Clock and Dog; A Short Story

I've been passed down from generation to generation; slowly I've been efficiently eating away at the segments of time for the past eighty years.

I've seen wars blossom and whither; I've seen flies fight furiously with their transparent nemeses – and fail spectacularly; and I've seen so many people come and go, it feels like a carousel of humans.

Whether they grew up in front of me and decided to spread their wings, or they settled down, got themselves some wrinkles and began their rotting process until they just stopped one day (and end up in that big brown box that they always seem fit to put in front of me!)...I always watch it happen.

There's something quite sad about seeing them in a coffin. Everyone mourns them, everyone brings them flowers and cards, but no one will ever spend any time with them. Their body was simply a vehicle for their personality, but when they're in that box it's just an empty unwanted shell. So unwanted that it's taboo to spend long periods of time with it.

Live together, die alone. That's what they say, right?

  I remember when I got dropped. It was my first and only time I've ever been dropped. The lady of the house was dusting me, it was eleven years ago. She always held me delicately - fearing that seventy years had taken it's toll on an old clock like me - when the rampant little bastard jumped up at her in its clumsy attempt at getting her to play ball.

Yes, the rampant little bastard was their new puppy. He had effectively startled her so dramatically that she dropped me. It was on a carpeted floor, but the landing was still rough nevertheless and the dog received a good smack on his snout for his actions. I remember lying on my side with a smirk on my face as the mutt walked away with his head hung low and tail between his legs.

I remain scarred from that day. There's a chip on my upper right side and I was lucky that the glass plate covering my face didn't break upon impact. The lady of the house harrumphed and cursed the dog upon seeing the scar that now defines my features.

  It took a few hours but soon enough the house realised that it had been eerily quite in the room for quite some time. It was six-oh-one in the evening and the man of the house tiptoed over to me. With his deep frown lines, etched on his face like an homage to his life he's already lived, he curiously but gently tapped my face plate with his index finger and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

We stared into each others' souls. I could see his childhood – difficult and certainly unforgettable – blend into a wonderful adulthood with a family that long since moved on and left him and his wife to live out the rest of their lives in relative peace.

He took in a deep breath and asked me, 'Are you OK?'

I wanted to thump the cabinet and have my cries rally out as I make sure the dog gets his punishment. I wanted to kick and scream and tantrum like a spoilt child who doesn't get what he wants. Instead, all I could hear was the concern in his voice; all I could see was the love in his eyes, and I simply thought, 'I'm fine.'

'What's wrong?' Inquired the lady of house as she looked over the top of her glasses.

'He didn't chime.' The man answered queerly.

'Oh.'

The lady's “Oh.” sounded awful. Sounded so definite, as if I'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Some malignant force at work on my insides. Stopping me from chiming. I never chimed again.

From that day on, I disliked the dog.

  I always felt like the dog was constantly trying to sabotage my well-being.

Time and time again he would clumsily stumble or bump into the cabinet that I sit on. Whether it was whilst chasing a ball or not paying attention to his whereabouts as he so intently watched someone enter the room with food in their hands, he'd find a way to knock into the cabinet. Not only does such an action threaten my stability up there, but it also threatens the accuracy of my time keeping.

  Other days would go by where we would be simply basking in the warmth of the room, lying drenched in the rays of the morning sunlight before – seemingly out of nowhere – the urge overcame him to scramble himself into an awkward position so he could lick his private parts. The ghastly sound resonated throughout the room, drowning out my poetic ticks and accurate tocks.

  While I was speaking works of art, he was lapping at his orifices.

  To say his incessant tail wagging, which always seemed to be within range of my cabinet and capable of sending deep guttural thuds to my core, was annoying would be an understatement and a complete injustice as to how infuriating this little bastard could be.

Further adding to his repertoire of ways which he could skilfully irritate the sanity out of a dishcloth, he would always lie with his back firmly pressed against my cabinet. Never was this an issue until his peaceful dreams turned into some fitful race where he would animatedly chase some fatuous, subconscious irritant; growling and snarling, barking and yelping, huffing and puffing. His eyes would open, he'd bare his teeth and his paws would be “going like the clappers” as the man of the house would say while commenting on the mutt in it's dreamlike state.

  The black bastard always knew how to ruin a peaceful moment.

