tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23587361425704107312024-03-13T04:27:08.068+00:00pithy shitmy heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-30858965678485842822016-10-25T17:25:00.000+01:002017-02-15T11:35:57.527+00:00Foolish Musings of a 19YO on Gap Year. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I travelled the world for a year when I was 18. Northern America, UK, Europe, South Africa with a layover in Asia for 8 hours on the way home. I was directionless. I knew what I wanted to do in life, but I wasn't brave or emotionally stable enough to do it. At some point I was given a diary to fill in. Which I thought would be more prolific and insightful than what it actually is. It's exceptionally mundane, and disappointingly, not well written.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here's probably the most entertaining or disturbing</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> excerpt I found:</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><b>March 1999... </b></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Young girl who likes old men</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Looks into their lives and plays with them</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>They don't give stones, money or bright</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>They share ideas, experience, insight</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Wanting some sort of intimacy</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>I'm seeing it more intricately</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Relationships differ, age widens gap</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Eventuates into some serial mishap</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Old men that like young girls</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Someone needs to question their integrity</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>That should be someone like me. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>I still think Heidi Fleiss was right. Anything over 40 does look right. One can make the odd exception in the case of materialistic beauty, style and aesthetics only if they converse on an educated level, with a mature outlook. They should be over 30... 25 if you're really feeling generous. Unfortunately, in some cases lots of 30+ men will have a hereditary balding gene. These people should be avoided if it can helped, for having relationships with young girls that is. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>I don't know, what does one look for in a partner, I haven't the foggiest idea. Charisma, style identifiable to oneself. I can't handle a person who doesn't have some devious characteristic. Deviancy, yes thats something much more exciting. They are at least interesting. Naughty, Darker. I think some degenerative-ness is definitely attractive. Not heaps mind you, just a dirty mind and untamed imagination. With less morals than the god fearing christians. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Something wicked, foreboding, mysterious, passionate. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Emotionally intelligent, I can work some things out, intellectually, I am fucked, lets face it. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I perused through the rest of the year, didn't seem to have any other badly written poetry. It had no particulars apart from the day to day of traveling around, dealing with different family and people. The mundanity of working in bars - a lot of description about cleaning them after hours. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I smoked too much, I drank too much, and took too many drugs. Occasionally I did dance classes, and there is of course the random entries about men. I suffered from crippling insomnia referred to in every entry unless I was completely shitfaced. Being inebriated, I seemed to get a decent enough night sleep, but the aftermath wasn't pretty. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The over-all tone over the year is of someone who is incredibly hard on themselves for underachieving goals and not meeting expectations set too high. Not many days where I was exuberant but as time goes on my language becomes peppered with colloquial english idioms. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There was highlights of Living in a 2 bedroom Bachelor pad with four other men who were all on different timetables. Museums, Madame Jojo's, seeing Underworld and Les Rhythm Digitale at Brixton Academy on scalped tickets, attended solo - which I found freeing. On reflection, I don't think I saw going to music events the same ever again. And a few amusing late night marriage proposals from men in nightclubs. On one occasion I was told I was just dumb enough to fall in love with. Apparently my response was "I'll add you to my list".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I found this pathological entry on my interest for older men...I figured clearly, I had issues. </span></div>
my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-4218134879358958132016-10-25T03:04:00.000+01:002016-10-25T06:16:13.314+01:00The Investment. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I was young, I met this man. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was a lovely story. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We had a conversation... he pulled out his dictionary and bewitched me with his words. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I searched for him for months on end, but he was hibernating. I sent out a message and invited him to a milestone celebration. He received the encoded innuendo and arrived, exhausted, but somewhat present. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I overloaded his mind with stupefiantes and played with his affection. I watched him sing R Kelly songs to walls and misunderstood the dynamics of the situation. He went home tired, wired, wide eyed, absent... left without my number. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Eventually I found him, in a large open space, surrounded by socialites I was bound to interact with. Not written in any stars, but charmed by words and seduced by his linguistics. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I profusely apologised as I felt responsible for my incendiary actions. Leaving his abode, I was both intrigued and entertained by our playful interaction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For some reason, I thought I had figured out his number.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Later that week playing pool at the local...coincidentally he was there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It felt indescribably electrifying in every cliched sense of the word. And it was a most definitely compromising situation. In a</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">n interesting predicament,</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> an old beau had joined me, helplessly examining our behaviour. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Trying not to look, yet the charged glance between the new and cold dismissal of the old was far too obvious to ignore. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Only twice flickered flares of penetrating lightning, and as they say: that was that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Lubricated by layers of alcohol, we explored some dingy scenes together. I miss-kissed him, faulting - the first sign I thought maybe I was mistaken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was daylight and I lay on his couch, entangled in his warmth, exploring the biggest sex instrument - his brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Reaffirmed, reassured with absolution. Thank fuck for small wonders: it worked. </span></div>
my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-26184309635691481052013-05-27T03:51:00.001+01:002013-05-27T04:00:29.732+01:00Highschool Never Ends.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I moved countries again for a while. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I couldn't handle Asia for the last few months. I don't recommend trying to get anything done outside of your comfort zone, or the 6 block radius one lives in. It's infuriating. So tremendously infuriating that when pushed and beaten on a daily basis for months, and waking up angry and rope-able by 9.00 am in the morning, you know it's time to take a break.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I'm on a working holiday in Canada. The fatherland. And have just remembered what it's like to change highschools. I went to 4 high schools and 5 primary schools, all with varying degrees of success. Each time starting at a new school, is probably one of the most hideously awkward experiences one can have. You have no friends, your social skills from being indoctrinated with an unhealthy level of people paranoia, are generally pretty shitty. Getting to know and being accepted into long formed and tight knit social groups of other kids, while trying to be as relatable as possible, is hard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My only, I guess - acquaintance - here has turned out to be one of those relatively flakey popular girls, who makes social appointments only to equivocate on a daily basis. It's de-stabilising at best. And it takes time to form other friendships. I remind myself everyday to lower my expectations of people. Mainly so I stop being disappointed. I find weekends are the worst. The brain numbingly boring non work weekends, where I dont know where to go or fit in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have forgotten how to be single, or spontaneous, and it's hard to be open. And I seemed to have deluded myself into thinking this was going to be to easy? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's supposed to be this wonderfully amazing work experience, but has become hampered with bureaucratic idiocies that I would not expect from a "civilised country". What I am hoping is that it will make me feel grateful about living in Asia, when faced with doing stupid tasks, a small amount of money will take you to the front of the queue. And you know, Asia, it's just warmer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I found the queer spot last night though, and felt at home. Where the sub culture of fluid sexuality and the uncertainness about fitting into normative society becomes a shared experience, where one can sit back and revel in the theatricality of it. I found one of those last time I was here too, and try to find one every time I move. Mainly because it makes me feel just that little bit saner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't really know how this is going to go. The uncertainty and loneliness fills me with apprehension. It's hard trying think of myself as this person fashioned with some tough exterior who doesn't give a shit about what people think. When, while that is what I have been doing from a very young age, the exact opposite is, and apparently always, has been true. Now I just want to people to think I am a decent person who can keep shit together, while simultaneously trying to hide feelings of uncontrolled mobility, which travel from extreme peaks, to un-climbable lows on my insides. I read something somewhere recently about the amount of lies humans tell a day. Every day we tell at least four, the most prevalent one being "I'm fine". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm fine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-34039770974870085542012-11-11T16:49:00.000+00:002012-11-11T16:49:35.572+00:00Film Production in Asia<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DPEFwmPjn7ffCNKAC_9zHmNUfNTOxc93i0eXDVNB58qo6OB41KSemI22qgW3-0rDoj-4fGbsUdFec1mmZfoJJa7lGL5pbwCMogiFxPBlGZx9btVN98IFLY6eWY1tfeLunIEY1jyq7iS-/s1600/163806_10150356452175344_6594918_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DPEFwmPjn7ffCNKAC_9zHmNUfNTOxc93i0eXDVNB58qo6OB41KSemI22qgW3-0rDoj-4fGbsUdFec1mmZfoJJa7lGL5pbwCMogiFxPBlGZx9btVN98IFLY6eWY1tfeLunIEY1jyq7iS-/s640/163806_10150356452175344_6594918_n.jpeg" width="476" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This years film season is about to open, and in some cases already has. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In S.E. Asia, the optimal time for international film pre-production is through the Xmas period and shooting invariably starts early in the new year. It doesn't rain (supposedly) and it isn't hot (relatively). Of course for Asians, this period is of no consequence, because you know, Buddha. For us white people it becomes slightly more problematic. Not that Jebus and the big dude in the sky with the beard has any bearing on my life, because I consider myself relatively Atheistic with hopefully a somewhat spiritual bent. But in a Western culture, the Julian Calendar effects our families lives for the most part. Because over there (the ephemeral "Organised West"), they celebrate Xmas and the birth of a Zombie, revolving their festivities around a jolly fat man dressed in red (that Coke helped resurrect), breaking and entering peoples houses through a chimney. Yay. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is the one time of the year I can work pretty solidly for about 4-7 months. On usually two to four projects. But it comes at the cost of Familial Piety. Not that I don't think I haven't done some of my fair share of that, this year, with funerals and family visits etc. But this time for me to work, it means I have to do that at the cost of spending time with my husband's family. I'm not entirely happy about it, but if I let my contacts in film and TV die, it becomes a lot harder to be continuously employed or remembered over this season. And generally being on one project, means others follow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is also the fact that I actually like feeling productive and that my labour does have some monetary value (albeit about a quarter of the price or less, of a lower scale paid union member in a developed country). It adds to this weird sense of self esteem that I can barely muster for myself otherwise. Monetary value and productivity. If I'm not doing something, then I am worth nothing. Don't ask me how that works, it's just a hardwire that went wrong somewhere in my brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This year I have a few projects going on not entirely relating to film: the vintage clothing stuff, learning the language of the country I reside in (yeah, still), exercising, working on my own film project, et.al. They kind of make me happy, and feel productive, but none are remunerative. Yet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I should be grateful for the state of employment, but I know what is coming. Long uncompensated hours of over time. Micro-politics of petty people, who have a notorious lack of what westerners like to call "logic". Bad food. And another "attempt of filmmaking" that I couldn't care less if it goes on my CV or not (preferably not in most cases). Working over the seasonal period everyone else is spending with their families. So it becomes a slight quandry as people age and time gets away from us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's one of those situations where I wont like myself either way, because the choices come at an expense or lack of involvement in something. Yet, I should still be grateful regardless. Dammit, be more grateful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-5221559630430911592012-10-21T20:02:00.000+01:002012-10-21T20:04:00.369+01:00Market Schlepping in Bangkok<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RnR0aqO_wl1mFHJ5LqvRLE2B9_L-N9GnDbuhqcHHApi5dc7udMsBYvDfliLzfD-ivS23WUJ8wO2cbmUiC8XG1XVXCspOYA-kO16ynJTfz4CLq2sBSMR_u8O5DBZ9Zkn6sl8Ba1TSG0Bg/s1600/tumblr_mbvdim3d6T1ringnko1_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RnR0aqO_wl1mFHJ5LqvRLE2B9_L-N9GnDbuhqcHHApi5dc7udMsBYvDfliLzfD-ivS23WUJ8wO2cbmUiC8XG1XVXCspOYA-kO16ynJTfz4CLq2sBSMR_u8O5DBZ9Zkn6sl8Ba1TSG0Bg/s640/tumblr_mbvdim3d6T1ringnko1_1280.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the new "business adventure" has included doing quite a bit of research around town, sourcing genuine vintage clothing, and also looking for unique new patterns and stylishly made clothing. It has been a hot, sweaty and a sometimes disgruntling experience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We tracked down the internet's advice on where to go (and decided who ever wrote that crap was on crack). The worst, absolute worst experience so far has been Wang Lang Market. Now any one that has been to Bangkok and travelled around, must know it's not the easiest place to navigate, even with Iphone's internet service and google maps. Mainly it's to do with the 'lost in translation' side of things i.e: you are pronouncing the romanisation of a Thai location incorrectly; this is true 99% of the time. Actually, it's probably 100% of the time. Also hard if your Thai is shitty, like mine is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For us, Wang Lang was our Waterloo of "Vintage Markets". What we thought would be a relatively easy navigation turned into a very expensive affair, for butt fuck nothing rewards. It was supposed to be – take moto to train, take train to river, take boat ten stops down river, 'hey presto': market. Ha, when the hell does that ever happen in this city? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes to the first two steps, BUT get to the river, and for some reason unbeknownst to us (could have been anything really as I'm totally fucking illiterate in this country) ALL of the boats were out that day (possibly due to flooding... or something else, who the fuck knows). No public boats whatsoever. And a whole bunch of grifters telling us horseshit about why there are no boats (you would recognise the type: shady, greasy, dark and manipulative - enough english to try and cajole you into doing something you don't want to do - kind of like drunk slimy sex with someone you know, but not very well, and don't really like - you feel bad afterwards). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So out of heat frustration and total abject laziness to look any further, we take a private long tail, which is about ten times the price of what it should have been, and even though they say they are taking us to where we ask, of course the grifters are lying sacks of shit, and drop us off at another tourist site far from our desired destination. We're then walking on a crowded street, in the mid day heat, and I feel grubby. But not as grubby as it's going to get. We walk, until we decide a bus may be better, and some busses are free. Which is fine, until we get on this dilapidated fifty year old vehicle, with open windows, and flies drunk on heat, meandering through the air. The interior hasn't seen a clean and the motor a tune up since possibly the 70s, but mid 60s seems more likely. You think it's going in the direction you want, but really, it isn't. Which totally pisses you off when you want to get out, and it's the first instance I've seen where the driver wont open his doors in the middle of the road whilst stuck bumper to bumper in traffic that is going nowhere. The driver insists on driving that extra five hundred meters in the opposite direction, from the point you indicated where you would like to alight. I figure it's because I'm white, and he's a spiteful cunt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Get off the bus, walk some more following the blue dot on google maps (man, I love that blue dot). Find the Pier which is across the river from where we want to be. Ask someone where the boats go from, he directs us. Here is another piece of advice, take Thai directions with a grain of salt. They are quite often, always wrong (the language is too general for specification I find) . It's not that his directions were wrong for someone sitting at an information booth, it's that, why the fuck didn't he know that boats weren't going from that location either. Walk to pier, get told boats aren't ferrying foot traffic across the river that day. Walk back to street. Give up, approach expensive moto. Two moto's. They'll take us, but they don't seem to understand where it is either. Patience shortens. Fuck it. Get on and wing it. End up on a four lane toll way, with no helmet. Feel slightly insignificant and that this could be one of those moments, or THE moment. Driver pulls to the side after all the four lane traffic business is finished, and gives me a helmet for the side streets, indicating the fact there is police presence around. Because getting a ticket is worse than having a dead farang, I'm guessing. But whatever. These decisions are rather parochial on day to day basis here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Get to market. Discover market is more thrift than vintage, when it comes to the small amount of vintage it offers. The clothes are overly pedestrian, lack any style, are grubby and make you want to shower after handling them. Shops are situated over sewer drains, subtly* covered by awkward floor boards (*not subtle at all), and they can't mask the odour of smelling like shit. The newer clothing is crappier and more expensive than sourcing the stuff from somewhere closer, like Platinum or JJ market. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We decide the people positively reviewing this market on blogs, are totally full of shit. They make it seem so exciting and full of lost treasures... Pffffft. Don't believe the delusional hype. This market caters to idiot tourists who don't mind paying exorbitant rates for shitty clothing, or think thrift clothing badly made five years ago, is vintage. We buy two things, more out of sheer determination to not have had the whole day go to waste than anything else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I should mention that going to these kind of places without food, in a hypoglycaemic state is also a bad, bad idea. It amplifies your grumpy. We grub about for an hour or maybe a bit less, become increasingly unsatisfied, with the quality we see. We decide finally after much ado about grumble, that we should leave. Taxi's ignore us, or are otherwise taken by local thai's who push into line. Fine, whatever. It's not something that I'm not used to. We approach Moto's again, just to get the hell out of Waterloo-Dodge quickly. We agree to an exorbitant rate from the moto. Be gone, is all we want. We're hot, grumpy, ill nourished, disappointed, and feel like a bath in Clorox is mandatory. An unhappy exit is compounded by the fact that the moto driver smirked when we agreed to his exorbitant rate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still feel like an idiot tourist outside of my comfort zone in Bangkok. It's because I have no prior experience of spacial awareness in new locations, and cannot gauge how much distance is worth the fee and therefore cannot negotiate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TLDR: my twitter update of our odyssey to Wang Lang. Never Again - Some bits of Bangkok weren't made to be seen. </span><br />
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my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-63587475971682378752012-10-06T20:35:00.000+01:002012-10-06T20:35:51.727+01:00Mao Mao<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So on a whim the other day, a Melbourne Stylist friend, who I met in my Thai language class, and tells me outrageous and incredible stories about the fashion industry, which make me wonder "but are people really happy on the inside when they spend 100k on clothing?", decided to set up a Pop Up Fashion shop in Melbourne.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What is a pop up fashion shop you ask? Any one been to a pop up restaurant? It's kind of the same thing without the food. We will buy interesting, fabric, textile and fabric orientated one off pieces in the genre of street wear, which we will take back to Melbourne and find some artsy and fun venue to sell them in, for a one week period. Or something. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our business plan was hashed out in less than a minute and half, and is more something we want to do because of the fun of it, than thinking we are reinventing the wheel or taking over the world (too jaded for that). It excited us and we got all tizzy for a few moments, like bitches do when there is fashion and shopping involved. We bought some dresses, took some photo's on the iphone, imported them into photoshop, and made like we were 6 years old with a broken crayon. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The name we spent at least five minutes thinking about, and settled on <b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/maomaopopup" target="_blank">Mao Mao</a>.</b> In Thai it means drunk drunk, or shit faced drunk, or pie eyed, or so totally inebriated I pissed my pants whilst sleeping drunk. Well probably not the last one, but you know, when something is said twice here and is the same word, it's the same thing but exaggerated. So it's like drunk exaggerated - I guess. If it was Mao Mao Mao, it would mean you were stoned (so I have been told).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest of the name we added in Thai, because we thought about our audience and kind of realised, with Asian sizing (so tiny) that our label would be for skinny, drunk bitches. So thus, on the 276th day of 2012, the year that marks the end of the world, we were created. <a href="http://maomaopopup.tumblr.com/" target="_blank"><b>Mao Mao</b>:</a> for Skinny Drunk Bitches, or สำหรับ bitches เมาผอม - which we figured was a kind of less obvious way to hide our jadedness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For me it is a creative outlet in my down time, waiting for the feature films to come back this season, so I can work in production. As the guy who I am supposed to be producing music videos and ads with, has been hospitalised for the last month. And I go nuts if I am not doing anything I consider "productive". Because you know, going to yoga and Pilates, taking Thai classes, doing an <a href="https://www.coursera.org/course/mythology" target="_blank">online academic course</a> (have a look, I recommend as they are free and quite good), and occasionally helping do some social media managing is not really enough to keep me satisfied, without it passing into the early hours of the morning and me thinking to myself "What am I doing with my life". One can be creative after 12am, but no good thinking about how you feel about yourself really occurs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought this would at least be a project that would help get me back to Australia and see my friends and family, whilst keeping me in the manner I have become accustomed to. You know, those Brazilian and full leg waxes that here in Thailand cost (</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">on </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">equivalent)</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> $30AU, or the manis-pedis which cost</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> $15AU, or the $9AU full body massages, or the $2.70AU packet of cigarettes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Quick side bar of digression here: Cigarettes in Australia in actuality cost $18 a packet, and you can't take any more than two packets (packets of 25 cigarettes, NOT cartons) through customs now. SHOCK HORROR. I should just give up, but it's my last vice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Haha, in reality, I actually I cut my own nails with a 30 cent nail clipper, and think most massages are kind of crap, so tend to avoid them. So really it's just the waxing, which I would have to give up in Australia to put towards my cigarette budget. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I figured if I could make Australian money whilst I was in Australia, then at least I'm on a more level playing ground. For taking money back from Thailand with the currency exchange rate, and having high expectations of what would be available for the same cost, would be an exercise in utter futility and frustration.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm going to post some of the "art work" we did. I only agreed to be photographed if I was able to cover my head with the cat (same theory as covering it with a paper bag). Good thing too, because looking at the photos, without hair and makeup I am so washed out I make a decent candidate for a cancer, or AIDS victim (no really, I have to start wearing more makeup, or eating more iron, or spray tanning). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I give you <b><a href="http://maomaopopup.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Mao Mao,</a></b> for skinny drunk bitches. It's all very tongue in cheek, and in the manner of that Australian sense of humour where one can't take themselves too seriously (cause you know, it's 2012, we could be in a mushroom cloud tomorrow).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Cause Bitches with M16s are Hot!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cause bitches get shit done!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How fucking catalogue do I look? I know, I know... sighs. Oh well. It has kept me occupied and happy for a few days, so that at least, after a month of family visits and being asked when I get up every morning:"why are you frowning" (because you haven't fucked off yet)... it has kept me relatively productive and happy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the reason why I think I have verifiable passport to make child like (questionably crappy, minus the questionably) remixed art? Blame these guys <a href="http://www.hitrecord.org/">http://www.hitrecord.org/</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now here are our links for shameless self promotion:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://twitter.com/maomaopopup">https://twitter.com/maomaopopup</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://maomaopopup.tumblr.com/">http://maomaopopup.tumblr.com/</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/maomaopopup">http://www.facebook.com/maomaopopup</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://pinterest.com/maomaopopup/">http://pinterest.com/maomaopopup/</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instagram: maomaopopup</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So add us bitches. Still havent figured out how to embed all those things on this new layout, which doesn't allow me to do SHIT. Dammit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Be happy. I'm happy-ish. Happy as I ever get. Think I need botox to stop the frowning though :/</span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-30582467911284205072012-09-17T08:27:00.000+01:002012-09-17T08:30:50.368+01:00Free Will<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love free will. I love living in a country where I still feel like I have the ability to exercise my own free will, i.e. I can take my life and the decisions about my body into my own free hands. I haven't returned to "developed" first world countries much since moving to South East Asia. And really only one - Canada, but I tentatively assume Canada's political, economical and legal zeitgeist are on par with somewhere like Australia or the UK, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to some level of degree </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(America I have no idea about since they just seem kind of crazy to me, a view garnered from what I does read on the innerwebs). My generalised opinion is: There seems to be an encroaching nanny state permeating these commonwealth countries creating an apathetic populous, who are more interested in consumerism and capitalism </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">than fighting against the man. Which is fine. It's just not really me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I visit one of these "developed" nanny states, my interpretation of the legal rules they must abide by, instigates my figurative suffocation - I die a bit on the inside, while I live in fear of doing something wrong, knowing that by second nature, I probably am. I know the natural citizens are so used to the encroaching </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">legalities dictating their everyday </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">behaviour</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, that the rules have seeped into their sub consciousness and are taken for granted. Interpolating a new generation of people who, for the majority IMO, lack the ability to think for themselves. I see the pictures and read the comments online - even the sub genres of "different" look the same. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do find that the systematic organisation in these developed countries is somewhat refreshing in comparison to disorganised chaos (as in everyone stands to one side on the escalators - I estimate it would take a whole generation to train south east asians to do this), yet the rules on how you should live your life make me shudder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like Asia. It's nice. It's warm. It's cheap. It does have it's drawbacks, but overall at the moment, it wins for the quality of life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the things that at least gives me the illusion that I still have free will here, is the motorcycle taxis. Motorsai's or Motos are probably my favourite thing about Bangkok. Little gangs of predominantly guys on motorcycles, wearing orange or pink waist coats, cluster in groups along most roads, waiting to take you where your little heart desires to go. It's an easy and quick transaction. In about three words you tell them where you want to go, jump on (side saddle in my case, I really have adopted local tendencies), occasionally hold on to part of the bike for stabilisation (or if you can't be fucked like me, not), and arrive windswept at your destination very soon after. It can also be done with mass amounts of baggage or food shopping and weirdly shaped objects. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Depending on the amount of distance you go, they are the quickest, easiest and one of the cheapest ways to avoid the traffic in the big city. I can take a moto from the mouth of my soi to my house, and it costs me thirty Australian cents and takes about two minutes. There is no way in hell, any developed country would offer or allow a form of transportation like this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of the times I feel most alive is taking a motorcycle. Peak hour traffic Friday night, peak hour traffic in the rain, or really just in the rain - these are occasions where one will probably feel most alive. It's also I guess, when thought about properly, one of the more daring things I do, and like countries who have subjugated themselves to local rules and think of it as second nature, I too have done this, and quite often disregard the danger, taking it for granted. Yes, there is an element of danger. Yes, it is sometimes a brush with mortality. Yes there are many accidents. No, you generally wont be wearing a helmet unless travelling very far distances on main roads. And in this lies the beauty of taking a moto. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I generally take motos in two frames of mind. The very triumphant Vs the very morose. Triumphant mood is weaving through traffic displaying the attitude of "Fuck you assholes, I'm on a moto. All you cunts have to wait two hours, while I arrive in ten minutes" - to a really bad day where I don't feel mentally well, which is more like "Fuck this world, fuck these people, you're all fucked. If I'm lucky, I will fall off the back of this moto and my head will smash like a melon" (I probably wouldn't be so lucky: I would fall, head - smashes like a melon, but I don't die; instead I create an exponential and unaffordable hospital bill, and probably become a a vegetable in the process) . Either mood will invariably involve a middle finger display and several profane expletives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless of how I feel when I hop upon a moto, one of my favourite visions of myself exercising free will is as:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a pillion sitting helmet-less, sidesaddle and handsfree on a moto cycle taxi, traveling down Thannon Sukhumvit - Bangkok, peak hour traffic, weaving through cars, narrowly avoiding side mirrors and scratching expensive paint jobs... sparking up a Marlboro cigarette (that costs me thirteen cents). Granted, none of this image is healthy, but FUCK YEAH -gahwddamm it makes me feel free. </span></div>
