My life is presently sucking too much for me to be bothered to go into detail about why precisely this is the case.

A few hours ago (at work), a 'man' -- completely out of the blue -- fixed me with his expertly-trained gaze and remarked "You must be a really happy bloke... (because?) you've been smiling a lot since you've been here." To which I responded, somewhat taken aback "I have?". Nodding, he reaffirmed his opening statement, and the sentence "Well, I'm not that happy right now" slipped autonomously out of my faintly parted lips, just before I battered him to near-death with a rolled up newspaper.

So yeah, my life is sucking. Not because I'm not making any effort to change it for the better, and/or because I don't know what constitutes a non-sucky life (quite the contrary), but because it appears I'm revolving around the section of the Timeloop marked "Warning: Long Loading Times", and I'm beyondddddddd fed up of waiting for things to get, y'know, good. Next Friday is the cut-off point where, barring a universal incident of highly-improbable proportions, the goodness WILL arrive.

Cue: naked dancing in the street.

It's localized at the back of my throat: a scratchy, bulbous, fluid, static-ey sensation -- a sensation that brings with it a full-blown delirium, one that shockwaves through my body. It's devil.

Waking up this morning was a horrendously taxing experience: My eyes hurt and my legs felt weighed down -- all the energy had been sapped out of me. Walking to work was a veritable exercise in spacewalk-training.

I'm crashing at my folks' place tonight -- because I don't have sufficient energy available to me to make the journey back to my place not-insufferable and unenjoyable.

There's a succinct gheyness pervading my subdermal etheric skin -- evidently, I'm being attacked on multiple reality levels simultaneously. I can't lie: this delirium has now become quite enjoyable.

I'm going to bed -- low energy, astral projection is a distinct possibility...

I suffer, on occasions, from Altered Dissociative State, which is closely related to ADD -- but more interesting.

Just for the record, girls stopped scaring me earlier this decade, a point I feel a need to establish due to what I'm about to talk about.

Here it comes:

Last night... a girl scared me.

At the bank where I work some construction workers/builders/DIY ppl had turned up out of the blue just prior to the beginning of my shift. This was annoying for several reasons: Firstly, because I like the peace and quiet of working by myself, and secondly, because it just so happened that on this particular day I had ADS.

And so what I was expecting to be an intriguing third plateau traipse through bankland turned into something far more maneovolent and panic-inducing. That being; being stared at by a girl in a small-framed man-body -- whilst fucked up.

Let me explain: one of the more fascinating elements of perceiving reality in a dissociative state is how reality alters, principally the effect of light, and its general and overriding affect on us. Something I've become very much aware of is how the eyes elicit a far greater power and meaning than they do in everyday, 'standard' reality. In short you don't need a PHD in psychology and human behavior to understand the energy a person is beaming at you -- it's there in front of you; plain as day.

And so it happened that for the rest of the evening I was, in amidst my A to B traipsing and go-getting, inadvertantly walking past what I had previously assumed was a guy, and then, on later inspection, a lesbian. In the 5 or 6 times this took place she stared intensely at me in a way that left nothing to the imagination. In all cases, I either nodded, or said hey, and she reciprocated -- but then continued staring right into me.

This wouldn't have been so bad if I was in a regular state -- I could have either started up a conversation, or smiled wryly and left it at that. But I wasn't 'regular', and so I had the conversation skills of a mangled lemon sherbet sweet, something I knew only too well (hence my stubborn persistence with keeping talking to a bare minimum), and so I was stuck staring back into that womanboy's godawful, amped-up sexual eyes. I could synesthesially feel her sexual energy running out through her eyes and into my mindcore, evoking feelings of femine youth and nubileness and rolling around naked in meadows and under branch-hooded trees with leaves still glistening from the early morning dew.

Which, after having read that sentence back, sounds wonderful. But the reality wasn't -- probably because our experience of reality is dictated by the state we are in. To paraphrase Jonathon Rambo: I just wannid to bah left alone!!!!

So ya, tonight should be fun.

In other news: I regained my inherent man-mammal warmth, conversation skills and charm this afternoon, and utilized it on a delightfully playful indian hot dog vendor outside Swanwick train station. Alas I can't elaborate because the library is about to close... so, use your fucking imaginations etc.