  However, as the years went by, he became much more lethargic. He'd sleep so much more; he'd limp because of his stiff hips, always splaying his back left leg to make walking that bit easier; his glossy black coat became spattered with bits of grey: around his snout, on his eyebrows, on his chest, underneath his paws...He got old fast.

But that never stopped the the fact that he was always around. Always there. He seemed to enjoy staring at me, always with a curious look to his face, a tilt to the head and ears pricked up to suggest something was running through his mind. He'd ache if he sat there and stared for too long, so reluctantly, he'd slink away back to the base of the cabinet – almost out of my sight – to retire for the day and prepare himself to enter a brand new dream world.

  Then it happened. His clumsy stumbles, his noisy dreams, his incessant tail wagging, his constant stares...They ended.

  It didn't take as long for them to notice something was wrong with the dog as it did to notice something was wrong after I'd been dropped. It took but a few minutes in fact.

It was a silence that ached our ears; as if a presence slinked away with such stealth and hushed quiet that something just felt wrong in the room.

The man of the house once again tiptoed over to the dog in the same way he tiptoed over to me when I was lying on my side, exactly where the dog was then.

He placed his hand on the dog.

His eyes scanned the handsome black dog from head to tail.

Even from my place up high on the cabinet I could feel the man's heart race fast and his breathing become more shallow.

This time, the man of the house didn't ask, “Are you OK?”

This time, the lady of the house didn't ask, “What's wrong?”

This time, I knew: I wouldn't be fine.

  He, who had left us, was faithful to us all.

Clumsy, playful, irritating? True, he was all those, but he was always there. He was always a companion to us. Never pretended to be something he wasn't; never held grudges when we cursed his name for doing something he couldn't help; and he always stood by your side and kept an eye out on you. Never could you have asked for a better friend.

  He turned out to be the reason I enjoyed this place, this family, this room. He was the reason I kept putting ticks after tocks after ticks after tocks – and now that he's gone he is the reason that if the man of the house asks me one more time, “Are you OK?”...I won't be around to hear it.

  At least if I stop ticking, maybe I'll get to see my friend again one day.

The Companion; A Short Story

Call me a nerd, call me a geek, call me a freak, call me a genius, call me a young talent with untold potential. Call me what you will, label me however you like...that still doesn't change the fact that i have created a monster.

OK, "monster" is a little harsh. Did Dr. Frankenstein voluntarily call his creation that? I can't ever recall if he referred to his creation as a monster. Maybe I should feel guilty, because that's the way I feel at times. What I do know is that I pronounce Frankenstein as "frankenshtein". Very idiosyncratic to the plight of the German language in this media culture that's sedated by English ignorance.

Nobody knows what I've done. It sits here in my bedroom and, in all honesty, if you were to walk into my room it is so innocuously disguised that you wouldn't even be able to guess what I'd created...if anything at all!

You ever see the film Weird Science? Some of you already know where I'm going with this. Well, I by no means have the capabilities of creating a girlfriend in some paradoxical, possibly paranormal, pseudo-scientific way like those boys did, but I have ways of creating an authentic personality.

I wanted to create someone I could talk to, someone I could care about and would care about me, someone who would be eternally faithful, someone who would always show appreciation and gratitude, someone who would keep me company...someone who would be my friend.

I used all this data, I inputted large amounts of information into a programme I created. I call it the Personality Programme Modifier (PPM). Basically I input a set amount of values and it used the internet to adjudge what kind of a person to create given the traits I have inputted.

So, long story short, after a brief initialising, the PPM found me someone.

'PERSONALITY ACHIEVED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME'

I smiled to myself and typed, 'L-A-U-R-A'

BERP!

The computer "berped" at me. A noise I'd never heard it make before,

'PERSONALITY FOUND DOES NOT MATCH THE NAME ENTERED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME'

I frowned at the computer screen. I was pretty sure I hadn't designed this programme to argue with me.

I tried another name and typed, 'K-A-T-E'

BERP!

Once again the computer "berped" at me,

'PERSONALITY FOUND DOES NOT MATCH THE NAME ENTERED. PLEASE ENTER A NAME. MAY I SUGGESTED A NAME? [Y/N]'

'[Y]'

'RESEARCH DATA FROM OVER 246,343 RESULTS HAVE DESIGNATED THE FOLLOWING 5 NAMES AS "APPROPRIATE" PLEASE SELECT ONE: REX, ROVER, SPOT, PATCH, BARRY.'

