So I got my A level results today. They were pretty good, considering I failed the shit out of music. Don't feel too bad for me, it's not the end of the world, I can still go back in September.
Some of the systems my college have are really silly sometimes. For instance, this year my college aren't printing out hard copies of results for students, which means we can only access them online. What if a student has no internet connection? I know it's 2012 but you still can't completely rule it out. Also, their security is severly flawed, using turnstyles activated by swipe cards (something which I imagine isn't uncommon) which only work if they feel like it. Much like the students who pass through them on a daily basis. The cards themselves are disabled by the slightest crack or split in the least compromising area (my which I mean nowhere near the magnetic strip). They are silly. Very silly indeed.
Not much has happened in the month since I last posted. Coffee still summons the chocolate monsoon, I still can't drive, and I've still got more useless crap than I know what to do with. Maybe I'll use them to build a glider and fly to Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty; or Hotel California, such a lovely place.
I'm running out of ideas now.
Farewell.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Monday, 16 July 2012
A Letter to Coffee
Dear coffee,
Oh, how I love you so; your ability to give me the energy to face the day; your strong, wonderous flavour, unspoiled by semi-skimmed milk and/or sugar; and your seemingly endless supply, instant or otherwise. But I have one question to ask, coffee:
Why, dear God why, do you always insist on giving me the raging shits every time I feel like a hot cup of brown? Honestly, it's really annoying. I still can't figure out if instant is worse than ground, or vice versa. Even if I consume the rich, brown, almost immorally delicious nectar that you are on an empty stomach, you can turn nothing into a metric tonne of shit. How in the name of Jesus H. Tapdancing Fucking Christ do you do that? Even weapons grade laxatives have a hard time doing that.
What I'm trying to say, coffee, is that you are everything I could want in a hot beverage: hot (always a good place to start), strong, brewed, rich, dark, invigorating, and fucking God damn delicious. Except you punish me (and everyone else's sinuses) for no reason. It's a shame we can't take our relationship further, it really is. Unfortunately, there's no chance of us ever having a sexual relationship because
A) You're a drink
and
B) The human personification of the kind of coffee I like is Mr T and quite frankly I'd rather have a sexual relationship with the leftover bits of Anne Robinson.
Sorry.
Your's sensually,
Sam x
Oh, how I love you so; your ability to give me the energy to face the day; your strong, wonderous flavour, unspoiled by semi-skimmed milk and/or sugar; and your seemingly endless supply, instant or otherwise. But I have one question to ask, coffee:
Why, dear God why, do you always insist on giving me the raging shits every time I feel like a hot cup of brown? Honestly, it's really annoying. I still can't figure out if instant is worse than ground, or vice versa. Even if I consume the rich, brown, almost immorally delicious nectar that you are on an empty stomach, you can turn nothing into a metric tonne of shit. How in the name of Jesus H. Tapdancing Fucking Christ do you do that? Even weapons grade laxatives have a hard time doing that.
What I'm trying to say, coffee, is that you are everything I could want in a hot beverage: hot (always a good place to start), strong, brewed, rich, dark, invigorating, and fucking God damn delicious. Except you punish me (and everyone else's sinuses) for no reason. It's a shame we can't take our relationship further, it really is. Unfortunately, there's no chance of us ever having a sexual relationship because
A) You're a drink
and
B) The human personification of the kind of coffee I like is Mr T and quite frankly I'd rather have a sexual relationship with the leftover bits of Anne Robinson.
Sorry.
Your's sensually,
Sam x
Thursday, 28 June 2012
I'm Full of Drugs!
Jesus tap-dancing Christ it's hot in here. The windows here only open so far and the air isn't conditioned, it's filtered so it isn't being cooled, so it's hot as fuck in here. Jesus.
