comparisons were made. For anyone who knows the show, they might well agree. For the most part I'd tell them to leave me and Will alone, and go back to playing with my dolls. Yes, dolls. Don't judge me. They listen. More than can be said for you...

The canny reader will see the 'for the most part'. They win an e-...erm, an e-...hippo! Yes, an e-hippo, to ride through the streams of data and information, for devouring your troll foes. Fear not those who didn't, I've just pointed it out. Keep up, haven't got all day. As mentioned in my previous post, I want to do a post a week min. . I've decided a Wednesday would be a good day. I don't know, the Sorting Hat did it all. And so I was sat here, watching Will and chums stumble their way through myriad embarrasments, pelting my brain with stones to spark some life there. 'Think you fleshy, juicy bastard, think!!' I cried, and my parents seemed worried.

But by some deity-given chance, this dialogue crops up, and by happenstance the strands of fate fell into place as dropped strands are wanted to do, along with some commentary on dear bloggy's master's social state. I think...I don't know what to call it. My essence, my lifeblood, that which I am. Such commentary being 'would you agree that generally as a person you are scared?'. Straight to the heart of the matter there, cracked ribs and pissing blood as the heart is ripped asunder for all to see.

And so the two strands connect, and for once I agree with Will. Not just about London, or bouncers, or those of the domicile disadvantaged. I spend a good portion (or bad, depending on your viewpoint) of my thought-watts on worrying. Because shit is scary. And now I can feel it. Those eyes of yours boring down on me. I couldn't care less. Because I'm the one with fall-back plan after fall-back plan if the mutant hordes discover that squirrel meat not only sustains them, but allow them to fly. And then I'll be laughing at your corpse. Ha ha, corpsy.

In all honesty, real life is terrifying enough. At the time of writing, riots are cropping up all over the country. Not near me granted, but for those involved they can't own many unsoiled undergarments. Scale it back even more, and I'm still scared. Alcohol. That soul-sucking little bastard. I hear you whispering, 'drink me, drink right up', telling me I'll have a good time. Yeah, all that collapsing and vomit really appeals to my sense of wellbeing!

I've know full well that the terror is holding me back. The aforementioned relation to ethanol. I don't touch the stuff, but spend plenty of time around those who do. They like it. Love it. Want to copulate with the hangover inducing bitch. And I'm sat there like a turd in a swimming pool while it takes care of their sorrows. Sure it might be a little worrying, but I'm the one losing out on an experience. Fair play to those who enjoy it.

I on the other hand, feel the sledgehammer of terrible possibility smashing its way through my cranium and pulping my thinking muscle. I worry. Not as much as my 'cranked up to 11' posturing might suggest possibly (possibly), but still a fair bit. I can understand that the best picture you could be getting from this is a quivering agoraphobe, far from it. I love risk. Getting the adrenaline pumping's good fun at times.

But sometimes, damnit, no matter where I am or who I'm with, I'm on edge. I might not know quite what to say, or when to say what I might say. I used to care barely a smidgeon, but as time wears on and the need to be social increases, what comes with being social becomes scary. Exams? Ppft, *shoulder shrug*. Talking to someone you don't know, even to order a pizza? *voice become a low, inaudible mess*.

It needs to change. I know. You can't avoid human contact forever y'know. I tried, and when they found me they wretched from the smell. Eventually I'll be calm around vodka. I won't touch it, but it won't earn my vicious ire. Alcohol, that elusive creature known as 'the female', interviews, new people. They'll be easy, I'll be fine. That would be a good present. *wink wink*. Ah, who gives a shit about subtlety, someone buy me fearlessness! I can act it well enough but below that thin veneer of confidence bubbles a witches' brew of forever being on edge.

Which is why, as I finally get to the bloody relevance of the whole thing, when you no longer have to feel on edge about something rather overbearing, it feels less like a weight's been lifted up off my shoulders; much more like the morbidly rotund chap has decided that today, my face will not be his stool. Thank fuck.

Fear not the big scary monster in the closet...he needs a hug, and to get laid.

P.S. I'm sure reading this made little sense; stop complaining, this is my blog not yours. So selfish. Exploring my clockwork through the medium of hyperbole and imagery is helpful and fun. While you may not know the underlying reasons for it, I hope it was still a good ride. I only offer good rides. Like rollercoasters. Whoo.



New Beginnings, Superficial Regenerations.

' He hadn't been to the house in a long while, and yet for all that time it appeared to him as exact as it had been. Time may have passed, but clearly it had left the place untouched. The door was unlocked, slightly ajar in the manner of someone entering without wanting to be heard. Had someone been here? He doubted. Much more likely he had left the door like that himself, an everpresent reminder that he should be there.

As he ventured in, his eyes bulged and widened, the world seeming to freeze all about him. Hairs stood to dogged attention, awaiting the call of fight or flight. He began to mutter in loose breath, never quite forming the words he wanted to scream out. He beheld in the corridor a husk, a broken body. RIbs showed clearly through pallid skin, accusing him of neglect. Atrophied limbs lay sprayed across each other as the once cared for body had fallen to a heap. And then, in a moment of hideous self-loathing and-

He really should've taken care of them better. You can only go on with the excuse 'just going out for a pint of milk' for so long before they realise you've left them to rot. I mean, I've been there. No, no I shouldn't be telling you this. No more.