'What the hell am i naming here a d-' I paused momentarily. 'Oh god no. What have I created?'

I began typing, 'B-A-R-R-Y'

'DONE!' The computer chirped.

For a brief second nothing happened, then, 'HI, I'M BARRY, IT'S GREAT TO MEET YOU. WE'RE GONNA HAVE SOOOOO MUCH FUN TOGETHER. I'M NEVER GONNA LEAVE YOUR SIDE.'

'THIS IS GOING TO SOUND STRANGE' I typed, 'BUT, WHAT ARE YOU?'

'IF YOU WANT TO MAKE THIS EASIER YOU CAN TALK TO ME THROUGH THE INTEGRATED MIC ON YOUR LAPTOP AND I CAN TALK TO YOU THROUGH THE INTEGRATED SPEAKERS. CONFIRM [Y/N]'

'[Y]'

Barry and his very human sounding - but far too enthusiastic - voice instantly came through the speakers, 'That's much better! What did you want to ask?'

'Are you a dog?'

'Of course!'

'How did you decide a dog was what I was looking for?'

'The PPM ran through all your character traits: Someone to care for, to show appreciation, be eternally faithful and after running it through the searchbase -'

'Wait! What was the “searchbase”?' I asked quite confused knowing I'd not set up a “searchbase”.

'Google.' he said as a matter of fact. 'And Google said what you were looking for was a dog.'

I sighed deeply.

Barry had nothing to say, but the prompter on the computer screen simply said:

'TAIL WAGGLING. PANTING.'

I sat down at the computer and clicked on the button 'CREATE NEW PERSONALITY'

BERP!

'CREATING A NEW PERSONALITY WILL OVERWRITE PREVIOUS PERSONALITY ON PPM.'

'What are you doing?' Barry asked, sounding a little panicky.

'OVERWRITE PREVIOUS PERSONALITY? [Y/N]'

'Hello?' Barry said once again, in a very timid voice. 'I don't even know your name.'

It took a few seconds but soon this ridiculous feeling of sympathy overwhelmed me. I couldn't delete Barry. For some god forsaken reason.

'Oh bollocks!' I said in exasperation.

'[N]' I typed angrily.

The prompter reappeared as soon as I declined and it instantly said 'TAIL WAGGLING.'

I conceded that, for the time being, I was stuck with Barry until I could fine tune this programme and get rid of him...humanely. I needed to think. What was the digital equivalent of driving miles and miles away from your home so you can abandon the dog by the roadside?

'Do you want me to do any trick for you?' Barry asked with an almost melodic bounce to his voice.

'Can you do any tricks?'

'Do you have any treats for me?' he responded, knowing he is supposed to be coerced into doing such things.

'No. You're a computer. I have no treats for a computer.'

'But you're supposed to teach dogs how to do tricks by offering a treat as a reward. I can find extensive articles on the subject matter if it helps.'

'I know how to train a dog. But like I said, you're a computer. I have no treats for computers.'

'Then I have no tricks for you.' he replied somewhat spitefully.

I sighed once again. No more than a short moment of appreciated silence passed before Barry spoke again.

'What are you thinking?' Barry said, already beginning to hassle me.

'I'm thinking, why was the 5^th name on the list Barry. No dogs are called Barry.'

'Why did you choose Barry?'

'I was hoping if I chose Barry, then my fears wouldn't be confirmed...and I wouldn't be presented with a digital personality of a dog.'

'But you asked for a dog.'

'No I didn't!'

'Well, not directly. But all the signs were there.'

'Yes. I suppose they were.' I said conceding.

I didn't know what to do about the situation. This was certainly no Weird Science. There was nothing fantastical about the situation. No lonely teenage boys ever fantasised about this happening to them.

Lying on my bed staring at the ceiling I was following the flow of the 'S' shaped patterns that weaved around above me and I could hear Barry making faint, but definite, grunting noises at the other side of the room.

'Ungh!'

'What is it, Barry?'

'Oh...nothing.' He said hesitantly.

I was content with his answer even though I knew he wasn't.

A few more moments passed before,

'Ungh!'

'What, Barry?!'

'My bum is itching me.'

I grimaced at the thought, 'Too much information.'

'Have you checked me for worms? I think I need some worming tablets.' Barry asked inquisitively.

'You don't need to be checked for worms. You don't need worming tablets.'