Hospitals are boring. It's nothing like the hospitals in Scrubs or Holby City or Doctors, there's no drama, illicit sex, conflict, or even a flatline (at least not since I got here). I'm just sat in my really fucking hot room watching daytime TV and perusing the internet on this decade old laptop I've been given, waiting for a nurse to come in to fill me up with antibiotics through an I.V. line in my left arm. Either that or waiting for a different nurse to take another gallon of my blood by stabbing at any raised vein with a needle like a frightened criminal. Mind you, it's not all bad. Despite what they all say about hospital food, it's actually not that bad. I also get offered a cup of coffee every now and again.
If someone tells you they're not squeamish, they're lying. They can watch all the gory horror movies, genuine gore pictures from the darkest corners of the internet, surgical videos, whatever, as soon as someone puts a 50cm wire into their arm to guide the plastic tube that's about to follow it, they'll show you just how strong-stomached they really are. When I was nine, I was admitted into the Children's Hospital in central Birmingham for I.V. antibiotics for the second time. At the time I thought I could handle anything, that was of course until I saw blood erupting from my arm like it had been holding in a piss for four hours. That still disturbs me when I think about it.
Seeing my consultant tomorrow to find out if I'm being filled with the right drugs because, worryingly, nobody's quite sure. Oh well, early days.
Hospitals are boring. It's nothing like the hospitals in Scrubs or Holby City or Doctors, there's no drama, illicit sex, conflict, or even a flatline (at least not since I got here). I'm just sat in my really fucking hot room watching daytime TV and perusing the internet on this decade old laptop I've been given, waiting for a nurse to come in to fill me up with antibiotics through an I.V. line in my left arm. Either that or waiting for a different nurse to take another gallon of my blood by stabbing at any raised vein with a needle like a frightened criminal. Mind you, it's not all bad. Despite what they all say about hospital food, it's actually not that bad. I also get offered a cup of coffee every now and again.
If someone tells you they're not squeamish, they're lying. They can watch all the gory horror movies, genuine gore pictures from the darkest corners of the internet, surgical videos, whatever, as soon as someone puts a 50cm wire into their arm to guide the plastic tube that's about to follow it, they'll show you just how strong-stomached they really are. When I was nine, I was admitted into the Children's Hospital in central Birmingham for I.V. antibiotics for the second time. At the time I thought I could handle anything, that was of course until I saw blood erupting from my arm like it had been holding in a piss for four hours. That still disturbs me when I think about it.
Seeing my consultant tomorrow to find out if I'm being filled with the right drugs because, worryingly, nobody's quite sure. Oh well, early days.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
The Kitchen Incident
Great globs of fetid milk fall repulsively into the rinser, the foul stench filling my nostrils.
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.
My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.
And I wonder why I can't pull...
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.
My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.
And I wonder why I can't pull...
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
U.S. - British English Translator
- Antenna - Plinky-plonky radio stick
- Aluminum - Aluminininium
- Apartment - Stacked living-box
- Asphalt - Cobblestone wibble-wabble
- Attourney - Wigged bell end
- Baby carriage - Wheely-deely baby cart
- Cellphone - Magic man-talker
- Cheap - 99p
- Check - William
- Counerclockwise - Black magic
- Crib - Baby cage
- Curse word - Cunty-wunty fuck bollocks
- Diapers - Shit-towels
- Drug store - University
- Elevator - Magic uppy down box
- Eraser - Anti-pencil block
- Faucet - Drippy-droppy twizzle wetter
- Flashlight - Flishy-flashy criminal exposer
- Inexpensive - 99p
- Laundromat - Cheapo rag sudding
- Lawyer - Rich bastard
- Line - Queueueueue
- Math - Witchcraft
- Movie theater - Magic picture house
- Pants - Two legged leggy-coverings
- 'Pardon me' - 'Fuck off'
- Railroad - Longy-liney steam extravagence
- Restroom - Kidderminster
- Shopping cart - Nom-noms cage
- Silverware - Stabby-prongy nom-nom helpers
- Sneakers - Villains
- Stroller - Rolly-poly baby car
- Subway - Imminant underground explosion.