Bai.

thirtah dolla only if you make for me one of those highly entertaining and twisted comics that you occasionally bring yourself to create into magicslap-existence.

And it must be good. Like, really hilarious, low-fi good. Good luck etc.

.

the universe has caught me with its gaze today and just decided, for whatever reason(s), to be nice to me -- sort everything out all in one fantastic swoop.

It's enough to make me check my astrological chart. Almost, but not quite.

So, I haven't been on the Internet since last Friday.

A couple of nights ago, Freeman (yes, he of Astral Society fame) shows up in one of my dreams, and leaves me a message (amongst other occurrances).

I forget the exact details, unfortunately.

But lo' and behold I log onto AS this afternoon to find that Freeman has left me a PM, speculating that our fates may possibly be intertwined.

The only other dream I recall Freeman making an appearance in was earlier this year, when he attacked my love of Thundercats, and this annoyed me very, very much (in-dream, obviously -- naturally I forgave him straight away upon waking up).

So yes.... that's interesting. Another nugget of intrigue to add to my ever-burgeoning collection. And stuff.

So I'm in the public lavatory, emptying my bowels out in Cubicle 3 (as you do). Whilst engaged in this extraneous, backbone-straining activity, I note that the horizontal gray bar above my cubicle door (which travels across the width of all the cubicles in the lavatory, not just my own), has shit on it.

Yes. Shit.

Not just random shit either, but slash marks, evidence of shit erupting onto the bar from some distance away. Having noted this, I then begin the complicated task of attempting to construct a workable scenario in my mind whereby, presumably, liquid shit can travel two metres in the air from its point of origin, splatter the bar above the toilet cubicle door, and subsequently escape the attention of the cleaners, whom clean everywhere else but that part.

My conclusion is that a man actually exploded in that cubicle, in an ejaculatory geyser of fierce shit -- and was then taken to hospital with second degree burns. Yes.

In other news: I lost my wallet last night, then I recovered it today -- but with all the money that was in it gone. Apparently, an investigation by the Cinema overlords is underway. I'm BONED.

The past few weeks I've been quite busy, slinking between exercising at the gym; surfing at the library; checking on my folks and spending almost my entire home-time playing GTA: San Andreas. Those of you with workable memories and an above average interest in my LJ warblings may recall I played this videogame a couple of years ago; you might also recall I eventually lost interest. Funny how much a person can change in two years. As has since become evident to me in retrospection -- my primary reason for playing GTA was to inflict and cause as much damage, madness and chaos as humanly possible, within the constraints of the game's world. Little wonder then that I tired of the game's formula and gameplay mechanics before I reached the end. This time -- perfectly reflecting my growing interest in my fellow man and the lives we each live -- it was the story that grabbed ahold of my proverbial mind-codpiece and stubbornly refused to let go. I can't say I've ever been so amused by a videogame before. The difference professional writing and voice-acting makes cannot be quantified, except to conclude it makes enough difference to discernably blur the line between gaming and film, and imbue the general gameplay with a meaning it would not ordinarily possess.

Last night I completed the game, and felt that familiar twinge of disappointment, the kind I'd feel at the end of a particularly compelling and atmospheric short story (because the best ones always leave you wanting more). Of course, the game isn't exactly over -- it's GTA after all. Which is to say that you can still explore the gameworld and get up to mischief. But it's not the same: there are no more missions (or at least I assume there are not), no more cutscenes and, for all intents and purposes, no more reason to give a shit.

In short: GTA: 4 awaits... ;)

Question:

zygote_spawnis woken up today by phone and offered some temporary freelance work, due to the workers going on holiday for a week. The caller inquires as to the address of zygote_spawn, who then gives him the details. Lo' and behold it turns out that zygote_spawnlives in the exact same road as one of those workers (!!!111oneone).

Does zygote_spawna) think to himself "zomg, what a zany and highly improbable coincidence!", in line with the traditional model of reality whereby events are entirely random and disconnected, or does zygote_spawnb) quirk his eyebrow slightly, no longer surprised at such synchronistic incidents, because he realizes that reality is fundamentally interconnected and that, by and large, there are no coincidences?