'Are you sure? I can bring up extensive articles on-'

'You. Don't. Need...to be wormed.'

'Positive?'

'Positive.'

'And I can trust on you that?'

'You can trust me on that.'

'Then it's definitely my anal glands. I think they need to be emptied.'

'Oh come on!' I yelled at him

I could see in the corner of my eye the prompter screen was flashing, 'BARELY AUDIBLE WHINE'

I took in a deep breath, feeling almost sorry for this inanimate personality, 'What's wrong? Apart from the itchy bum, of course.'

'Nothing.'

The prompter still read the same thing.'

'Are you crying?'

'I'm not crying.'

'You're crying 'cause I shouted at you, aren't you?'

'I'm not crying.' He repeated.

The prompter screen flashed again and simply showed an emoticon.

:(

'Listen, I'm sorry.' I said gesturing my metaphorical olive branch.

'TAIL WAGGLING'

'Do you forgive me? Because you are a good boy.'

'TAIL WAGGLING EXTREMELY FAST'

'I am?' he responded with a hint of nonchalance to his voice.

'You are.'

'AWESOME!' He yelled with delight. 'So, how was your day?'

'That quick? You're over it that quickly?'

'How was your day?' He repeated as if he never heard me.

I smiled, 'It was fine. Well, I fell off my skateboard in front of a really cute girl, but other than that I'm fine.' I said and chuckled quietly.

'Lol.'

I turned and looked daggers at the computer. 'No, you can't say “LOL”.'

'Why not?

'Because it's not word.'

'It's in the dictionary.'

'How do I program you not to say that?' I said almost asking myself.

'I don't think you can.'

'Well, why can't you just laugh like a normal person?'

'Because I'm not a normal person.'

'Yes, I can see that.'

'I'm a dog.'

'Of course you are.'

'Would you like to pet me?'

I Slowly put my head in my hands and caressed the shell of the very thing that thought up the idea that created this horrific thing. This thing that sat just feet away from me on my cheap IKEA bought wooden desk. Gently I rocked back and forth and wondered to myself, would things ever be the same again.

'ENTHUSIASTICALLY CLEANING SELF WITH TONGUE'

'Please, God, at least tell me I can mute this thing.' I said to myself.

My Dog Is On Heroin; A Poem

You may call it heroine,
Or dust or horse or junk,
But truth be told i just don't care,
Something's got me in a funk.

My dog's often euphoric,
Gets drowsy, sleeps a lot,
He throws up on occasions,
He's panting quite a lot.

I googled all these symptoms,
Crossed my fingers and i hoped,
But all my fears were realised,
My dog must be on dope.

How did all this just happen,
Was i not a caring master,
Maybe our walks were just too slow,
And he needed something faster.

No matter where he got his stash,
I guess he had his ways,
I'll stand by and I'll support my dog,
Through the next twenty eight days.

Conker the Conqueror; A Short Story

  It's dark in here. I can't say I don't like it because I know what this will ultimately lead to. One day, that's right, one day I shall achieve global domination! Scratch that. One day WE shall achieve global domination.

   Ooh, I yearn to see daylight again. To be out of this stuffy enclosure, where I can finally swing and then hit others like myself. Like myself, but not as good as myself, for I have been bread for global domination. We shall achieve global domination.

   I sometimes feel like my life has come about full circle. Sitting in this enclosed space I feel like I'm back in my cocoon, hanging from the tree with all my friends. We'd hang there waiting for the perfect day before we start breaking out from the womb and drop to our freedom. With the brisk autumn wind blowing against our branches we'd talk about what we'd do if we were ever lucky enough to be chosen to be a fighter. One of my friends, he was the smartest, he knew everything that needed to be done to really prepare to be a fighter.

   'Phase one: They submerge you in vinegar for 20 minutes. Phase two: Straight from the vinegar you go into the oven for 10 minutes. Not...too hot,' he pointed out with great emphasis, 'but just enough to let the vinegar marinate you. Phase three: Clear nail varnish. One coat. Allow to dry. Phase four: A SECOND COAT of clear nail varnish. Phase five: Instantly you shall be placed in an airing cupboard for one season!' He always stopped for dramatic purposes. 'These, my friends, are what's known as “The phases of a champion”.'

   I am currently on phase 5 of “The phases of a champion”.