- Sweater - Itchy-scratchy rash creator
- Trash can - Birmingham
- Truck - Susan Boyle's make-up artist
- Turtle neck - Dickhead cover
- Underpass - Stabby-drug tube
- Vacation - Hiding from the authorities
- Wrench - Tinkery-tighty bollock tinkerer
Sunday, 22 April 2012
I've Just Had Some Fucking Jelly Babies
A lot of people say nowadays that the world is going to be fucked if we carry on as we are, polluting the atmosphere, rivers, lakes, and oceans, blowing up mountains to get valuable minerals largely for financial gain, fracking for natural gas right outside peoples' houses, and so on. Here's what I say to these people: The world is not GOING to be fucked; the world is never GOING to be fucked because the world has ALREADY been fucked by us and our wars, our greed, our relentless destruction, intolerance and ignorance of nature. The world was fucked right about the time we showed up. As for society, society died when George Carlin did.
Anyway, enough of that shit.
On a slightly odd - if concerning - note, I keep seeing discarded jeans everywhere. Not just in my bedroom (hurr), but fucking everywhere, and they're always draped over railings or fences in a suburb somewhere. I saw my first pair a couple of weeks ago in Bristol when I was staying with my Mom, a pair of perfectly serviceable blue jeans lying over a railing in the middle of Bristol. Since I've been back in Birmingham, I've seen three more pairs: one in a tree in a small woodland area next to my house and two next to each other on a fence by a bus stop that I saw on my way back from a friend's house earlier this afternoon. Whose going around just leaving jeans everywhere? Is this some kind of new cult I should be aware of? I might get in on it myself, actually, I'll even add my own little twist, leaving corduroys on top of bollards. Yeah. That'll show those... erm... Tories? Show them some of my vast collection of corduroy trousers, that is.
Fucking Tories.
P.S. I don't really own a pair of corduroy trousers.
Anyway, enough of that shit.
On a slightly odd - if concerning - note, I keep seeing discarded jeans everywhere. Not just in my bedroom (hurr), but fucking everywhere, and they're always draped over railings or fences in a suburb somewhere. I saw my first pair a couple of weeks ago in Bristol when I was staying with my Mom, a pair of perfectly serviceable blue jeans lying over a railing in the middle of Bristol. Since I've been back in Birmingham, I've seen three more pairs: one in a tree in a small woodland area next to my house and two next to each other on a fence by a bus stop that I saw on my way back from a friend's house earlier this afternoon. Whose going around just leaving jeans everywhere? Is this some kind of new cult I should be aware of? I might get in on it myself, actually, I'll even add my own little twist, leaving corduroys on top of bollards. Yeah. That'll show those... erm... Tories? Show them some of my vast collection of corduroy trousers, that is.
Fucking Tories.
P.S. I don't really own a pair of corduroy trousers.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
I'm So Fucking Bored Right Now
As the title suggests, I'm really goddamn bored. So bored, in fact, that I thought I'd write a blog entry. Although, now I've started, I've absolutely no idea what to write about. I've been thinking about updating my largely ingored blog for a while now, I've just been putting it off because I really have nothing to write about. Well, I'll just have to moan about stuff again. Sorry...
See, now I can't concentrate because I keep trying to think of things to moan about, thing is, I can't think of anything to moan about that I haven't moaned about before. Like buses. I still seriously dislike public transport, but until I can drive a car, I'm just going to have to make do. The disconcerting lack of literacy skills among the general public. These people who can't tell the difference between 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. Same goes for 'your' and 'you're'. These people have been (or should have been) through full-time education, so they've got no excuse, really. "I'm dyslexic" isn't a good enough excuse. Being dyslexic is different to having bad grammar. One's a serious problem and one's dyslexia.
