I finally found the perfect way to describe what goes on inside my head after I pop a couple of top shelf pain pills and wash them down with a dirty martini.
Bjork - 'Earth Intruders'
Insanity is the new black. Love it.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Email Filter Test
Thank god for Internet porn!
I should explain.
Until about an hour ago the highlight of my day was finding a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. Life is not very exciting at the moment. Then I thought I'd check my email, just in case there was an important chain email that I needed to urgently forward to 10 people to prevent the world from ending. Unfortunately I was not called upon to save the world by forwarding pictures of cartoon kittens holding love hearts- instead I received an email from Senator Steven Fielding.
Steven Fielding is the leader of Family First, a right wing conservative party that should really be called Jesus First. Despite attempts to disguise their close ties to the Australia's Christian community anyone who wasn't dropped on their head as an infant can make the rather obvious connection. The party's policies are entertaining reading, they have very cleverly disguised their self righteous judgements as family focused strategies. Clearly Steven Fielding is not on my Christmas card list, not that I have a Christmas card list, but thats beside the point.
So why am I receiving emails from Stevie? It appears someone thought it would be funny to subscribe me to his mailing list. Very funny. No seriously, very funny!
When I looked more closely tonight I realised that the email came from what appears to be Lil' Stevie's own email address. So for my own personal amusement I decided to put his email filter to the test.
I subscribed the address to every filthy porn mailing list I could find, from 'Grannies and Toys' right through to 'Midget S&M'. The Internet can be so useful.
I know it's childish, but it made me smile.
Until about an hour ago the highlight of my day was finding a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. Life is not very exciting at the moment. Then I thought I'd check my email, just in case there was an important chain email that I needed to urgently forward to 10 people to prevent the world from ending. Unfortunately I was not called upon to save the world by forwarding pictures of cartoon kittens holding love hearts- instead I received an email from Senator Steven Fielding.
Steven Fielding is the leader of Family First, a right wing conservative party that should really be called Jesus First. Despite attempts to disguise their close ties to the Australia's Christian community anyone who wasn't dropped on their head as an infant can make the rather obvious connection. The party's policies are entertaining reading, they have very cleverly disguised their self righteous judgements as family focused strategies. Clearly Steven Fielding is not on my Christmas card list, not that I have a Christmas card list, but thats beside the point.
So why am I receiving emails from Stevie? It appears someone thought it would be funny to subscribe me to his mailing list. Very funny. No seriously, very funny!
When I looked more closely tonight I realised that the email came from what appears to be Lil' Stevie's own email address. So for my own personal amusement I decided to put his email filter to the test.
I subscribed the address to every filthy porn mailing list I could find, from 'Grannies and Toys' right through to 'Midget S&M'. The Internet can be so useful.
I know it's childish, but it made me smile.
Wow, I'm so popular, 213 new emails!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Clothes Made Out Of Curtains
After listening to the smooth vocal stylings of the one and only Desree for the past hour I find myself in a very optimistic mood. Seriously, you gotta be bad, you gotta be bold you gotta be wiser, genius.
So what to do now? When I sat turned on my trusty laptop after a dinner with the extended Italian family who had the crazy switched to high I had fully intended to let the fingers do the ranting. But now I’m completely mellow, I’ve lost the urge to vent my frustration about an uncle who’s attention seeking stupidity hit an all time high this evening when he arrived screaming obscenities at his wife and wearing an eye patch. My contentment in this moment is even preventing me from writing a self loathing post about my distain for headless store mannequins who are infinitely more attractive then me despite the rather obvious lack of a head.
So, in an homage to Julie Andrews and children wearing clothes made out of curtains, I’ve decided to tell you about a few of my favourite things. First and foremost I love Julie Andrews and the word ‘homage’.
My favourite place to be, despite my very limited experience of the world, is Melbourne. I can’t get enough of it and would never live anywhere else. And to those who say I need to experience more before I make that judgement I say this- I didn’t need a vagina to tell me I was gay. I never get bored of wandering through the city discovering new favourite things down ally ways behind Chinese restaurants, racking up credit card debt buying clothes I clearly cant afford, or finding comfy spot to sit and watch the people pass by. We have the best live music scene in the country, the best restaurants in the country and we host the most public, cultural and sporting events- oh and we have Lord Mayor John So.
I really love late night phone conversations with Mona when we are both able to switch off the ‘I hate my life’ section of our brains. During these conversations we can solve all the problems of the world, last Thursday we wrapped up the whole climate change situation in about 20 minutes. This week we’ll tackle peace in the Middle East. Within the confines of these conversations we are also able to tell completely inappropriate and offensive jokes without fear of retribution or judgment. Simply because she knows it bugs me Mona will refer to Julie Andrews as a filthy slut and in return I’ll refer to Mona’s future children as veil wearing religious zealots.