my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-46515680800038922472012-08-09T19:42:00.000+01:002012-08-09T19:47:14.499+01:00I hate my fucking Neighbours.<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven't met them, and I know no personal information about them; my feelings of loathing come purely from my keen observational powers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reason number 1: They are the type of people who will drive to the front gate of the house (yeah we live in gated compounds in Bangkok - must have something to do with the occasional rioting or biannual coups) at any time of day or night (more commonly late at night - like late late) and honk the horn incessantly, expecting their maid, who has probably worked a 12 hour day or more and been up since the crack of dawn, to rise from her slumber and open the gate for them. The horns are loud and annoying and at intervals of every 30 seconds to a minute, while the maid choosing to ignore them (and rightfully so) fails to appear. Why are they so fucking lazy that they cant even open the car door, walk 5 feet and unlock the gate for themselves (rhetorical). The energy wasted on waiting for someone to appear, whilst getting resentful in the car must be huge. There is 6 cars parked in their compound, and all are nice 'label cars'. Ones that denote social status - hiso. And every owner of those cars does the same goddamn thing. Cars are expensive here too, like 300% of the price of any normal country. Fucking lazy entitled fucks. I am admittedly and irredeemably low class, and even I think this is the epitome of rudeness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reason number 2: they have guard dogs. Dont get me wrong I dont hate the dogs, I hate the owners. Now these type of dogs are treated as such, like dogs. They aren't cherished and spoilt molly coddled members of the family, hand fed from the table like ours are. They are guard dogs, kicked around, swatted with a broom and left outside to their own pitiful existence. I imagine they lead pretty miserable lives. But hey, they guard the house for some shitty food everyday, and are probably pretty loyal, gauging by the snarling barking sounds they make every time someone walks within 20 feet of their vicinity. The other day I noticed their larger dog has what looks like a prolapsed asshole, or the front hole, not sure which. It's a red flesh wound hanging all about on the outside. It looks like an exploding innards volcano, pink, molten and vomit inducing if thought about or looked at for too long... and just no good at all. It disturbed me, I mean it really fucking disturbs me, still. Like take your fucking dog to the vet to have it fixed for fucks sake, you lazy careless fucks. People that dont look after their animals really disappoint me as human beings. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the last couple of nights, I thought they may have gotten a new puppy, who cant stop barking to broadcast the inevitable that is coming (you know inside flesh cant hang outside for too long without some kind of infection or bacteria starting to eat away at it, not in the tropics of Asia anyways). When I checked tonight which dog was barking, it's actually the other dog. The male dog. I looked over at them, and he is lying at the feet of what I think is his beloved, yapping at her at what I think is understandably heart wrenching distress. As in "yap yap, come save my wife you fucking entitled fucks, she's going to die". My annoyance of the yapping noise level over the last 5 nights kind of subsided into sympathy. This was until, whilst closing the window to shut out his noise, he has roused his bitch up, after hours of harrassment... and is actually just trying to fuck her prolapsed hole. FML... really. Is he doing this out of stress of her possible mortality, the old eros and thanatos debate reduced to beasts. Or is he just another cunty dog trying to screw his bitch over when she is in obvious, unmedicated and untreated pain (again, rhetorical). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Assholes, the whole lot of them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel sorry for the bitch though. I wish they would just take her to the vet and get her fixed or put down. But even now, she's still guarding their house, while her fucktard hubby keeps barking at her. She, fortunately, has the good sense to only emit noise at perceived danger. Dogs don't have a very long life in this country, and there is no RSPCA. Any dog adoption shelters are generally set up out of donations and the kindness of peoples hearts (usually white people, and what I think is some hard core obsessive animal loving - but not the sexy kind). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh the humanity. (But what I really mean is - fuck you, you fucking fucks)</span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-63635174527735605612012-08-05T07:30:00.000+01:002012-08-05T07:30:35.686+01:00Huh? Sorry, what...<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm starting to forget things. More than normal. I don't know if my brain is fatigued, or the fact that living in S.E Asia I don't practice my English skills properly or with any dexterity so my vocab is dropping. But it's not just my vocab. It's like having a thought, remembering to do something, walking into the next room and forgetting what I went in there for. I have been told there is some displacement theory in this, so not to worry about it... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I have brain blocks on certain things. It takes me 5 minutes to remember the word 'landmark' when trying to explain to people how I can navigate the back streets relatively easy. Or the fact that I know my favourite Lebanese restaurant is in a certain hotel, but I can only either remember the name of the restaurant, or the name of the hotel, never the two together when trying to explain it someone. Odd. The hotel is Schillers Inn and the restaurant... what for it while I squeeze for information (it's like taking a brain dump)... Al Ferdoss. It's a good 30 seconds in between remembering one for the other, and today was a good day. I don't know why.<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*I just chucked that in for future reference for when I forget... as I know I will be able to find the information somewhere.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I forget what the thought I was just going to write about. It's like, ooh thats a good point, then a second later - gone, like forgetting someone's name as soon as it escapes over their lips. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm quite scared I'm going to forget my childhood soon. And only remember the scandalous, character building (but relatively negative traits), the traumatic moments, and none of the pedestrian stuff which also helped formed me whilst growing up. Or worse yet the nice memories of childhood. The warm and fuzzy ones. Like a favourite t-shirt worn to death, or a particular pair of shoes that made me feel safe. Or when I got a cat, or a dog, or another cat, or another dog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm guessing another part of my discomfiture which really highlights my brain degeneration is that I barely remember celebrity names or what film or tv projects they were in anymore. Not sure if it is because my penchant for celebrity gossip has waned with age, and Perez rehabbed his personality so I couldn't be bothered buying into the public relations of how awesome everyone was everyday, or that, you know, my brain is just a bit fucked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I used to be so good at following the tenets of celebrity gossip. Who was with who, in what time period, what films they did together under what director, who the soap opera fathers were, how many times that star had been married. You know irrelevant details that filled my brain, but I could recall them. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't even do that anymore.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Like I could watch something and immediately place the actor in another film or tv series. Now I get a vague sense I have seen them in something else and have to Wikipedia or IMDB to solve that sense of unsettling vagueness in my brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am wondering if it is a combination of things - i.e the internet and my multitasking splitting my attention span over various objects of entertainment or stimulus moment to moment. The fact that I do not exercise the part of my brain reserved for remembering things like long passages of dialogue. Age might be the factor *nods in agreement with myself; possibly genetics - it's diabetes and dementia in our family that takes hold.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Possibly earlier age drug use is a factor, destroying both long term and short term memory function. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or maybe I'm like Sheryl Crow and have a benign brain tumour which is pushing on a certain part on my brain affecting my memory.... I vote for this one. It's the most critical and anxiety inducing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless whatever is causing it, I'm slightly worried. Worried about my ability to retain information when I work. Should I study more, should I try and activate my brain somehow. Right now I'm reduced to brain games from <a href="http://www.lumosity.com/app/v4/dashboard">here</a>. You know, the laziest way I can try and fix it, supposedly. But even my patience with that dropped today, so my stats went down :(</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Soon it will be 'Ouch, My Balls' Territory. And why not. The husband is already disgusted that I laugh at fart jokes. </span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-11812300887937474732012-07-02T20:04:00.000+01:002012-07-02T20:04:07.463+01:00Stop Prescribing My Imagination.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I worked for 5 months straight from the beginning of the year with very few days off, fitting in smaller projects between the larger ones. In total it felt like I had about 6 days off from January to May, in reality, I know it was probably a few more - I just slept through them.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the last project, I physically, emotionally and spiritually burnt out. With the list of names of fucktardians in my black book growing and my tolerance for those types serisouly waning. To be honest, my tolerance for fucktardians is pretty low as it is. Imagine me four months in, no sleep. Me no happy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the last month and a bit I have taken some time off. First I slept, for a few weeks. People started to remark about how much better I looked… well rested and such. It's amazing how anything over 2-4 hours a night of sleep can add to your demenour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also started socializing. You know, a bit of the right kind of socialization truly helps one feel human. I have made a concerted effort in the past year and a half to find like minded people that I can communicate with. It's been hard, but there are a few out there in this strange land. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*I also looked for, found and moved into a new house, so it hasn't all been rainbows and unicorn farts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the past few weeks has been a highlight for me. I have finally come across some art that I feel enriches my mind. I am so sick of watching shitty formulaic shows, and block busting movies with no plots.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have seen local art in galleries, on film and on stage which has inspired me. Where my mind has been allowed the freedom of interpretation: to make connections of it's own free will. My imagination hasn't been prescribed to, which I feel is so often the case these days. I think what has allowed me to be able to appreciate it, is that I have some space made in my head from a pile of life's ongoing shit to make these associations. And I forgot how rewarding it is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also feel like I have regressed somewhat, that the connections I have made harken back to an earlier era. Everything I saw has some attachment to the last vestige of my teenage years. I did Macbeth three times in high school, performing it once. The version I saw in the last week was a reinterpretation that allowed me to appreciate it all over again. I saw tableaux and archetypal representations which I thought worked brilliantly well for where I'm geographically in situ. Truly an independent art project with it's peaks and valleys, but the piece was quite apropos. I came out of it wanting to have a intellectual conversation about it. Not the "Fuck my ass was hurting an hour in" or "The special effects were good but where was the plot line?" chat, which I know is the sign of a boring film. I would like to discuss it more… but I can't. Only quietly to the person sitting next to me in soft whispers, if you get my drift. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got to an <a href="http://www.bangkokpost.com/arts-and-culture/art/297813/greed-and-lust-take-centrestage">art show</a>, which was somewhat pronographic – photographs depicting dildos imitating Darth Vador, and large nudes with symbolic meanings, some what erotic but also disturbing, slightly political in meaning I suppose. As they say the person is political. And what are we if not constantly fighting through the micro-politics of everyday life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And tonight to top it off, I finally made it to the theatre, my one true love, and I wish I had done so much sooner. A small custom built theatrette (in the suburb I just moved away from), where they have taken the simplest materials and constructed amazing performances with extremely talented people. I felt totally at home. There was a primal, tribal quality in their performance which reminded my of what we used to do in the school yard at lunch times at my last high school. Where we were all young, less jaded (only slightly), and did weird shit creating liminal spaces. I laughed in wonder siting through this physical theatre performance. I don't do that much anymore, so it was a delightful surprise. Thats the quality thing (upside) about being a pessimist/cynic/realist-on-a-good day – delightful surprise. Sure beats constant disappointment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last few weeks has given me hope. Made me want to make new friends whose minds are rich with possibility. I just wish I was the type of person they would want to know as much as I want to know them (the downside of the dark force). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The photos I'm adding are actually of the art auction before the performance </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oxygen</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. The<a href="http://bfloortheatre.com/"> B-Floor Theatre</a> troupe had a fundraising event to help take them to New York. My contribution: a ticket twice the market value and a 300 THB t-shirt that says "I Support Art". I wish I was richer, I would totally give them my money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The higher the bidding the lesser the clothes. My kind of show. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4500 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSQ85CT-y6bUoncd13OS_CqDrfF_EOFJZ6OJhLCvM74F_HHZMA_-23kEy7RrvvcWaJv58EZIk-J15oavgVAJPjpPoKbnK2U8dKtPx08QsC8bIIJX09xdatow91B3Y1y3Hu1-OL7Zo05hx/s1600/IMG_1102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSQ85CT-y6bUoncd13OS_CqDrfF_EOFJZ6OJhLCvM74F_HHZMA_-23kEy7RrvvcWaJv58EZIk-J15oavgVAJPjpPoKbnK2U8dKtPx08QsC8bIIJX09xdatow91B3Y1y3Hu1-OL7Zo05hx/s320/IMG_1102.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">15,000 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXYsBC4jzReK5BTyCobcY41VZ3EGo35OFDoPnSSNdZ-AwwSfQyETs8p9t4mHh-9cSK0VpYOePMUBmIOt9uRte24uqIIQEMUdIRdOKi-rm3PBKEY7ue4JrbARROTclfNS2rJTTcQ-nX6k8/s1600/IMG_1103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXYsBC4jzReK5BTyCobcY41VZ3EGo35OFDoPnSSNdZ-AwwSfQyETs8p9t4mHh-9cSK0VpYOePMUBmIOt9uRte24uqIIQEMUdIRdOKi-rm3PBKEY7ue4JrbARROTclfNS2rJTTcQ-nX6k8/s320/IMG_1103.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">19,500 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvcpffjSsin5n8mSjl84xCUSk-Ez0mieyOLjjnPSU5BvXOxthxvoy9_o289f47gIsfy054ie30_7AQBkZ1FSGS1SqMQMfLNBmebJY5KO1GW1gj_PGok4zxbDYaW2TlgrAcs5jKh8OIOyU/s1600/IMG_1104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvcpffjSsin5n8mSjl84xCUSk-Ez0mieyOLjjnPSU5BvXOxthxvoy9_o289f47gIsfy054ie30_7AQBkZ1FSGS1SqMQMfLNBmebJY5KO1GW1gj_PGok4zxbDYaW2TlgrAcs5jKh8OIOyU/s320/IMG_1104.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">23,500 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJaP3sY0kNruzz24PU20j8gYoh-yu-KqpPnx1JEIfdrDDcXQXm4QR1W38gTqNg_rLCRQkEw7M_lNn8IP9uuxTrd62wthagiL86Ei1JYSBi-knFGfxHZB6XtSmfylzyfNo1tp6NC8e4gXF/s1600/IMG_1105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJaP3sY0kNruzz24PU20j8gYoh-yu-KqpPnx1JEIfdrDDcXQXm4QR1W38gTqNg_rLCRQkEw7M_lNn8IP9uuxTrd62wthagiL86Ei1JYSBi-knFGfxHZB6XtSmfylzyfNo1tp6NC8e4gXF/s320/IMG_1105.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">35,000 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_STGLL-nsqcjJYtXA6pDsh8BDzMs-CygVehmU1-FX0ja3RjtEETbhHY3oJ_n_V97EtmCPC2zew-KO53lvfAxSgM_tDtlkNugKdhkAJPL01BP7TV_tiTWdCNYm7hlC02OZoisOUgMpfvAD/s1600/IMG_1106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_STGLL-nsqcjJYtXA6pDsh8BDzMs-CygVehmU1-FX0ja3RjtEETbhHY3oJ_n_V97EtmCPC2zew-KO53lvfAxSgM_tDtlkNugKdhkAJPL01BP7TV_tiTWdCNYm7hlC02OZoisOUgMpfvAD/s320/IMG_1106.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">50,00 THB</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_O3grZMtnSPBEim6CqdyLeLdo3tVCfJoqyMmfbDsYDjfm7ay7syLyf7ZG8KDM44hD6pFpcDqcIwDEqCL48nQ92lvsGGbKd9i92PECn_jTDbuu2cFl_FApe-3kCYYWDkcPSbdcvPdH-JF2/s1600/IMG_1107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_O3grZMtnSPBEim6CqdyLeLdo3tVCfJoqyMmfbDsYDjfm7ay7syLyf7ZG8KDM44hD6pFpcDqcIwDEqCL48nQ92lvsGGbKd9i92PECn_jTDbuu2cFl_FApe-3kCYYWDkcPSbdcvPdH-JF2/s320/IMG_1107.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Winner winner chicken dinner :)</span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0Soi Thong Lo, Khlong Toei Nuea, Vadhana, Bangkok 10110, Thailand13.727086990069539 100.5802631378173813.72515899006954 100.57779563781739 13.729014990069539 100.58273063781738tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-50948794876468422572012-06-12T18:52:00.000+01:002012-06-12T18:52:30.144+01:00Postcards From Canada (with my loving father)<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Snippets from a road trip through B.C. Canada with The Sociopath and L/U (Lazy-slash-Useless) - </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Endearing familial pet names we had designated to each other after only a few days of being in each other's company.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Canada Day 143 Years young - 2010.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.10pm, 19º, 20 kms away from Spencer's Bridge (where the Cherry stop is).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TS is BURSTING for a piss… "of course it's illegal to piss outside here" - Canada. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">L/U smirks in schadenfreude at his discomfort - it's the small pleasures in life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're being followed by a band of Bikies, they pass us as we pull off to piss - due to older age, TS can't hold it in any longer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">L/U thinks "I'll wait for the cherry stop, for a toilet with paper". Wishes in times like this she had a penis to piss standing up. Looks at the amount of distance on the map to go - *groans*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TS feels better - bladder emptied. Informs L/U any toilet at Spencer Bridge will smell. L/U decides she prefers the shitty smell over having to squat au naturale in front of a parent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.36pm, 21º (apparently at this time of year it should be in the 30's), we cross Spencer's Bridge – and are now on the Cariboo Gold Rush Trail – back to where we were supposed to be hours ago (a horrific car accident killing many people, including a family, on the public holiday meant a 4 hour detour). L/U is wondering if TS is thinking "Those pesky fucking dead people". With his capability to feel empathy, decides he probably is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're going to TS's "FAVOURITE FRUIT SHOP IN THE WORLD" - Hilltop Gardens at Spencer's Bridge. "Cherries are going to be expensive this year" TS educates L/U in his slightly condescending yet still perverse patriarchal manner. L/U decides the characterisation of "obtuse" from one of his friends was quite an apt description. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">L/U dryly assumes: it must be because of the unseasonably cold weather.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are expensive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OUTHOUSE TOILET EXPERIENCE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I would like to report on my outhouse experience - everything went better than expected. Smell: Minimal. Toilet Paper: Check. Looked Clean: No piss on the seat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Downside: No tap either. I wondered about the fecal matter flying around, and used my water bottle to wash my hands with after. Hah! like that will help. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">L/U arrives back from the outhouse experience to TS's running commentary:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Pack of Thieving Cunts! I can buy cherries cheaper in a Supermarket"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">L/U ponders - so much for his favourite fruit shop in the entire world theory (he had been talking about this place for nearly the whole of the 5 hour road trip thus far) - now they just another pack of 'Thieving Cunts' - typical. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TBC.</span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-70129015797864011502012-06-08T09:14:00.001+01:002012-09-17T17:22:58.801+01:00NO FUCKTARD POLICY<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wow, it's been a very long time since I have published anything to this blog. Not that I have many or any readers, I usually just use it as a way to rant about stuff I'm not particularly happy with. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Occasionally I think of things I should be blogging about, but with the proliferation of crap on the internet combined with my love/hate relationship with writing ... I shrug 'meh' and think 'why bother'. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So a lot of things have happened in the last year. Firstly and fore most I guess would be that my husband (yep still married) went into hospital last year, did a heart stress test, then an angiogram and the doctors decided that he needed a quadruple bypass STAT, because the four veins pumping blood through his heart were </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">63%-100%</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">completely blocked. So yeah, that was fun (not really, I dont recommend it. Eat healthy, avoid salty foods, exercise, dont drink coke, and try not to work yourself to death). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was pretty stressful for several reasons. first being, his company offered us only two months of his pay to cover the operation which was about 10k short at the time. Yeah that didn't turn out so well for them. Accounting for the fact that he had been working 7 days a week for 9 months, 20 hours a day to finish their film on time, you would have thought they would be more helpful. We weren't sure exactly how we were going to... you know pay to save his life bar asking my dad for his credit card details, which I did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bit that didn't work out for his company was my sister-in-law approaching all his old work colleagues and friends for a loan to pay for his heart surgery. I think what his company didn't really know, was how universally well known and well liked he is (I don't think he knew either), there was an unbelievable outpouring of offers, loans from friends, old clients and companies, who were willing to put the money up. And then a barrage of threatening phone calls to his employers from various industry people telling them to pay the money or 'they would never work in this industry again' type deal. Of course I got blamed for this 'your name is mud' shit going down by his boss, because my behaviour was as he termed it 'hysterical'. All I had really said to him was I didn't want to deal with particular unhelpful fucktards from his company while my husband was lying in a hospital bed, possibly dying. I didn't tell the world - their behaviour spoke for themselves and was helped spread by other family members who knew a lot more of my husbands friends than I did. I'm still a bit bitter about this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So yeah, after the public shaming, they put up the money. Father-in-Law flew in, and husband went through surgery. The surgeons told us it would be about 6 hours of surgery, so around about the 6th hour of surgery, sitting in the sandwich shop downstairs waiting, my head traversing the worst possible territory imaginable, it felt like the first time that I was going to have a full blown debilitating anxiety attack in about 10 years. You know, the one where every sound becomes peripheral but for the beating wings of the ceiling fan. You look around and see people eating lunch, conversing, laughing, and it's all very surreal and on the outside and kind of in slow motion. Very hard to explain. Extremely painful experience. A lot of excruciating and debilitating fear involved. Generally it involves fetal position on a floor and includes a lot of water shedding. Bit hard in a public space. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Around the seventh hour, we decided as a family unit, it would be best for us to go upstairs and enquire you know - if he was still alive and stuff (my crying, although uncontrollable, seemed to suggest a terrible sense of foreboding). Why was it taking hours longer than first suggested, why had no one called us. When we came to the ICU where people who have had extreme heart surgery tend to go first to recover, we encountered a lovely male nurse, who explained it was better that we had no news, as this meant the surgery was successful (I'm all in favour of the 'no news is good news' policy [it being the unofficial family motto and all] - but not so much in this case). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This information abated our fears for another two or so hours until he arrived. We didn't stay, after we saw he was alive, because he was conscious enough to make a 'fuck off' motion with his fingers. One of the most relieving 'fuck off' gestures I have ever seen. We coudn't do anything at that point anyways, as he was in some sterile room behind glass walls, with the beeping machines hooked up showing the green heart blips on the screen, all waveforms and noise, tubes and sterility. He had a hose down his throat which they take out about 10 hours after surgery so he couldn't talk. And he was pretty out of it - as you would imagine for someone who had just had their chest sawn in two, their veins harvested from all over their body, replacing the faulty ones in the heart, patched up and grafted onto.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah. Horrible. I felt a lot of empathy for the families going through the same thing we were. There is a lot of praying and crying happening in that ward. For me it was towards the end of the operation, when you think it should be over but you have no idea of what is going on, I was screaming serenity prayers in my head, where my inside voice was panic stricken, overwrought and quite honestly - mad. Internally I felt mad. Generally, I would like to think I am relatively stoic person in times of extreme chaos, being relatively used to it. This was different, it was very hard to dull this internal voice or calm it with anything. Especially when the prayers cant dull the internal screaming. And the prayers turn into screams themselves. It's the negotiating with god stage... I think. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point, I would like to say that the Singapore General Hospital heart surgeons were of the highest calibre. The nurses too, were exceptional. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess one of the good things that came out of it: on his death bed, mortality in mind, my husband decided we should be together, and forgave me (a little bit) my transgressions. Separation ended. Kind of a drastic measure to get to that point though. Slightly extreme in my opinion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't the end of the journey either, not by a long shot. There was complications involved after the surgery. Of course, what else would one expect. Smooth sailing? ....Hah!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mentally it started post surgery and Hubby self diagnosing using his internet doctoring skills that he'd acquired from his vast googling experience. *Here is another tip - dont fucking google ANYTHING when a loved one is dealing with this kind of extreme life threatening shit in hospital. It will just freak you the fuck out. Listen to your health care professionals. Hubby had decided he was suffering from kidney failure, then according to him one of his lungs had collapsed, and a slew of various other ailments. It was horrible to go through and to make sure that none of that was happening. He was about 30 kilos over weight too, which did not help. And the way information spread through his family made me feel like I was a cast member in an ongoing plot line saga on Coronation Street. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, what did happen was his coughing was so severe it led to him having fits, and seizures, and eventually destroying his chest bone, the wire designed to fuse his chest bone together again, serrated it to the point where it was reduced to shards of bone and dust - the chest bone completely disintegrated. Never to be put together again. Yep, Humpty Dumpty style. It went there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both his father and I took turns staying in the hospital with him through this whole experience - we all lived in his hospital room. On one of my mornings about a week and a bit after the bypass operation and two weeks into the hospital stay, the doctors came in to have have a look at his chest. They brought out their implements, and using a long cotton bud on a stick started prodding at his chest wound. Which then basically spontaneously combusted, blood and fluid shooting about two feet high into the air (I think I may have screamed a little - or gasped, I'm not sure which, there was definitely some intaking of air). Even though the medical professionals were trying to act calm, you could tell by the furtive glances they exchanged (He had about 3-5 specialist doctors by this time to deal with different areas of his failing body), that this was highly unusual. They undid the stitches in his chest and stuck some wadding into the gaping hole, letting the liquid (probably about 2 liters worth) seep out over the next couple of hours. He had been complaining to them about this for quite a few days now. The coughing, the feeling like his chest was bursting. I think doctors generally evoke the concept of patience to let the body heal itself. It kinda didn't work in this case. I'm guessing there was very few solutions. I would have opted for the induced coma, but I think this option would have been ruled out to his just having had quadruple bypass surgery. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a couple of hours of wound seepage, the doctor came back in, and performed some in room surgery. Which consisted of undoing all the stitches holding his chest together, and cutting some of the skin away without any anesthetic. Mainly to have a look inside about what the fuck was going on. It was decided then he would have to go back into surgery (Duh), be reopened, so they could have a look around and try and repair the damage. Until surgery, which was supposed to be scheduled in that night, he was to be put on this life saving machine called a VAC. We thought it was life saving, for the first few hours. It's designed to act as a vacuum and suck all the fluid out of the chest, providing a sterile sponge to fill holes and plastic covering for the wound. Pics or it didn't happen proof below. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNlOHKJYo-0ggb_j5tYbVjHotDBadg3wQMzbXFch_iHilRtGaz7lHs97-QzTkQ5mIRYr4cc9DrolLXU6ZSIUhj-jNm89255gWByJZCudH8SrzUgFZMd4PG8OEX4RzXs1sNe8AtBrUJr2g/s1600/heart+pump.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNlOHKJYo-0ggb_j5tYbVjHotDBadg3wQMzbXFch_iHilRtGaz7lHs97-QzTkQ5mIRYr4cc9DrolLXU6ZSIUhj-jNm89255gWByJZCudH8SrzUgFZMd4PG8OEX4RzXs1sNe8AtBrUJr2g/s320/heart+pump.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the plastic surgeons started coming around and discussing the operations that might possibly be happening depending on the extent of damage to the chest bone which was not entirely known at this point. The events in motion were starting to become incredibly blurry again. Unfortunately, the operating theatre that night was taken up by some emergency case, and our time slot was taken. This was on a Friday night, and his surgeon had previous commitments over the weekend, so nothing could be done. I was kind of angry at the surgeon for putting his altruistic and philanthropic commitments first - Charity cycle in some race for something or other in Malaysia. Booked in months before hand. Didn't he know my husband was dying for fucks sake. These are the times when you have to surrender to the fact you have no control over anything. So hubby was bumped till Monday. The VAC nearly killing him over the weekend. Every time he coughed it sucked in so hard that when I came back in to see him the sponge vac was basically eating a big hole into his chest. You could see the layers of fat and skin and it just got worse. He couldn't sleep he couldn't eat, and this would be an ongoing factor of the rest of his recovery. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the Monday he went in again. Another eight to ten hours of surgery. More of the extreme anxiety which feels like it will kill you. It was slightly odd, because after we had sent him off to the operating theatre to be prepped, we saw his surgeon and sidekick downstairs drinking coffee and laughing. Around three hours after we saw them depart from the coffee shop, we got a call, saying that his heart was fine, the grafted veins repairing nicely, and there was no infection in the bones or inside the chest, but now the other Surgeons were performing the rest of the operation because of his chest bone being destroyed. I thought it must have been cramped in his operating room. He had so many fucking doctors and specialists and surgeons by this point of time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His operation was something along the lines of an Radical Sternectomy, I don't know what the proper terminology for it is - it's close to this though. Too many medical terms by this point in time and a very rare operation. Basically they open you up, and move a muscle from your lower abdomen around your body, and stake it between your chest, and this muscle then acts as what used to be the chest bone, hoping to fuse your chest together. I think he was the first one at Singapore General Hospital to have this operation. Months later, I asked him if he knew how they knew to do the operation, it never having been performed in Singapore before. He said they told him they Googled. Special medical Google of course. Again, can I just mention, don't google stuff. It's harrowing, and mostly you will find a bunch of answers from people it did not work for, the ones who stay inside and whinge online, or their loved ones commiserating over their deaths. It makes your feelings a lot more uncontrollable. The ones who it did work for are probably out living their lives. In saying that the support group of people that have had this type of operation and survived consists of about seven people worldwide, used to be eight, but one died. Pretty rare operation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It took him much longer to recover in the ICU this time.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And quite frankly, we didn't know if he was going to live. The doctor's attitudes are ever hopeful and cautiously positive, they dont actually let you know too much information. I found this to be relatively deceitful after the fact, because they probably as unknowing as you are. Regardless, you come to appreciate good willed dishonesty. Someone needs to be the bearer of hope in times like this. Because it's sure as shit not me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His life hung in the balance for about a week or so. I thought he was going to die. It was the fact that he still could not stop coughing, he had stopped eating, and he couldn't sleep in any position, so his body had no restorative powers. They were pumping 2 liters of antibiotics into his veins 3 times a day, as well as medicating him about 6 times a day. They still could not diagnose his cough any more than they could the first time round. The no sleep thing became drastic. He would sit in a chair for about half the day or more, as it was the only position that would reduce his coughing. And this is where he would get maybe 5 minutes nap at a time. Eventually his veins ended up collapsing from the amount of fluids, needles and injections they were putting into him. The doctors were seriously worried it would more likely be an infection that would kill him at this point, and his immune system was so depleted he would not have been able to fight anything off. As the doctors kept warning us, Hospitals were filthy places. Completely harrowing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It would come to 3 or 4 am in the morning, the time were people usually die, and thus would come the conversation from his side of the bed - that he didn't think he was going to make it. And he didn't think he could fight on. Heart breaking conversations full of fear to be having at that time of the morning, the most ominous time. And everyone being so exhausted, grumpy, sleep deprived, it was hard. Really really really fucking hard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My girlfriend had come from Australia to support me. I thought this would be the best solution for emotional support, being so utterly alone in Singapore, surrounded by family members of his that quite clearly thought little of me, or hated me. I thought my parents should be reserved for situations of death when needing to travel to another country. And we weren't quite there yet. I was awoken one morning in hospital, a few days after the second operation, to her sobbing in tears on the phone - Her partner had died in Northern Ireland. Fuck knows how it could get worse but it did. I then had my only support network pretty much hysterical and emotionally unmanageable because her partner wasn't just dying, he was dead. So one husband dying in hospital, and my best friend's partner dead. Life is grand ain't it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spent the next couple of days trying to get her together enough to get on a plane so she could attend his funeral and see his body, while still trying to cope with the fact that my husband might be dying. I couldn't emotionally deal with both things going on at the same time, it became intolerable. Again, I dont recommend this experience to anyone. Now, it feels completely unrealistic but for the ongoing side effects we currently deal with on a day to day basis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It dragged on, like this blog post. Eventually he forced himself to eat enough and get strong enough that the doctors let him go home to recover, away from the germs they were worried could potentially kill him. With the addendum of doctors visits every couple of days for progress reports. It was obviously extremely relieving when they actually let us all go home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course after an experience like one of these you kind of ask, what could we have done, what could they have done, to have changed things. To make things less fucked up than they turned out. But it's all hindsight. Husband could have looked after himself better, Surgeons could have maybe acted in more haste and been less perfunctorily about his over fluidy chest. Would have been good if some one hadn't been in critical condition and stole our surgery time. Maybe if he had recovered properly after the first operation, my girlfriend could have gotten to visit her partner quicker, him maybe not dying had she been around. So many variables, to not change anything, so really not worth thinking about. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the end we have all been incredibly affected. Husband wont ever be able to lift over 5 - 10 kilos again in his life. As he HAS NO CHEST BONE. Nothing but a flimsy piece of muscle designed for another part of the body trying to hold his shit together. He will constantly be in pain. He wakes up in pain he goes to sleep in pain. It's hard to get used to. The good thing for him is, grocery shopping is a thing of the past. The bad thing for him is, so is basically everything else. No contact sports, no public transport, no lifting shit, nothing with huge crowds that could elbow him in the chest, and pierce his heart. A reduced diet of 2000 mgs of Salt a day, (he doesn't stick to this one very well) - also hard because sodium is in everything. He can still do his job. Just has a harder time crawling around on the floor plugging computers in, when need be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I became oddly fearful after the surgery, more so than usual. Shortly after him moving back to Bangkok, my husband disappeared for the day, having no phone to contact him by, led to me being at the local police station at 12 am that night, asking them if they had any heart related or accidental deaths reported in the foreigner hospitals. Shit like that. I was skittish and jumping to conclusions out of fear. I also became oddly fearful for other peoples unexplained disappearances. I'm a bit better now, it just seemed to affect me in this way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My girlfriend. Well, she started full time university this year. She stayed with us after she came back from the funeral in Europe. Complete mess. She was actually doing university by correspondence when it happened. But doing Physics, Chemistry and Advanced Mathematics while grieving is basically impossible. So we let her cry in her room for four months. We were all going through weird grief processes and shock I guess. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish I could put this together more eloquently. Or write about my feelings more articulately. But it is what it is and I feel lazy today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">NO FUCKTARD POLICY PT 1 - for me, it's his old company. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband has, as always (when relating to the others), taken the moral high ground and forgiven them. I however, remain with the attitude they Fucktards.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They kind of went bankrupt at the end of the film, and had to sell out to one their most hated competitors. Karma is a bitch. </span>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-26007712275807793282011-06-28T00:39:00.002+01:002011-08-01T19:49:09.450+01:00My Celebrity 5.<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So every person has their pick of 5 celebrities, they would get to "do" should the chance ever arise. Which by definition then includes one of those special relationship clauses, right? Without any fear of retribution, retaliation, or need of restitution to your "happy union". A negligible null and void contract between two parties when the famous people come to party in your pants. No cause or effect to whatever kind of cohabitation you may be in. It's the quid pro clause, and of course your significant other would have their 5, which you couldn't complain about. No matter how sketchy their tastes may be. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have done a lot of watching in the past few years (these days focussing less on the seksii shows in dark venues, and more on the 15 inches of computer screen in my bed), and I want to illuminate who gives me the biggest "lady boners" and exactly what it is they do that creates me that "wide on". </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1. Tom Hardy.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://i.imgur.com/4Srx2.gif">http://i.imgur.com/4Srx2.gif</a> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This guy is amazing. He studied at the institution I wanted to go to when I finished High School, the Drama Center in London. So I know some of the techniques he uses to create characters. A fucking brilliant actor. After seeing </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bronson</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, I spent some time finding everything he was in that was available, and gorged myself silly on it. You may know him as Eames from Nolan's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Inception</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. He is also totally fuckable in just about everything he has done. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wuthering Heights, The Take</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, less so in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Stuart a Life Backwards</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. I would even do him as Handsome Bob (the homo) in</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> RocknRolla.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The dark attraction: IRL he was a crack junkie and alcoholic who would wake up naked, next to men in strange rooms, with loaded guns. Totally my kind of guy. He has also been in recovery for near 8 years, so is just a healthy kind of insane these days. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am a little sad for him because he is English, with English teeth, so wont fit perfectly into the leading man role as per American standards. Sad that he may be type cast as playing the UK bad guy/sociopath as so many other talented Brits have been. I.E his new Batman character: Bane. Also, I hope he lays off the gym visits when that role has ended, as he is way too chunky at the moment. That kind of no-neck-look because of too-many-muscles-chunky. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He has the uncanny ability to transform and change his physicality, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and his whole persona when creating a character, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">not unlike Christian Bale, but hotter. He is a true actor, subscribing immaculately to his craft, in this day and age of models who look pretty, hit marks, and poorly deliver lackluster dialogue. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And he has tattoos. Quite a few of them. Rough trade, got to love it. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2. Jason Dohring</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is a new find for me. Just this past few weeks actually, when I came across him in the series </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Veronica Mars. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He plays the deeply troubled sociopath well, creating quite the sympathetic character. I liked his performance so much, that I had to re-watch him in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lie to Me season</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> 2, episode 11. He was outstanding in that episode I thought. So creepy you could bed him in a minute. I also got the one and only series of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Moonlight </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">again, as I did not realize he was in it until I IMDB'd him. I tried really hard to watch it again just for his sake, but like the first time round, I couldn't. I was reminded of how unpalatable it was. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The lady boner killer: he is a 2nd generation Scientologist who has been married to his 2nd generation Scientologist wife since 2004, which means he was 22 when he got married, and they had their first kid last year, who will be a 3rd generation Scientologist. So sad. It near broke me heart (what little left of it there is). Reading his Scientolobot interviews though, he speaks so spiritually, I could almost be converted. If they weren't so fucking creepy, doing such shady fucking shit. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anne Archer's son with his cheap and angry faux Tom Cruise impression really annihilates any credence those freaky Xenu loving volcano people have. That and it's a religion founded by a weirdo who writes bad science fiction stories. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still I did love me some Jason Dohring for a minute. And I should remember when it comes to religion, live and let live. It seems to work for him. I think he is totally underrated, and I hope he finds more mainstream work on feature films. He isn't the conventionally handsome type, but you forget all that when you see how absolutely charming he is. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hmm since I have now knocked off my two current favorites, I have to think of 3 more who would be in my celebrity 5. Unfortunately because these are not concrete choices, and I can barely remember who would be worth fucking, this is a much harder part of the list.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I find it's more the case of individual character traits each man possess, melded together in a boiling pot, would create one perfect storm. On their own though? *shrugs*. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3. These are for old time sakes, like first loves and old ex boyfriends, comfortable as an old shoe and from lack of being able to make decisions. It's a toss up between my first mature gentleman love, or why I became a chronophiliac, aka gerontophiliac, and learned to love old dong: Sean Connery</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tying in third place with chronic recidivist yet the not so newly reformed Robert Downey Jr.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For Connery, When I first saw him in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A Hunt For Red October</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, I knew I just liked older men. No explanation, I just liked them. Looking at the date the film came out, I was 11 at the time. I then discovered he was James Bond, and I think I watched every one of those films within weeks. Even the ones he wasn't in, constantly comparing the other actors to something they could never become. For me Connery WAS James Bond. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He also worked with some of the teachers from the Drama Center, and really nailed the inner attitude and subconscious state of Adream - and it's sensing/feeling, Strong/Free qualities. Exuding that spellbinding characteristic from his nether regions. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ok, so he has gotten on a bit now, and is even too old for me (which is kinda old, I have to say). I saw him recently in some Louis Vuitton ad's… and I just would not be able to get a leg over now. Too many liver spots. Sorry Sean. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is why he shares number 3 with Robert Downey Jr.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The fucked up part of me thinks I liked Bob Jr better as a wild child. It must have been the severely dysfunctional lifestyle, and crushing vulnerability yet seemingly complete emotional inaccessibility which made him so sexy. He has aged though, and I find him less seksii than I used to. I don't know why. That and all the styling of stripy suits with the cravat ties. Enough already. I am happy he is clean and found serenity, but yeah… just less hot now. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4. I don't really have a 4. So this is the bit where I show my true colours and reclaim the word "slutty", to declare this numeral position a celebrity orgy. Well more of a gang bang really. As it's my celebrity sex fantasy, and I would not want any hotter girly competition involved. So In no particular order:</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Michael Pitt – from <i>Boardwalk Empire</i>. Subtle nuanced acting with nice full lips. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cilian Murphy – he could have ranked as number 4 singularly, possibly a few years ago, until I was turned off by his douchey IRL personality. He also dropped in ranking, because as time goes on, it is obvious, he does not have the amount of range for an actor I think is necessary to have a number on his own. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Javier Bardem – when he kills people with a captive bolt pistol, in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some Country For Old Men. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I haven't seen that many of his films actually, but his portrayal of <i>Some Country's</i> Hitman makes me moist in my panties. From the other parts I have seen him play, I have to concur, that yes, he is a very talented actor. Damn you Pene Cruz.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Christian Bale – mainly for the incredible acting, and his ability to convincingly change every time. His public persona and documented behavior for the last couple of years has been totally off putting though. Highlighting the fact it's just better if I know nothing about their private lives. Unfortunately, the world doesn't work like that anymore. So it's not just the violent outbursts towards his scummy, money grubbing family, who he probably can't stand, and the vitriolic abuse directed towards his crew members which has been well documented. But also marrying Winona Ryder's old personal assistant, with her ridiculous name, who is a few years older than him, and them having a wonderful family life and gorgeous baby. Yeah, bit of a lady boner killer. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Matt Czuchry – from <i>The Good Wif</i>e. I haven't seen him in much, but I would argue from what I have seen him in, his dramatic range is probably WYSIWYG. Still, he is cold and calculating in his role as Carey on TGW, and yeah, I think I'd do him, therefore he can totally be part of my fantasy celebrity gang bang.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ok, enough of moshing them together to make something doable. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. Angelina Jolie - Need I say more? this one speaks for itself. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am sure very few of them would live up to my celebrity fantasy though. They are probably all neurotic, self obsessed, nut cases. Dohring sounds level headed, but has been botolised but the Xenu, so even he gets crossed off. The others look like they really love themselves, just a little too much, and if their over blown egos and propensity to talk about themselves (I imagine, just going off experience form other actors I know), doesn't turn one off, then their incredibly deep seated insecurity probably will. Connery - too old. Shocker, I know, even for me to say that. Downey too healthy... yay for him. And Jolie just has too many kids. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-54121329453213048912011-06-20T20:15:00.000+01:002011-06-20T20:15:57.475+01:00I don't know about all this interconnectivity.<div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A Photo taken of me by an unknown person (I think) with comment's in a language I can't read. How the hell did it end up being posted on my FB page?</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150222322703605&set=a.10150222309703605.333885.505993604&type=1&theater" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150222322703605&set=a.10150222309703605.333885.505993604&type=1&theater</span></span></a></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Google Translate says arrai wah?</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Jib Nisa: I just like this orange. I really like it. I walked out of the bush at ringside.</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Som Tum: Seems to be India's first multi-task.</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">ดาว หลานยายม่วย (Grandchildren of boxing): I know this. I've been home.</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Jib Nisa: He who does what, where, when I was star</span></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Awesomeness... words fail me. I didn't even realise the camera was stealing my soul, obviously. </span></span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-79282378238662826452011-04-30T20:19:00.007+01:002011-04-30T20:41:22.802+01:00A Wedding to Drug the Masses.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXkhWZDgIrsGz79FlzUkmwZaRM1lcacKVSShUhB3-Gl1f_vWkcvcVDbc0HMcfeeKMr-yUpa9cE4aap-Ehoqy6HfrZhS1LD1BwGpls1OA9Ji2QWu155D_iw0iYIq4rnKXT2HyMna9JUDXt/s1600/Kate+and+Wills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXkhWZDgIrsGz79FlzUkmwZaRM1lcacKVSShUhB3-Gl1f_vWkcvcVDbc0HMcfeeKMr-yUpa9cE4aap-Ehoqy6HfrZhS1LD1BwGpls1OA9Ji2QWu155D_iw0iYIq4rnKXT2HyMna9JUDXt/s400/Kate+and+Wills.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wow, how times have changed. Yet, somehow they haven't. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So today is the wedding day we have all supposedly been "waiting for". The Royal wedding of the New Millennium with our modernized figureheads: Baldy Wills and Waity Katie. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A wedding hysteria that can be likened to a whispy fog with long seductive tendrils that seep into our collective consciousness, making us forget about the ongoing problems of increasing global economic instability and the general shittiness permeating the state of world affairs. Where we celebrate love and romance and the making of little girls' (all women's) princess dreams. It's supposed to feel like unicorns farting rainbows, and designed to opiate the masses.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think it's a wonderful slight of hand, true smoke and mirrors from the upper echelons of society (the 1% of the population who now own the earth), to distract from the social turmoil and decay of everyday living. That is the cynical me. The one I like to call: The Realist. Actually the ONLY me. Rarely do I display optimism - I have a thesis argument in life: Only stupid people are happy. And sometimes, (rarely), I too can be caught up in the stupidity. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember the last time I watched a royal thing on TV. I had just turned 18, just broken up with my first (like first real love) boyfriend, for the very last time (kind of). Anyways, the day I broke up with him, Diana died. And I cried. About a week later, I think on a Sunday, I watched 7 hours of the funeral with my best friend. And cried and cried and cried. He reminded me the other night. He sat next to me most of the day watching me cry, whilst doing his own running vommentary on the funeral procession. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a side note - We liked doing shit like this together. We knew we destined to be long term friends when Sonny died, and we both turned to each other in a moment of unison and voiced the same thought: "Well, Cher will be happy". But I digress (constantly). </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Diana's death created one of those moments frozen in time, where you will always remember what you were doing. Like "Dude, what were you doing when Diana croaked". I think it was like August 1997. Yeah I just googled, August 31st. "I was breaking up with my boyfriend, because I just could not bring myself, to do mercy sex, ONE.MORE.TIME". Awesome. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We watched the funeral march, the boys, the ex, the brother (I always found the brother somewhat inappropriate), and the carriage pulling the casket, and then the extremely long, long, long drive taking her to her final resting place. The streets were filled with people overcome with grief. I am not sure what I was more upset over, the break up or Diana's death. I hazard a guess it probably being Diana's death. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We watched it on a Cathode Ray Tube television. Does anyone remember CRT TV's? They weren't flat and they were fucking heavy. But you pushed one button, the 'on' switch, and they just worked. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well this time it's a little bit different. I am not reeling from the news that some person I have no relation to is dead. I probably wont remember where I was in 15 years time. And the means of viewing this shit has totally changed. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm viewing it on a PC Hackintosh, which is streaming the Granada channel through the telephone line. Except, I can't figure out how to change the audio over from the computer to the Television output, so my girlfriend gave me the link to BBC1 audio commentary to download, so I could at least hear it on radio over the internet. Which I did on my laptop, whilst simultaneously youtubing Tina Fey's interview with Google. Of course I spent about 5 minutes freaking out as to why I still could not here Kate say "I will not Obey" etc, until I downloaded the low bandwidth option, so I missed most of the vows. But then, eventually, I too can hear them say "let us prey" and other assorted crap, while I listen to the boys who's voices haven't dropped yet, sing about some godly shit. Of course the visual and audio don't really synch up doing it this way. But I am momentarily technologically sated, so I don't really care. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From previous experience, you so have to DO this kind of event with someone else, to share your bad taste and inappropriate, yet hilarity inducing, catty comments with - it's a collective and communal affair (ordeal). Me: "Poor William, so bald", Me: "Bad move doing her own makeup, too heavy on the blusher", Her: "Yeah, the ring nearly didn't fit", Me: "no shit, she should have lost more weight"… "Meh the dress is kind of meh", Her: "Alexander Macqueen", Me: "Really, hahahaha, awesome, he's dead. I thought it would have been nicer if it was Alexander Macqueen" … Her: "Pray bitch, and obey me", Me: "her dress is so boring", Her: "yeah does the lace rip off for later?" Me: "I was wondering that too"….</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Along with more poor taste comments about the wedding guests needing valium to make it through the ceremony (Her's) , and the choir boys being perved at by the pedos (Her's). Also it being a great opportunity for terrorists (again her's)… </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately she is in Belfast, and I am in Singapore, so we do all this through the Chat Protocol Adium. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I look at shit like this:</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYVp8rV09ZIl6-7B3lOnihouUU8Enr_YhLZ1H3CmWQUUPQOeJNMWypiO3BsYE5rGFSHkyvRrU2djyTSHTAf3YsSAvzlZZimW2_KuhFsoGJRaQGFwmso-i1GLm7ziUdYZOy3uPyh_Uojag/s1600/ocean+of+people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYVp8rV09ZIl6-7B3lOnihouUU8Enr_YhLZ1H3CmWQUUPQOeJNMWypiO3BsYE5rGFSHkyvRrU2djyTSHTAf3YsSAvzlZZimW2_KuhFsoGJRaQGFwmso-i1GLm7ziUdYZOy3uPyh_Uojag/s320/ocean+of+people.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and I think: Holy fuck, look at the ocean of people, the crowds outside are huge. And those fuckers get a day off for this too, no wonder the traffic was so good. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wish I could have done it with Marcus as well. He would have been an awesome compatriot to bring on the bitch fest. But Cara on Adium, in Belfast, with her bleak comments and always needing another cigarette to make it through the ordeal, is just as good. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are couple of things I felt haven't really changed within the last 500 odd years or so. The highly choreographed and heavily planned Royal public spectacle, which to me, includes all the subtle population controlling techniques, that fervent servants are manipulated by. The commoners, if you will, who will be emotionally bought off, and blinded by the sparkly moment. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The disparity between the High Class and the Peons, visually highlighted and marked out through images beamed across the world. The wealth, prosperity and luxury juxtaposed against a backdrop of what seems like the gross simplicity of poverty. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think it is best demonstrated with this reveler wearing the Burger King crown. "I here by dub thee Burger King Queen".</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVhqL2VAylB11BV-YLyCWUC-kzgBPEZ6gt0M7j5CLry4d3SldkHg8YPbnxDS0DNd3twIp1QyBGNIeiEdPMVJPRF5q-mgIS3FNtoCquHhRfuL59-Rasq3fDvdibLI1Z3t4XMpZXBGeWOm3/s1600/burger-king-crown-wearing-lady-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVhqL2VAylB11BV-YLyCWUC-kzgBPEZ6gt0M7j5CLry4d3SldkHg8YPbnxDS0DNd3twIp1QyBGNIeiEdPMVJPRF5q-mgIS3FNtoCquHhRfuL59-Rasq3fDvdibLI1Z3t4XMpZXBGeWOm3/s320/burger-king-crown-wearing-lady-1.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And since you can't do a red carpet royal wedding without ripping apart fashion choices, here is my totally over valued 2 cents worth: My favorite pimped out bitch of the day was Zara Phillips, but only from a distance. From the front view she looked like a sexy equestrian dominatix. From the back she looked like every other frumpy english slapper – the bow, it kills me.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5N6FDROMKh7s9qoCTG__P4JF9pYybnKIJ83cB__Riw5gBEj_QWLNt2T3m8Y-gHOmPGGY6n49D38x3nU52sGZaafF1o4wVUerPVdEDOJ0r_MkaQ89TYFffp6F9hi8ydDdDZXwGZVE3n3UH/s1600/zara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5N6FDROMKh7s9qoCTG__P4JF9pYybnKIJ83cB__Riw5gBEj_QWLNt2T3m8Y-gHOmPGGY6n49D38x3nU52sGZaafF1o4wVUerPVdEDOJ0r_MkaQ89TYFffp6F9hi8ydDdDZXwGZVE3n3UH/s320/zara.jpg" width="222" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZlFpAU2N6O7hWdp5Iz6LiazHB_LYvOyq7XE8Dk9YFDAopqeYURgg1p1ewxa-kQRcvtOJ8PASLZEbHflLoAfMb7avD9H1kvQCq4IR8UryDpDvCydsUyW6y2KJVHHu7qCKunNECgFtr8yV/s1600/princess-zara-phillips-and-mike-tindall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZlFpAU2N6O7hWdp5Iz6LiazHB_LYvOyq7XE8Dk9YFDAopqeYURgg1p1ewxa-kQRcvtOJ8PASLZEbHflLoAfMb7avD9H1kvQCq4IR8UryDpDvCydsUyW6y2KJVHHu7qCKunNECgFtr8yV/s320/princess-zara-phillips-and-mike-tindall.jpg" width="222" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took my Wills and Kate photo straight off the computer screen using my Iphone. I'm sure everyone has seen everything by now as they have been over saturating all media outlets with replayed highlights for two days already. I always love how uncoordinatedly out of time I am when it comes to capturing moments. I should think about how this is a metaphor for my life really. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My last thought was this "º-º" when I saw this status update on facebook: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Cost of Royal wedding can feed 168,000,000 children for a day in Africa.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFHyr_mM0qG_XqVYqurCOmSsPrMvFhbf2P6f6fUxyjCQAuF01DpZcs4tsRWcUE_Knx9La4JgOKzC0uP2ouInQJ1ugEqbt5aAfengc831inbHGYeKb1lvcCSXck7S6d-aUlWMyZ81ZQ-nq/s1600/94k+per+minute+plane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFHyr_mM0qG_XqVYqurCOmSsPrMvFhbf2P6f6fUxyjCQAuF01DpZcs4tsRWcUE_Knx9La4JgOKzC0uP2ouInQJ1ugEqbt5aAfengc831inbHGYeKb1lvcCSXck7S6d-aUlWMyZ81ZQ-nq/s320/94k+per+minute+plane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: grey; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This plane costs 94 thousand pounds per hour to fly people. Suck up that aviation fuel and be happy.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: grey; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-71481401883276472532011-04-09T09:43:00.001+01:002011-04-09T09:44:15.354+01:00Now VS Then.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_rHz0HF36mYA0jLBicTf_htvpmZQuJ95v4q3FEEQO_RBqLDN2c26EEQkGFxRSIZfZgER0IM6UxoumlNyCG6ijBCliV2_d8mFwTd4gYI_JenKE1HJBFSBMnj84eP7ABRwoEZThVy-Tuws/s1600/IMG_0213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_rHz0HF36mYA0jLBicTf_htvpmZQuJ95v4q3FEEQO_RBqLDN2c26EEQkGFxRSIZfZgER0IM6UxoumlNyCG6ijBCliV2_d8mFwTd4gYI_JenKE1HJBFSBMnj84eP7ABRwoEZThVy-Tuws/s400/IMG_0213.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So it's been a while. And as I look through my blogs pre 7 months ago now, for the last couple of years really, I am reminded by the sense of desolation permeating my life on a day to day basis. Due to no one's fault but my own really. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So the last 6 months has been a trying time, a crying time, and praying to just get by time. Has my life improved… It's certainly changed. I think what has most improved is not my outside circumstances, because when I think about those… yeah they still kinda fucked, deservedly so really. But for the last 7 months I have really worked on finding some kind of internal (I want to say peace, but thats so fucking new age-y it makes me vom vom in my mouth)… satisfaction, equilibrium, serenity. SERENITY now SANITY later. Yeah. That would be it, serenity. Sanity definitely later. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have gone back to a life which abstains from intoxicating my body with depressants on a… well eventually what becomes a daily basis. I found that xanax washes down incredibly well on a stomach full of alcohol. Provided by my "special" chemist, hidden away in the dodgy water cooler. Benzos are no more legal here without a prescription than any other country, but easy enough to get. Bai Moto (go moto), "Ow Xanax, Hah sip" (want xanax 50) - "1000 baht? Sure no problem". I started to feel dirty and kind of ashamed when I seemed to be turning up on my friendly pharmacists doorstep on a much more frequent basis than what I thought might be deemed socially acceptable. While he knowingly smirked, counting out my increasing dosage. It's like an extended pharmaceutical holiday, except not really that fun, or restful. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And booze. Asia is drinking culture, a paradigm steeped in sexpat behavior. The heat and the tropics and the seksi-ness, promotes full bacchanalian behavior which is accepted and rewarded. And the recovery is starting the next day and repeating the same thing, over and over again. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Funnily enough, when taking depressants, I seem to get really fucking depressed. Then my brain does weird shit, while I isolate in the 'security' of my own bedroom, slowly becoming agoraphobic, misanthropic and filled with a sense of never ending dread… "what have I done with my life, what am I going to do with my life, what the fuck happens to me now I have hit 30+, will I ever make anything of myself, why am I such a piece of shit… yadda yadda yadda"… It's an inevitable fucking house of horrors up there in the dark recess that is known as my brain. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My level of self esteem lowers to about -100 to the power of ten, and I end up in a fetal ball of self loathing which is a never ending cycle of self torture. Yeah, it's boring, and takes up a lot of energy. Actually, all of my energy really. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*whistles*… yep, that silence was deafening. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So yeah, my husband left me. And really props to him for putting up with my shit for so long. There was a lot of shit to deal with. Aaaand Yep, it's fucking painful. Still really fucking painful actually. And I'm still in asia with my 3 dogs, that I can't afford to take anywhere, and wouldn't dream of giving away. I still live in a really big, relatively empty house, which I cant move out of because of the amount of shit that's in it, and the amount of dogs I have. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My maid watched me cry for 3 months, as I tried to pull myself together, and probably totally freaked out at my displays of unadulterated emotion. Poor thing. I don't think I would have got by without her actually. She was a rock of strength weathering through my proverbial storm. When I wouldn't go downstairs or eat for days on end, she would bring up some weird concoction of food and make me eat. She looked after the dogs while I could barely feed myself, or shower, or give a shit about anything. Yeah… good times. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hahaha. I would like to say everything is fixed and I'm all better. But it's a slow process. The inner emotional turmoil started rectifying itself by me getting a job on an indie pilot here – in production... finally (I wish I had never listened to the douche who told me I wouldn't work here in production because I didn't know enough Thai - asshat) . Funnily enough the director was good friends with one of my surrogate family members in Australia. So the world grew more interconnected, and I somehow felt cared for by proxy I guess. It was good to push myself doing a project which lacked so much organization when I got there. To make it work in a such a short amount of time is like a challenge unto myself. It got done. Note to self, nothing is ever perfect. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The day that project wrapped, I started another job on a feature film literally the next day. I have been navigating through the political minefield, and self motivated agendas of film making in Thailand ever since. It's been an interesting ride. Fascinating to see how people work here. And I don't mean how they perform their duties in the workplace. I mean their motivations. How they go about manipulating shit in their favor. Sometimes I am astounded, other times disgusted, on a shitty day disheartened. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Being on production is kind of like being in high school again. There are cliques, and niches, social stratification and a clear demarcation drawn between the upper and lower people of worth, with a price tag attached, and sometimes a colour of skin chucked into the bargain. Often I think, "are we not all human, do we not all bleed, do we not all deserve the same basic rights". But no. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We have unicorns, horses, cattle and sheep. That's the way it is, and will always be. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At high school I was never in with the "hiparistos"… I couldn't bear their self indulgence, vanity, lack of self awareness, and general exclusion policies. I hung out first with roolly roolly uncool people, then nerds, then people about 2-4 years older than me. Film sets aren't much different. To find the truly genuine people one can connect with on some deeper level than subjects of the weather, what iphone you own, or where you're going to go on your day off to appropriate "coolness", is hard. I realize, I will never be one of the "cool kids". And I'm ok with that - I think. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm a lot, dare I say happier, working again. Happier is probably not the right word. Functional, appeased, possibly? It totally ties into a level of self worth which is unobtainable any other way. The other thing is, I am good at what I do, even though, thats a fucking hard thing to say. I apply myself and learn quickly, and adapt. I like solving puzzles and working in organized chaos. Chaos is something I am totally familiar with.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This job ends soon, and I will have to start looking for work again, and I know I will probably be a bit down and miss it after I stop working 6 days a week, "12 hour" days (which are really 15-17 hours). But I think I have done a job I can at least be happy with. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As for my husband. I still love him. And I don't really know what the future holds. I try not to dwell on it either, as it's something I have no control over. The dogs however love me… and the maid (the maid probably more). They sleep with me though, because I have the aircon. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-39883644162742331782010-09-16T20:30:00.003+01:002010-09-16T20:50:45.658+01:00Oh joy.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Have finally found all the diaries of my younger life. I think I will start up another extremely anonymous blog to deal with the horrific details which might explain the pathology of my adult life. If I can string it all together in some coherent narrative form, it might not only resolve some of the ongoing issues I have, but putting it into a structured and thought out manner, might help me link the connections of the destructive decisions I have made as an adult. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have to say, not particularly healthy decisions. From the few passages I have read... there is a dark and unseemly tale to be told. All names will be changed to protect the innocent, and the not so innocent. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This and a good dose of therapy might get me to a level a functionality again. And possibly some happy pills. And failing that a one way ticket out of Asia. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Geographicals barely help. But in this case it could possibly be the sanest decision ever made. </span></span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-83173650849855823192010-09-15T20:19:00.007+01:002010-09-16T07:25:09.527+01:00Niceties Don't Make My World Go Round<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the effort and spirit of "you have to let it go" and other general feelings of acrimoniousness, disdain and contempt... NB*this was written quite a while ago, but I'm in the mood to vent. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dear Friend: I hesitate to call you that since our friendship seems to have dissolved quite some time ago (years in fact), I find it somewhat offensive that the minimal amount of contact you have made in the previous few years has been for the sole purpose of finding you employment. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Yes, I admit, that perhaps I haven't been the 'best behaved' friend in the world but in regards to that, well, for someone whose perspective changed (meaning you) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">to "niceties make the world go round" – your niceties fucking suck. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lets start with the girlfriend (now wife). after shacking up with the lawyerly scholarly type your behaviour seems to have warped into "pudding and paying off the mortgage". I thought she was a nice, relatively sweet girl to begin with. But then I realised it was just a guise to hide her hideous North Shore ways, and her faux upper middle class English attitude. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Really the friendship ended when I had no where else to go and asked to stay on your couch. A relatively small favour I thought after subsidizing your rent and paying a fair share of your bills, whilst you were trying to land back on your feet after the ending of your last codependent relationship. Two nights I thought wouldn't be a big deal. Fuck was I wrong, couldn't have been worse really, and I barely made it through. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After trying to stay out of your way (in a bachelor apartment) when your girlfriend's "proper" female peer came over, and me eating the food </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">"too quickly" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">you had spent so long cooking </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"> (half hour tops), and not bestowing enough praise upon you, not thanking you effusively about how wonderful it was, like your girlfriend's friend did (or possibly not thanking you at all wanting to give you some space in 20 meters squared), I will never forget the words out of your mouth:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"You are the worst guest I have ever had" followed by the overly pompous and totally self righteous "It's niceties which make the world go round"...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">1. the fact that I ate the food so quickly should tell you (from previous experience of sharing my house together in your time of need) that the food was more than edible, it was good. 2. When the fuck did niceties come into it you fucking hypocritical medicare money scamming piece of shit. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Don't worry, I will never forget those words of yours as long as I live. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So after a year or two that goes by, I haven't heard from you, and had left a box or two stored in your moldy garage space. I also learn that you have done some short course (3 months) in a well regarded film school. I figure, I'm not really a bad person, and hey you're totally under skilled, but I will sing your praises to my husband and maybe he can help you get a foot up into the highly competitive world you're trying to enter. Not to mention one which is dominated by young idiot savants and social retards in their early 20s who have been in their bedroom doing this shit since they were like 7, coupled with the fact they are about a million times better than you already. And in reality, if you've really not made it by the time 30, well, you're not really going to make it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Newsflash niceties boy, you're 30 (well mid 30's now) and just beginning your career. But hey, whatever, I will try and disregard the bitter feelings of disloyalty I have come to regard you with and help you on your way. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Congratulations Dumbass, you got a job. You can thank me later for helping you. What, no thanks? I thought it was niceties which made the world go round. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I guess you did say thanks for letting you and the Cankle (sorry, for want of a better word I cannot for the life of me think of another, as her lack of ankles totally distracted me every time she spoke to me), for letting you guys stay in our home while you found your own abode so you could relocate for your new job I so kindly helped you get (admittedly mainly through connections, it is who you know etc). A job that fuck all people, especially people like you, have the luck of getting after a 3 month trumped up purely money making course, without sucking some serious dick. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anyways, I digress (I usually do). Time passes, you now live in the same town, but I figure Cankles has never really warmed to me so not much point in trying now. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe she thinks I'm a bad influence. I did drag you to that swingers club that one time remember. Paid for you to get in, made you drink my worths of alcohol and tried to get your miserable ass laid. Now wasn't that the water cooler gossip of for the day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few more years go by. Little contact is made, particularly on your behalf. No emails, a brief facebook chat before you had to dash off to complete whatever important job it was you think you had to do at the time (I kind of know this is a lie too - there was no work on). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then you find my husband online. In 4 years you've what, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">contacted him twice, (me once), and both of those times you were looking for jobs. Mere minutes of these "niceties" you speak of and immediately you are asking for a job again? Naturally he says no, out of being purely offended. He is not inclined to help turds a second time round. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">These "niceties" you speak of, well personally I think you're full of shit. You can take these middle class aspirations you have been brainwashed with by your ever so enlightened Cankles and shove them up your faux middle class ass. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">I mean you barely have any idea of what i have been through in the last 5 or 6 years, or what I have experienced, because it's not like you have given a shit</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">. We're just some fucking job network for you? Seriously, get fucked. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">More to to the point, do you even know what happiness entails? Lets speak about happiness in about 10 years, namely yours. Once you and Cankles have been together for 16 or 17 years. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;">Of course she will have ballooned out to a healthy size 18, (lets face facts, she was heading that ways anyways) especially if right now is any indication of the future. She might have pushed out one or two "nice" puppies by then. Maybe working part time, trying to save the children and all the other "do worthy goodness" associated with the aspiring middle upper class she thinks she is, who have nothing better to do with their lives, (lucky her mother married into money). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Right about the time you're going through your mid life crises, because your life didn't turn out exactly how you wanted it to, nor did you ever reach the heights of your capabilities, mainly because you were relatively mediocre in the first place. You will maybe be getting sex once a month, if you are lucky, and your passively dominant wife will have by that time (if she hasn't already, and I truly suspect she did years ago) totally severed off your balls, or what ever you had which passed as balls, a long time ago, and served them to you with a nice Chianti. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">You'll get that felling, some where along the line, it will be a reflexive relisation devoid of humour. You'll plod along your very average life and it will all be about "pudding and paying off the mortgage" – good luck with the asbestos, congrats on the cheap deal on the house though. It's a real a hip suburb, for the upwardly mobile. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is where "niceties" that you speak of get you. So you can take your "niceties" and I reiterate shove them so far up your arse they tickle your prostate gland and you orgasm. Because that's about as good as it's going to get for you. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me, I'm a working class girl. A realist, a humanist, niceties barely work for me, because I figure they are covering a facade of shit waiting to topple down and crush you. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I do believe in treating people with humanity and respect. Somehow these highbrow middle class "niceties" you speak of and the humanity I speak of, seem to be mutually exclusive. One is shared by polite society who feed each other lines of polite conversational weather bullshit to survive on a daily basis. While the other accepts people for who they are, the mettle in their character and appreciates we're all just here to survive. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Initially I thought you had this mettle. But gradually I realised you only had it by proxy. You really are a weak willed man who feeds off those stronger women you have been with. You are now just a second half, a sucubus if you will. You've just become a watered down version of Cankles. A nice veneer with a shitty interior. Trying to cover it up by saving the children and paying the mortgage. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By the way, thanks for the wedding invite (sarcasm, I seem to have lost my touch in a country where there isn't any). And don't ever bother asking my husband for a job again you pedestrian, unexceptional twat. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ahh, couple years coming, but I feel better getting that off my chest. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><br /></span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-51002788134525441852010-09-09T17:39:00.009+01:002010-09-09T18:05:57.711+01:00Sanitary Napkins, not really one for men.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-H804KnBc1ijuWAk62nyONtKEx9NbYyEwhuTF1Ff-x7qgcbdsciEeisBy8LNsgBbwAr1NQKiODoNYTA4DXd3ZDznr0XbTTx0fpOrKoHBAlz5Wp5e87DICnuAwX1i6L4FvjRKYsH-AVwcS/s1600/blood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-H804KnBc1ijuWAk62nyONtKEx9NbYyEwhuTF1Ff-x7qgcbdsciEeisBy8LNsgBbwAr1NQKiODoNYTA4DXd3ZDznr0XbTTx0fpOrKoHBAlz5Wp5e87DICnuAwX1i6L4FvjRKYsH-AVwcS/s400/blood.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514954461072535314" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">What the fuck is the point of sanitary pads? Can somebody please enlighten me?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Arguably, for known reasons, they do have a use, I guess.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I know when I have had an operation "down there" and have been probed by horrible steel pointy things, where I had absolutely no concept of the extent the horrific-ness was, until I saw the full length home made dvd version the doctors made, (the drugs were really good, so was the price tag)… Granted, the pads are useful then. Being that there would be no way in hell, after a gynecological invasion, with unfamiliar tools shoved inside your 'wimin's bits' you would want to stick a tampon up your twat. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">(I should leave out the pro choice bit here - as I'm pretty sure you would want to use a pad for that) </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But seriously. Apart from the handy after the, operation bit… is there any other use? you can't tell me that a tampon doesn't preserve the hymen, because we all know it does. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As a serial tampon offender/user for most of my menstruating life, I can not tell you how fucking angry and despairing one feels, after checking into an airport, and going through customs, which I always encounter issues with, feeling like Pre menstrual shit.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">At first thinking it's a tummy ache, then realizing it's cramps, and having a flight at a time when there is absolutely no shops open, bar some overly expensive duty free shop selling perfume, cheapish fags and shitty repackaged chocolates. The only other option being some shitty snack shop posing as a semi 7/11, but had no tampons to be seen, no where to even buy a pad. The airport didn't even have a doodad machine in the women's toilets which dispensed the nappy pad (must be terrorism). </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Ok so, you start to bleed like a stuck pig just after they have called the plane to board (you're about 20 rows away at this point, it's all sequential you know).You have precisely two precious tampons left, but you know it's not going to make the 24 hour long journey you have to get home… you hope to whoever and whatever that there will be an 'appropriate' shop open which sells female sanitary products at some inevitable mid point layover on the way home. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So, after the first long leg of the journey pained with want-to-make-you-die cramps, you finally get to the transfer airport. You walk around in a somnambulist daze because you've had intermittent sleep, punctuated with bad adam sandler movies, or at best shitty interrupted sleep beside some fat white person who smells, takes up half your seat on the plane and wants to pee a lot. A plane which is pretty much designed for small people (it's an Asian airline - their staple diet is rice). On your slightly anxious way (mainly because you feel it's poor form to seep blood all over your hired seat), your first and foremost endeavor is to find someone who sells FEMALE SANITARY PRODUCTS on the layover. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">In the transit airport, you lackadaisically steer your hand luggage trolley around with your copious amounts of carry on luggage (the heavy stuff you can't check, disguised in smaller bags they don't care about). In a fucked up vague, sleep deprived state (with many bad asian/english conversations that go nowhere) you eventually find a chemist/pharmacy/drug store… the only shop where they sell the 'products' to stem the fucking mass hemorrhaging. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I is overjoyed because so far the tide of red has been stemmed with the available choices on hand to soak up the blood i.e the chippy two tampons I possessed. Most pointedly, I did not want to resort to wadding great stacks of paper towels into my underwear to do the last 12 hours of the journey, as from experience, we know that never works. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I get directed to the chintzy shitty little beauty shop… I look around. For the sweet love of Jebus… they have noting but pads… oh thats right, you're back in asia. They have no idea what a tampon is. Tampons are for white foreign women, possibly fat people it seems, and and worst, loose if your'e puritanical. No one uses tampons in ASIA? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">You buy the pad out of sheer desperation and necessity. Waiting till the very last moment, eventually, after having no other option you stick it into your underwear…</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">not only do you feel angry, grumpy, menstrual, shitty, sleep deprived, but now you're wearing a pad which within the hour just turns into feeling like you are wearing a sopping nappy full of blood. There is nothing quite as disgusting as having the fucking blood trickle down between your legs into your panty protector, and not feel like it's secretly pissing out every where Carrie style. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I just want to go to the toilet and wash everything away every time i feel some warm red gush. I mean it's not contained, not really. Sure it's supposed to go between the wings and shit - in a perfectly blue seepage stain poured from a grade 9 science beaker (it doesn't)… but it feels gross, I don't care how natural a fucking bodily fluid is. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And don't try and sell me that shit in some spiffy ad where there's water sprinklers going off and the girl is running through it, pirouetting, jumping outlandishly high, or doing gymnastics, double flipping utterly carefree, like she is having a good time. They aren't… and you, advertiser, are lying.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Women are actually under their grandmas crocheted blanket with a hot water bottle feeling sorry for themselves, watching ads which make them cry. And if not on the 'pill', taking copious amounts of iboprofen, or codeine or something. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Not only that but, when wearing the pads, my sense of smell becomes very suspect. Can people smell me? Because I think I can smell me. It's like the faint smell of iron mixed in with some cheap off the rack perfume. Yeuk. Just pure yeuk. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I digress, kind of. What I meant to say is: in my personal opinion there is no point to pads, excluding gynecological operations or miscarriages/abortions, unless you are the type of person who likes walking around wearing a blood filled nappy, and don't mind spending half the day sitting in it. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Although thinking about it, I am sure there is a fetish for it. *goes googling*.</p>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-20677101870387668192010-08-23T04:04:00.006+01:002010-08-23T10:05:55.490+01:00RIP Chuckles.<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;font-size:100%;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some people might call me morose of mind, others have said I hold on to my misery because it's a habit and it feels comfortable. My husband told me recently, if a person is depressed for any more than 2 weeks, non-successively, in a year, it could be classified as clinical – I thought 'well, fuck me'.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Who the fuck really wants’ to deal with anyone else's mental health. Sure, we may do it for our most loved and cherished ones, but even for them it has a pretty finite amount of time it can be handled for, or persisted through, without some relief.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So for the people who you would like to consider yourself close to, or maybe you would like to become better friends with… when one is in a shitty state of mind, you really do not want to either A. expose them to it, nor B. have them endure through it, or C. maybe even make yourself vulnerable to their judgments about how sane you actually are, (which is to say… not very, IMHO). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In actual fact, and it's probably well documented and known by everyone that can fathom any idea about anything, it's pretty fucking isolating.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Whistles*… It's pretty fucking isolating in here, I do have to say. No one likes maudlin. No one wants to deal with the raw emotion of futility, or uselessness individuals sometimes posses, particularly in a society they may not have adapted very well to, in a culture, which on face value seems somewhat devoid of any emotion at all. Every one thinks it's self-indulgent and, to hurry up and get over it. They have a point.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Solipsism at it's best, I suppose.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's like one's appetite for everything just stops. You can't sleep. You don't feel like eating. Forget going outside, it's a novel concept, but waaaay too much effort. Showers become bi weekly optional… mmm-mmm, odorous at best.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And interacting with people is chore-like when hibernating in ones brain while it screams: ‘Oh, the humanity’. I can't even be bothered smoking cigarettes that much. That, in itself, is depressing. If you can't be egged on by your nicotine habit, there is something seriously wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cut ties, hit the gym, get a new girlfriend.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The Internet's arm chair philosophical and relationship advice to just about everything. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, for me it’s more about learning a language which, going on past experience, I have little to no interest in, a hard time picking up, and no ability to remember. Plus, not one in 6 people speak it in the world, like the useful language of Chinese or the sexy language of Spanish. At best I will be able to order Thai food (I don't even like Asian food, but whatever) in some other country, with the possibility they might understand what I am saying. Unlikely though.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Why yes, I do have to hit the gym. Probably not the gym though, more likely to be Yoga or Pilates. But after living through Red Shirt riots with fuck all money, I am a little hesitant to pay a lot of money on what would be considered a middle class hobby, past time, or luxury here, no matter how good it is for me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And too lazy and impatient to wait for the Youtube downloads to induce the self-motivating, home care package. I possess absolutely no discipline when it comes to exercise… bonus. I am the fattest thin person, EVER.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Note to self, if and when genetically spread seed, encourage exercise as a trait in children (+1 personality, +3 hotness, +2 charisma).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Get a job… ahh. This is the quandary. Work for fuck all money doing something you hate for 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, just to feel ‘useful’, well, at least for a few months before you slit your wrists (proverbial ‘you’ just means me in this case really, most people probably have a higher tolerance to this 9-5 'normalness'). Intern in a job (at age 30+) for no pay, most probably working for Douchebags & Turds Co. INC, but at least doing something you might like, your labor and time hideously devalued though. You eventually find yourself doing some arbitrary task and wondering why you spent so many years educating yourself, if that's what you can call it. Become a 'teacher' of English - largely a misnomer in this country as any fucking hack can do it. Again, not well paid, and something I would hate. No patience for idiocy, no love of training people, no wait, just no love of people, period. Ebay? *shudders* The most likely option, since I can *try* and spell words in full sentences, get a pay pal account (while annoying, not impossible), speak the England and post pictures on the Interwebs. It took me a month or so to find my local Post Office, and it is pretty fucking close. Handy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I know, I know, I should be grateful. After over a decade of having passionate, artistic endeavors, and dreams destroyed in front of my eyes and slip through my fingers, coupled with the inability, strength or social support at the moment to fight the good fight and start again… I guess I'm going to end up a stereotypical white wife in South East Asia, slightly bitter… (well, granted, I was jaded by the early teens, this place don't help any), speaking some of the language, I would judge at this point badly, maybe with a hotter body if we get richer, and an Ebay account I can sell knick knacks on. *Claps* Oh boy, Oh boy, all my dreams have come true. Fuck me, no wonder I am so maudlin. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cake and icing: a friend of mine just died of cancer this morning, or yesterday. I am not quite sure when, I got the status update from Facebook…classy, yes? I feel bad because I didn't really answer his last email, which, granted, was a carbon copy group email of a jpg of an expensive bike he had just bought; rather a moot object, I thought, since he was dying of stage four cancer. So, really that just makes me a Cunt. I had known him since I was 19 years old, from memory (a particularly bad one). A good guy, nice is too beige a word. One of us, and I will always remember him fondly for his impish smile and lothario behavior. Not to mention his excellent wordsmithy-ness, and his great capacity to help others. He will be eulogized by far better a person than I.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maybe the ability to work through depression, or whatever it is this darkness is, which clings to me with such a possessiveness and has for so long a period… maybe bitching about it on the web might help. Probably not for any audience, save myself… maybe it's like ablutions, or a confessing, or a therapeutic kind of thing. Writing that is. Posting is… well, some poor fucker has to read it, I guess. That's what social media is for these days. Polluting the minds of other people. Just a lower class of people, making more noise. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;tab-stops:.5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*I have no idea how to use comma’s, and every time I try to research the grammar on the Google, I get confused. Quality education there Australia, thanks for that. I’m not paying back my HECS debt, FYI. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></span><p></p>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-10205445846310898942010-06-06T20:42:00.005+01:002010-06-06T21:01:04.196+01:00Barricaded Bangkok, Before the Shit Be Hitting the Fan.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, serif; ">This is one of the main shopping districts the Red's moved into before it all went to hell. Admittedly, posting these a bit late, since these malls have probably reopened by now... bar Central World.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">I took these one day on a trip to MBK, before the shit hit the fan. It was eerily weird to see these extremely busy streets of Bangkok cut off from day time traffic. I had no urge to go down into the barricaded area. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">You could have shot an awesome Zombie apocalypse movie in Siam square (I think that's what it called - again, never felt the urge to go there, as I don't like to shop). Desolate. Totally desolate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">The tires you see probably got burnt. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, serif; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhj0HC0TcJ7JdWqtibZvy8fiZCi9-aq__y6NxYJvmt8ybqjfKJ7Gdq2jCLCbNAhVmRQEMYBwwDEBRvO_VvjapWazbax6t31F95rvPdurVxmnKGfYUMo4aPAE1R-U9QhpxapV99FXQy1iQ/s400/IMG_0251.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479751207979606946" /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUsFpEaXw8JDd5Q8lM1rCnIy1DcMO4r0_lfl7ruTt7U4FVCRdWxdyw-T1nWGrP7Ts0wptoBJR2FB8c2QTmLxh9XYngimjTnJ-4LVdsVE03MOuMha2bXLaUbuUTiikWI3oIj3RwYfVFjEP/s1600/IMG_0250.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; 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cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKW5sbc0XsYH2mKlJLM4xQ1I8o9Trx7Fo1MGjoOr6Xlt6fCkwNJ4F4ZeqKMblSqC6wiENifRlroZ60Shf3zobJJa2j27GaH345KueHt210umyByDt7K-ZlL_gr4aVKlNOhu7FhE5YWQFw6/s400/IMG_0246.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479749575361434258" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtJEURvtA0nhlaKp6b40KnepLYmssd-sUWW96AIObhT76ppEwIu8EU1jVhmcX7lIHrY5vO64lT3sMjAmte__6yJZiRnjsxQC3MwJLVWK9HbyYrZe_dMhkUZ8pobhbzWkZ5N62_XAzsdiz/s1600/IMG_0245.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtJEURvtA0nhlaKp6b40KnepLYmssd-sUWW96AIObhT76ppEwIu8EU1jVhmcX7lIHrY5vO64lT3sMjAmte__6yJZiRnjsxQC3MwJLVWK9HbyYrZe_dMhkUZ8pobhbzWkZ5N62_XAzsdiz/s400/IMG_0245.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479749566363374450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yUcpjGNDHfARO4TS21xw4UMoONRJzoO7DYXNUnrJ23gGthAAww0oSbSUUOZEY5D2Bwv8UMHWDjVNRSKnsFNmloshnr8FjaNVFrQ7cqmRpB8XxENfjvbHuSwFYo2AkSlQdyFObogrloXG/s1600/IMG_0244.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yUcpjGNDHfARO4TS21xw4UMoONRJzoO7DYXNUnrJ23gGthAAww0oSbSUUOZEY5D2Bwv8UMHWDjVNRSKnsFNmloshnr8FjaNVFrQ7cqmRpB8XxENfjvbHuSwFYo2AkSlQdyFObogrloXG/s400/IMG_0244.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479749560579045570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18MOXBQZb2-ULP6ScON_cqxlEZpjCyalPOOBmILNKZ3vx5Z8gUlNlePkDR2z5ZojDrGQUPkn3z7afKZF8__565ByYwGFzQmbkyWVH4krObYS8gN3SYaLpN3sBuKkiy8PHdC_1TZq4_3kw/s1600/IMG_0243.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18MOXBQZb2-ULP6ScON_cqxlEZpjCyalPOOBmILNKZ3vx5Z8gUlNlePkDR2z5ZojDrGQUPkn3z7afKZF8__565ByYwGFzQmbkyWVH4krObYS8gN3SYaLpN3sBuKkiy8PHdC_1TZq4_3kw/s400/IMG_0243.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479749551052255842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOwFcXC7_FC44jAlxio43iLH9Km5ZEez-LgzN0FMccv8kxP9VMIFtPp3ivl2ox4yGrpdJu1RyukqRQo9WBZySfHhs3auiVHqfOIBz10Gi2wGzSH8On-CXKRdWsNxf3KHMJbMrgx01DLZx/s1600/IMG_0242.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOwFcXC7_FC44jAlxio43iLH9Km5ZEez-LgzN0FMccv8kxP9VMIFtPp3ivl2ox4yGrpdJu1RyukqRQo9WBZySfHhs3auiVHqfOIBz10Gi2wGzSH8On-CXKRdWsNxf3KHMJbMrgx01DLZx/s400/IMG_0242.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479749534427285410" /></a><br /></div></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-25154611132786162542010-06-04T21:28:00.002+01:002010-06-04T21:35:22.216+01:00Lotus.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifORpF4O1JkoT7Bqv9Xt4YJ5GqtWlBRsm4Zgy7xN6xTa3rverXc8Cag3Wg7KpU4HDcByX1v7_N50MqRvVqS77vZ2uS-iXz3g_T7hP0o0FUO5_SVPQbWhQK04foeemhTSvS1CY7KHHBAeCo/s1600/IMG_0194.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifORpF4O1JkoT7Bqv9Xt4YJ5GqtWlBRsm4Zgy7xN6xTa3rverXc8Cag3Wg7KpU4HDcByX1v7_N50MqRvVqS77vZ2uS-iXz3g_T7hP0o0FUO5_SVPQbWhQK04foeemhTSvS1CY7KHHBAeCo/s400/IMG_0194.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479018322045469138" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The Lotus our Mee Baan (maid), Noi, grew. Housed in a bowl of slimy mud, in our front courtyard (if you could call it that). My Ma would be proud... probably prouder if I kept it alive myself. </span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-50814630966328590642010-06-04T19:16:00.004+01:002010-06-04T19:26:56.993+01:00Let Them Eat Cake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn1XYmvBx8bCI1SDd6aw0I-gbzmXapR9UtsevKwhME7mwDA05vQNxqjMk6CV2azwLRV2orNPDD-khUHtmMEM1RbZKU78GFJwdJbosFdMPE6FKXfshHWa3RqQUq7o0Uj2BEyK1agjmbP2b/s1600/IMG_0305.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn1XYmvBx8bCI1SDd6aw0I-gbzmXapR9UtsevKwhME7mwDA05vQNxqjMk6CV2azwLRV2orNPDD-khUHtmMEM1RbZKU78GFJwdJbosFdMPE6FKXfshHWa3RqQUq7o0Uj2BEyK1agjmbP2b/s400/IMG_0305.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478984305772276930" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Personally, I think they should teach more history here. As we are doomed to repeat... yadda yadda. Although it didn't seem to work for the last credit card economic downturn, I know. Please note the financial crisis of 1929... etc. We haven't seem to have learnt a thing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">This was taken in a makeshift mall, set up across from what I like to think of as 'White Man's Stake' on Sukhumvit, The Emporium. It's rumored to be stock that has been saved from the malls which no longer exist, or suffered from a case of the fires. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">You get the drift... </span></div>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-15508200841486929862010-06-04T18:39:00.012+01:002010-06-04T21:10:01.814+01:00Things we do while living in Asia.<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Yell… a lot. Preferably in your own company so you don't 'lose face'. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Drive like shit, and not apologize to anyone, because everyone drives like shit.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">After about 3 months stop haggling over 30 cents… it's 30 fucking cents people, give it to them, the little people make like 6 bucks a day. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Listen to drunk people talk shit. It's probably the most decent conversation you will get in your native English language. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Love the maid. She is awesome. Luckily she is naturally acclimatized and can cook in shit hot heat. Try not to make funny faces when she cooks what smells like steaming dog turd for herself. It's probably a local delicacy in her country. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Cry… inside. Again, preferably in your own company. Asians don't deal well with the waterworks of emotions. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Avoid the heat by running the aircon day in day out, over what they call the 'summer' period. There is really only two seasons here: Hot, and Fucking Hotter. With a bit of wet chucked in. Freak out on a monthly basis when you get the unreasonably expensive electricity bill.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Lower your standard of people who you would call 'friends', otherwise you won't have any. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When a mini civil war occurs, stay inside and keep running that aircon, praying to 'the big man of your choice', that the warring parties don't burn down the local power exchange. Because you will have no cool air or webbertudes. They won't be serving food over the internet if a curfew occurs, therefore, previous flood experience is good for survivalists who can get through long periods of time being housebound. Stock up before the Asians start 'panic buying' all the 2 minute noodles, and pushing each other out of the way for cabbages. Remember to buy candles. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get used to the fact that doing anything simple… SIMPLE, will take a day of your time. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get more used to the fact that doing anything bureaucratic, or something a bit harder than simple, will take up to 3 days of your time, and there will be a lot of kicking and screaming involved (at home, in your own company). </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get used to being fucked over and extorted by the lawyer that your company chooses to use. Expect to pay 10 times the amount that you normally would have to, if you could speak and read the fucking language. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">After trying to accomplish something simple, and kicking and screaming in frustration (in your own company), then complaining to your husband, realize that him saying 'welcome to my world', becomes an everyday occurrence. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation when something is actually accomplished. </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">Glow in schadenfreaude on the rare occasions you can share the frustration around. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Realise that globalisation has occurred. Buying something here in a mall will be on par with buying it in any other country worldwide. Acknowledge that there are a shit load of high end shops that you will never be able to afford to shop in, let alone the little people who make 6 dollars a day. Display wonderment at the fact that people in Asia can afford, and do shop in these places. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get disgusted with the 'Hiso' attitude of 'Let them eat cake'. Try to avoid these people at all costs, they will make you feel like slashing your wrists, up the tracks not across. Especially avoid the vapid, vacuous, vain younger generation. They are, quite plainly, oxygen thieves. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get disgusted with the little people holding a capital city, the main business and travel hub, hostage for over 2 and a half months. Ruining all business and taking up the amount of real estate, which is comparable if you lived in Sydney to: Lower Darlinghurst, Hyde Park, Pitt St Mall all the way down to RPA hospital. Feel slightly terrorized by their ongoing erratic behavior. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Quietly celebrate the protesters burning down the banks and stock exchange - sticking it to the man. Feel sorry for the small businesses, their brothers and sisters, who initially supported their protesting, that the people of a particular colored shirt persuasion, then burnt to the ground. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Come to terms with every bar being a business opportunity for a poor Asian chick. Embrace it, these women are quite good at english conversation, they are nice, protective of loyal customers, and rack up your pool balls for you. NB: you will never beat them at pool or Connect Four.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">As a white chick, get used to the fact that if you are over 22 you will be seen as: mature, overly opinionated, mouthy, too expensive an investment with no return, and therefore not worth the effort. Relinquish any idea that you have any hope of 'getting some' in this country. Especially when it's being handed out by 18 year old Asian chicks for next to nothing, with a lot less hassle. On the odd occasion, appreciate that some dude who you are talking to, taking notice of you. Yeah... you probably won't be getting laid. </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">*EDIT* my husband would like me to point out here, how lucky I am to be married, and that I'm the recipient of as much 'great' sex as I desire. Which means, to me, young 18+ year old girls could come in handy for 'headache duty'.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Drink lots of water everyday. You sweat like a mother fucker in this relentless muggy, hot climate. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Enjoy the many house guests which will come through to stay, they provide light relief and entertainment. Avoid, at all costs, going shopping with them. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Get used to power cuts, brown outs, the airconditioner failing on a regular basis, no house phone because it just won't work, even when the phone company tells you it works, things taking a really long time, people always being late, bad traffic, everyone using bad traffic as an excuse for being late, computers cutting out because of the heat. Mostly get used to the fact that you probably won't be achieving much on a day to day basis. And come to terms with it. And be able to fucking laugh over it. Otherwise you will have a heart attack, stroke out, strain some muscle by kicking something, or just feel generally frustrated all the time. </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;">Ironically, get used to the white man complaining... because they do that shit A LOT.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Again…love the maid because she is AWESOME. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2358736142570410731.post-66147264876532569542010-05-09T08:46:00.003+01:002010-05-09T08:48:33.067+01:00Anatomically Incorrect Barbie Does a Bad Bad Thing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8jNkwj4FogOvVXcIqzwr9UVrZdpXq8iC9vh3GeF_U1QgJ8YPZWZDoRlRIWA9Gk1NVSpvYd9OSvJH9-vBFHkGq0ZRiUM83ijFOGdrFnstQIVqcF5P5AsvsTLSWQCr_6YPxrvatod3_U0g/s1600/barbie2-pola.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 329px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8jNkwj4FogOvVXcIqzwr9UVrZdpXq8iC9vh3GeF_U1QgJ8YPZWZDoRlRIWA9Gk1NVSpvYd9OSvJH9-vBFHkGq0ZRiUM83ijFOGdrFnstQIVqcF5P5AsvsTLSWQCr_6YPxrvatod3_U0g/s400/barbie2-pola.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469173748821206290" /></a>my heart of darknesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08315178491037676464noreply@blogger.com0