My blog is a husk. If I'm honest it's not even that. A husk implies it was something to begin with, wholesome and full. You look back at the straggly mess that was my attempt at blogging beforehand and you realised the depth of tragedy. That being said, I enjoyed my foetal blog, and during that time I was posting I had hoped it would mature into something greater. Alas, things happened, and I forgot. I forgot to give it sweet sweet sustenance, a mixture of social awkwardness, wilful egoism and overrated opinion.

I won't lie and tell you I've had an epiphany. Epiphanies are for people who need a good slap to the cheek or punch to the nose. I like neither, so I've taken it upon myself to tell me to do better. Because I can, and because this blog as it was was simply a reminder of my inadequacy of perseverance. I can't handle that weight on my shoulders, that skeleton in my closet. I've got enough taking up space in there as it is, broken femurs and collaped skulls. Those children were asking for it...

To get to the point, eventually...the blog has been reborn. I've tinkered and played with, changed shit up and polished it to a treat. It's going to be proper damnit, whether you or I like it or not. I've come to the decision that come hell or high water, I will be posting a new entry once a week, maybe twice if I'm feeling generous with my teats of opinion. No, just once, you're sucking them dry already. Please let go, you're biting.

I've been thinking of returning to this sanctuary for my burgeoning insanity for a while now, wondering what I'd say and how to say it, whether people will bother looking at it or watch some videos of cats performing awwwww-inducing feline antics. I prefer cats, but you should prefer me. Go on, stroke. I don't bite. As everything always ever does, the thought hovered in the stratosphere of my worries, along with a thousand other possible things I could be doing. Seriously, you couldn't walk in there without having blunt force trauma handed to you via whimsy-mallet.

It was a friend, as it always is, who kick-started the whole thing. A return to their own blog set off warning lights in my head. 'People know you've made a blog! They'll look at your failure and judge! Judge!'. I don't want judges waving their fingers at me accusingly about my aborted blog-child. I want to nurture it, love it, to have it live my dreams. And so it's come to this, a return, a regeneration, a time of new beginnings and grand sweeping statements. Let's have some fun.

I'll be back, I promise.

Figurative Loveliness

Hell, the first blog after my little miniature revolution (I wish I had a cool flag to wave about and a guillotine to chop old thoughts’ heads off), and it’s about metaphors. Bloody figurative, imaginary, insubstantial rhetorical devices. How pretentious and stuck up can I get? As you’ll soon find out, much more so.

Just to clear things up, similes are where you include the word like; for instance, ‘this post is like rainbow of thought and imagination’ is a simile. Metaphors get rid of the whole ‘like’ deal, they don’t need any crutches to justify how cool they are. You accept them for who they are. No exceptions. Metaphors are Tyrannosaurus Rex’s, they are Jaws’, they are the Gods of literary technique. And that sentence was a big old whack of metaphors. I’m a sneaky bugger I know.

I don’t know why I use them that much, honestly I don’t. If I had to take a guess, it would probably be because they make everything feel that little bit grander. No, I’m not wondering what my next post will be about. I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, hooked up to an explosive device and being poked with a pointed wooden stick into choosing one of three boxes. One box contains a pair of comedy breasts, one contains the combination for the padlock currently locking me up, and the last will blow me up should I open it.

A lot more tense, don’t you agree?

My love of metaphors is probably not all that surprising now that I think about it. That crazy, swirling imagination is so much more exciting than the grim boredom of reality that I need to keep letting it out, or little pieces of brain will shower down on the populous.

I’ve been told I personify things far too much. If you’d ever spend a day with me, perhaps even an hour would be enough, and you’d notice that I have a tendency to act out as a lot of different things in a very short space of time. I can be a blade of grass, I can be hatred, hell, I can be an oxygen molecule being bombarded by mean glucose molecules. I mean, honestly, what’s their problem? You’re mooching about in the air, minding your own business, and then suddenly you’re sucked into the respiratory system and being forced to break down so that some selfish little prat can live? The cheek of it.

So, um...yeah. I like metaphors because I like pretending to be a swordfish than accept my life will never be that cool. Your life isn’t all that cool either. You should metaphorise more. We could be friends.

This whole post is a metaphor for me being unable to sort out emotions without long winded discussions on semantics of feeling. Go figure.

Um.....

I can't believe how long it's been, over 3 months since I last posted on here. Makes the whole thing seem rather worthless doesn't it? A meaningless little space for my thoughts to cower in fear of being washed away by fatigue or boredom. Hell, I'm beginning to get deep. This isn't fun.

Having my memory jolted by a certain someone about my little bloggy, I guess I need to think what this is all actually going to be for. Should it become a way for me to showcase what smidgeon of talent can be scraped from the bottom of my metaphorical beaker? Should it become a vehicle for my deluded self-importance and worrisome ego, where I spend my time mocking the cretins below and celebrate how brilliant I am? Or should I keep on with what I'm best at; rambling on about any topic until it has died a thousand deaths?

These all seem like silly rhetorical questions. There's no one here but me, wallowing on a desert island surrounded by a sea of my own indecisiveness.

I don't know what's going to happen, and I doubt anyone here cares (not that there's anyone here anyway). But, if I can't decide now, I might as well go eat.

Poor bloggy

School is a bag of mixed emotions. On the plus, you get to see a lot of people you don't normally get to see in the big, outside world, and some of the stuff is actually quite interesting. On the...urm, minus, you have subjects you despise, and more to the point, your life gets a lot more busy. A LOT more busy.

This is my apology to you bloggy. Fear not, I haven't given up, you just slid down the priority mountain. Your pickaxe was too weak. I'll get you a new one. Soon.