The Sellotape vs Scotch tape case. There's something I haven't addressed yet. Someone I know (you know who you are) seemed to think that Scotch tape and Sellotape were the same thing. While they are by definition the same thing (cellulose tape) they aren't the same thing, if you see what I mean. It's like calling all brands of potato chip (or crisp) 'Walkers' (or 'Lays' depending on whether or not you're from the UK). Some other things that I only recently found out were different things: gaffer tape and duct tape - gaffer tape can be removed cleanly whereas duct tape can't; turpentine and white spirit - turpentine is wood based whereas white spirit is petroleum based. I think you can probably tell how bored I am as I write this. I'm actually telling the internet the difference between turpentine and white spirit. I will never have another girlfriend...
I'm still bored so I'm going to continue writing because fuck you. Death metal, there's a thing. As much as I love death metal, I don't like it when some of the people I'm with go into a crowded bus shelter and start blasting Amon Amarth or Lamb of God (yes, I know, they're groove metal) at full volume. I get extremely uncomfortable when all of the people waiting inside the bus shelter glare at us because we're blasting 'Guardians of Asgaard' at full volume on a Sony Ericsson W395 (a really loud phone) and I'm dressed like a Soviet (read: cunt). I can taste the comtempt from those people. I don't like doing things that draw attention to me or the people I'm with because nine times out of ten it attracts the wrong kind. It's like when I go into town on a Saturday to do some underage drinking, we buy a crate of beer (ususally bottles of Budweiser) and fruitlessly attempt to get tipsy from the four or five bottles I manage to drink. Sometimes some people I don't know tag along, this is normally fine as long as they don't drink all the fucking beer. Sometimes someone's younger sibling comes along gets blind drunk of four bottles and thinks it's a fucking brilliant idea to throw all the empty bottles against a brick wall. And they wonder why the police keep coming...
See, now I can't concentrate because I keep trying to think of things to moan about, thing is, I can't think of anything to moan about that I haven't moaned about before. Like buses. I still seriously dislike public transport, but until I can drive a car, I'm just going to have to make do. The disconcerting lack of literacy skills among the general public. These people who can't tell the difference between 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. Same goes for 'your' and 'you're'. These people have been (or should have been) through full-time education, so they've got no excuse, really. "I'm dyslexic" isn't a good enough excuse. Being dyslexic is different to having bad grammar. One's a serious problem and one's dyslexia.
The Sellotape vs Scotch tape case. There's something I haven't addressed yet. Someone I know (you know who you are) seemed to think that Scotch tape and Sellotape were the same thing. While they are by definition the same thing (cellulose tape) they aren't the same thing, if you see what I mean. It's like calling all brands of potato chip (or crisp) 'Walkers' (or 'Lays' depending on whether or not you're from the UK). Some other things that I only recently found out were different things: gaffer tape and duct tape - gaffer tape can be removed cleanly whereas duct tape can't; turpentine and white spirit - turpentine is wood based whereas white spirit is petroleum based. I think you can probably tell how bored I am as I write this. I'm actually telling the internet the difference between turpentine and white spirit. I will never have another girlfriend...
I'm still bored so I'm going to continue writing because fuck you. Death metal, there's a thing. As much as I love death metal, I don't like it when some of the people I'm with go into a crowded bus shelter and start blasting Amon Amarth or Lamb of God (yes, I know, they're groove metal) at full volume. I get extremely uncomfortable when all of the people waiting inside the bus shelter glare at us because we're blasting 'Guardians of Asgaard' at full volume on a Sony Ericsson W395 (a really loud phone) and I'm dressed like a Soviet (read: cunt). I can taste the comtempt from those people. I don't like doing things that draw attention to me or the people I'm with because nine times out of ten it attracts the wrong kind. It's like when I go into town on a Saturday to do some underage drinking, we buy a crate of beer (ususally bottles of Budweiser) and fruitlessly attempt to get tipsy from the four or five bottles I manage to drink. Sometimes some people I don't know tag along, this is normally fine as long as they don't drink all the fucking beer. Sometimes someone's younger sibling comes along gets blind drunk of four bottles and thinks it's a fucking brilliant idea to throw all the empty bottles against a brick wall. And they wonder why the police keep coming...
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