Answer:

(this is where y'all come in)

Note: zygote_spawnshall henceforth be referring to himself in third person -- for the rest of time.

PS

There's some huge mutherfucking spiders doing their web design schtick between the bushes outside my new home. And when I say huge, I mean, the size of my hand huge, which in spider terms is massive and intrinsically scary.

Without going into detail -- only LAWYERS like to hear financial detail -- I'm now financially fucked for the next 'couple of weeks': this is not a tentative verdict, it is fact. Not so fucked that I'll be on the streets, mind -- but fucked enough to basically live a nigh-on cyclic existence until the end of October.

I fucking hate cyclic existence/existing; going round and around doing the same old thing, day in, day out. Just ask my elbows.

I reckon I'll just spend most of my time at the gym (yes, I am now a fitness freak); spend so much time there that to casual observers I'm stalking it (yes, a place), and possibly extremely perverted.

So at the very least something good will come out of my temporary pauper status -- that being muscles. I'll be ripped, yo.

It's been a strange couple of days.

I've now bypassed the point of having gathered enough personal evidence of a me and a place beyond this physical universe to be confident in the reality of such a thing, and find myself pondering what it means to be an entity that lives forever.

Forever. Eternity. Impossible words, really. If we sit and let ourselves indulge in thoughts of endless time and neverendingness then we are liable to drive ourselves mad. It's not something you make a monster out of: you don't imbue it with feelings of dread and anxiety and excitement or hope -- you live it. In the moment -- each moment at a time.

We find ourselves in an unparalleled situation. To interface with something (i.e. The Matrix) that is so contrary to our inherent nature that we actually forget our inherent nature in the process of interfacing. Through it, we forget that we've been around a very, very, very long time.

In living the Earthly lives we lead -- stumbling around in these cute, furry mammalian outfits -- we are made to believe that we are here to gain, when in fact that is not true at all: we are already complete. The problem lies in the built-up programming and amnesiacal fog that sifts around our consciousness at the seat of the brain.

I forgot for a while, but now I remember, and so will all you guys too. Enjoy the uncertainty while you can, and the peculiar malfunction that comes with it -- because it won't last forever.

Let's be honest, this has 'probably' been photoshopped to an inch of its life, but who the fuck cares? As someone who faced the soul-crashing ignominy of going to an all-boys' school, looking (well, staring. Wait... drooling out of my eyes) at this poster is practically a near-death experience.

I think it's fair to say that when I go to see this film, I will alter my usual cinema seating arrangement and sit at the front row -- with oxygen mask on stand-by. 

Lol... that userpic has become synonymous with sexual perversion -- that is, my sexual perversion(s).

Watch this:

So I walk past a mother and her 4/5 year old son, on the way to my local newsagents.

"Who is that?" says the boy.

Short pause. "It's a man", replies the mother.

Another short pause.

"Who is that?" repeats the boy.

A longer pause this time. "I don't know everyone, Robert."

:P

Sultry Sesame Senselessly Sailingly.

Marchiot Morteot Monster Morteot

Arumbangando de salsa.

Go frig an Eskimo.

Upon visiting the Vue Cinema website for my customary pre-movie scheduling foray, I was shocked and appalled to find a pop-up popping up right in front of my FACE, asking me whether I would like to take part in a survey with the chance to win a 6 month movie pass. Naturally, as a regular cinema-goer, I found myself quite keen on possessing such a reality-pwning device -- however, far more unexpectedly, I discovered that I was very happy to take time out to answer some questions. The Vue cinema that is closest to me -- in Portsmouth Harbour -- is a place I visit fairly regularly, which, in line with the location itself, is alive and pleasingly amiable in tone. It's not short of a certain dynamism too; with a large, maze-like layout separating each of the 15 odd screening rooms, large screens in the main hall previewing the various trailers and teasers, and pitch-perfect lighting (dark enough to aid atmosphere, without inadvertantly leading to human bumper cars). In short, I love it -- and want to live there.