Music is obviously one of my favourite things. I love walking down the street with my headphones in, pretending that I have control over the soundtrack to my life with my trusty iPod in hand. One of my best memories from my U.S holiday- a smile I couldn’t control was plastered on my face as I strolled through Central Park on the clearest New York morning with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Higher Ground’ blaring in my ears. Even without the overblown New York cliché the right song at the right moment can shift my mood from, ‘I want to rip your eyeballs out and use them for Martini olives’ to ‘Lets do tequila shots and dance.’
Going out for breakfast on a Sunday morning always makes me smile, until about 2 hours later when I’m usually hunched over holding my stomach and wishing that I didn’t order the big breakfast with extra bacon and hash browns plus a side of cholesterol. Despite the pain that comes along with my regular order I will no doubt continue to do the same thing every time.
Ok, I thought I could go on and on about my favourite things, but unfortunately all this happiness is starting to freak me out. I’m going to watch some late night televangelists talk about opening my black heart and accepting Jesus into my life. That should get me back to a more normal state of contempt and irrational anger.
Peace be with you.
So what to do now? When I sat turned on my trusty laptop after a dinner with the extended Italian family who had the crazy switched to high I had fully intended to let the fingers do the ranting. But now I’m completely mellow, I’ve lost the urge to vent my frustration about an uncle who’s attention seeking stupidity hit an all time high this evening when he arrived screaming obscenities at his wife and wearing an eye patch. My contentment in this moment is even preventing me from writing a self loathing post about my distain for headless store mannequins who are infinitely more attractive then me despite the rather obvious lack of a head.
So, in an homage to Julie Andrews and children wearing clothes made out of curtains, I’ve decided to tell you about a few of my favourite things. First and foremost I love Julie Andrews and the word ‘homage’.
My favourite place to be, despite my very limited experience of the world, is Melbourne. I can’t get enough of it and would never live anywhere else. And to those who say I need to experience more before I make that judgement I say this- I didn’t need a vagina to tell me I was gay. I never get bored of wandering through the city discovering new favourite things down ally ways behind Chinese restaurants, racking up credit card debt buying clothes I clearly cant afford, or finding comfy spot to sit and watch the people pass by. We have the best live music scene in the country, the best restaurants in the country and we host the most public, cultural and sporting events- oh and we have Lord Mayor John So.I really love late night phone conversations with Mona when we are both able to switch off the ‘I hate my life’ section of our brains. During these conversations we can solve all the problems of the world, last Thursday we wrapped up the whole climate change situation in about 20 minutes. This week we’ll tackle peace in the Middle East. Within the confines of these conversations we are also able to tell completely inappropriate and offensive jokes without fear of retribution or judgment. Simply because she knows it bugs me Mona will refer to Julie Andrews as a filthy slut and in return I’ll refer to Mona’s future children as veil wearing religious zealots.
Music is obviously one of my favourite things. I love walking down the street with my headphones in, pretending that I have control over the soundtrack to my life with my trusty iPod in hand. One of my best memories from my U.S holiday- a smile I couldn’t control was plastered on my face as I strolled through Central Park on the clearest New York morning with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Higher Ground’ blaring in my ears. Even without the overblown New York cliché the right song at the right moment can shift my mood from, ‘I want to rip your eyeballs out and use them for Martini olives’ to ‘Lets do tequila shots and dance.’Going out for breakfast on a Sunday morning always makes me smile, until about 2 hours later when I’m usually hunched over holding my stomach and wishing that I didn’t order the big breakfast with extra bacon and hash browns plus a side of cholesterol. Despite the pain that comes along with my regular order I will no doubt continue to do the same thing every time.
Ok, I thought I could go on and on about my favourite things, but unfortunately all this happiness is starting to freak me out. I’m going to watch some late night televangelists talk about opening my black heart and accepting Jesus into my life. That should get me back to a more normal state of contempt and irrational anger.
Peace be with you.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Attention All Animals
Jaw update:
The bones are healing, slowly but surely. I can now eat some real foods. It is very exciting, I actually ate fish the other day!
Let this be a warning to all animals: my chewing powers are increasing every day. I will not hesitate to kill, deep fry, and eat any living thing that I am able to chew.
The bones are healing, slowly but surely. I can now eat some real foods. It is very exciting, I actually ate fish the other day!
Let this be a warning to all animals: my chewing powers are increasing every day. I will not hesitate to kill, deep fry, and eat any living thing that I am able to chew.
Join me for a Bambi Burger?
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
A Warewolf Has Needs
My jaw has been smashed into lots of tiny pieces.
My drugs are running out.
Fuck.
I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.
For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.
Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.
The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.
I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’
Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.
This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.
Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.
My drugs are running out.
Fuck.
I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.
For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.
Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.
The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.
I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’
Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.
This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.
Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.
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