Well, in Portsmouth anyway -- that is, as near to Portsmouth harbour and it's massive shopping center complex as possible. I'll be moving to my new place on 23rd, in Fareham, which is fair enough: I do like the place, and it's still relatively close to Portsmouth Harbour. But it doesn't inspire quite so much as the latter's sweeping panoramas, historical areas, tranquil seaside ambience and non-pervasive stench of fishy-things.

In short, I have learned something new today: that I am happy to do things for the people/things/place I love, which I never realized beforehand.

No.

Absolutely not.

BYE

Nothing stealthily grates my cheddar so much as a friend only mildly enjoying a film I've absolutely adored. No, not like, not love -- absolutely adored. I'm sure most people reading this can relate and emphasize. We see something that inspires us, touches us, makes us think and feel beyond the grain: we come out of the cinema feeling invigorated and restored.

Then we wax lyrical about the experience to anyone who will listen, only for one of them to return, sometime later, from their respective experience of the film and sum it up with a simple "meh."

I thought District 9 was utterly, barn-stormingly brilliant -- but even so, if I were to analyze why I assessed it in such a way, the underpinning reasons would show themselves to be wholly subjective. Nonetheless, I can sum it all up in a sentence: a flawless quasi docu-structure that aids in immersion, drawing you seamlessly into the depicted world; genuine extraterrestrial realism, superb CGI and an underlying central character motivation that anyone who's ever loved can relate to.

With the latter, I thought there was something wonderfully simple and natural about the way it was depicted. Ultimately, Wickas just wants to be reuinited with the woman he loves. Nothing more than that. There's no Hollywood spin on it. She's not a centerfold model and the director of the film isn't Michael Bay and thus reduced to camera-fucking her body in every single take. She's just yer run of the mill pretty lady who just wants her husband back. It resonated an easy truth to it.

With regards to "extraterrestrial realism", this is an aspect which is very, very important to me. Regardless of whether you think my experiences are internally generated or not, the fact remains I've seen extraterrestrials. I've seen them move, emote, behave. In all cases they've carried with them that singular quality that is required to turn something fantastical, into something believable: a realness. A sense they truly exist, that they have lives outside of the small window in space and time you've witnessed them in, that they think, feel, fuck, shit and construct elaborate jokes about their backsides.

The aliens in District 9 possess this quality, which is a wonderous achievement, and makes the film's director very much one to watch. God knows I facepalmed myself countless times when watching Attack of the Clones. Yes, it's fun, yes it's vagually dazzling and cinematic, and yes Yoda performing little people acrobatics is cool and funny in equal measure. But you know what would have been better? If it looked fucking real while he was doing it.

I mean, c'mon, if I wanted to watch a cartoon I'd subscribe to Nickelodeon. My subconscious didn't so much assimilate those CG sequences in AotC as stop in its tracks, point, laugh and take a gigantic dump on them.

And that's effectively all I wanted to say. What you guys can take away from this entry is:

A) criticizing, or being apathetic (or mehthetic) towards something I love will mostly likely cause the cornermost corner of the right side of my mouth to tighten by between 3 and 5%

B) I want to bitchslap the beardstuff out of George Lucas.

Bai

I have an appointment next week with the council. It's for the job I was interviewed for earlier in the week. I'm quietly confident I'll get it. If I do, I can look forward to traveling around the local area in the early morning and afternoon hours, fixing shit, beating up chavs and being under the thumb of a woman.

Note: this may or may not be a bad thing -- dependent largely on whether or not she sports a moustache. And/or has the voice of Mutley from Wacky Races. Etc.

Obviously, it's not what I want to do with my life, but goddamn, a full-time job -- in combination with my other jobs and additional avenues of money making -- is precisely what I need right now. I've almost forgotten what it's like to have large amounts of money, and the carefree attitude that comes with it.

Wish me luck ppl!

Question 32b:

If a man is walking in a south-westerly direction at a walking speed of approximately 5 miles per hour, and a fly is approaching in the opposite direction at a flying speed of 22 miles per hour, and the man inadvertantly inhales at the exact wrong moment, thus sucking in the fly (which hits the back of his throat with such a discernible thud that the man can actually feel the insect break into separate body parts) what is the probability that I have lost my appetite for the next 48 hours?

Is it:

A) 100%

B) 100%

C) 100%