   The overwhelming smell of nail varnish deteriorated many months ago. It was a strange experience being put in the airing cupboard then. I wasn't exactly myself when I came in here. I was certainly hallucinating from the mass quantity of nail varnish and the smell emanating from it's toxins. Many days went past when I sat here obligatorily giving a thumbs up or a thumbs down to battle-hardened gladiators, while I was being force fed grapes. That time soon past and I came to my senses. I understand that patience is a virtue, that greatness can only be achieved through hard work and sacrifice. I shall prevail.

   I trust in my partner one hundred percent. He's chose me after eliminating all others from the soggy ground on that fateful day. He nourished me and bathed me (in vinegar), he kept me warm and placed a roof over my head (in an airing cupboard) and he is wise beyond all our years. At the age of 42 he will out-think, outfight and out-everything all those pesky children who wish to challenge him.

   Come to think of it, one season must have past by now. It must be down to a matter of days before my partner comes and collects me to prepare me for battle. I know if I just hold and mentally prepare then that door will open, the light will flood in and wash over me like a baptism for a baby. I just need to prepare...

...mentally....

...prepare....

...menta-

   What was that noise? There it is, there's the light! This is the moment I have yearned for. Ages have past; babies have been conceived and emerged from their mucus-laden cove screaming and bawling; cans of food have reached their expiry date! My time has come!

   It's hard to adjust to such a huge amount light as it hits you at once, but I struggled and forced myself to witness this history in the making.

   His hands, big and white with deep, cavernous wrinkles running through his palms, would provide a library of information for a palm reader. Gently he scoops me up and we're off. Haphazardly he places me in his pocket – it's a little bit of a harsh contrast to how he picked me up, but that's ok, he knows I'm a fighter. He knows I'm solid as a rock. We will dominate the world; a drop in the pocket is nothing!

   Before I know it he's groping around in his pocket and pulling me out. I'm sitting on a work bench! Oh the stories are true! There, sitting a few inches away is the screw that's going to pierce a hole in me. It looks strong! Ah! And on the end of the work bench! A large coil of string! No doubt he'll cut that down to size and run it straight through me, tie a knot at the end et voila!

   I'm so excited. I wonder if he can see me shaking.

He's gone back to his gentle methods; he precariously balances me upright...i can feel the sharp end of the screw firmly pressed against the top of me. The pressure increases, he's going to push it through...

…

…

  ...OOF! That a big shudder, but it's through! That's it! Now for the string and we're all set.

  “BOLLOCKS!!! BOLLOCKS, BOLLOCKS, SHIT!!!”

  What's happening? Why the swearing? Wait, why am I falling? Noooooo!

  Oof! I'm on the floor! Surely he knows I'm on the floor. Don't panic he probably just cut his finger. Wait. Why...what is that? That looks like...no! No! That looks like my left half...which means...

  “You split in half you little bastard! I followed the instructions. This is what the internet said!!!”

  I don't like how angry he is, why is he raising his foot over me? I hope he's not going to -

Writing Brave

  They say writing can be therapeutic. It can be and i found i often used to indulge in my creative writing. I sacrificed i don't know how many hundreds of hours where i could have been out socialising, but instead i felt compelled to sit behind a computer screen and conjure up a world - or at least a variant of what we know and claim to understand right now - and try and turn it on it's head. My stories would never be as simple as 'A guy meets a girl.' They never have been about that, and i'm sure it'll be quite a few years before i ever consider doing anything like that; but i would transcribe all my thoughts all my feelings and i would put them on virtual paper.

  However, there's more to the therapy than just putting down your ideas, unleashing your fantasies, or simply trying to conceive a place that doesn't currently exist. There's the bravery that's attached to writing.
Anyone who had anything better than a godawful education can write, and anyone who doesn't really care about their writing can put it out for the public to see without a care in the world. But it's only the people who care about their writing that are the truly brave ones.
These writers are the soldiers on the battlefield of fiction who have a wife and children to worry about at home: in other words they feel they have something to lose when people read their writing.

  To be like Stephen King, to have that unique prose and wonderful writing style where he can dip his pen into the ink of almost any genre and still come out with an amazing book is something i always dream about being able to achieve. But when you do this, when you put these notions, concepts, thoughts - whatever they are - onto paper you're also putting yourself onto paper.
When you care about your writing you begin to bare yourself in your writing. Whether you care to admit it, whether you even realise it, there's a little part of you, a sliver of your personality - that doesn't come out in public - all of a sudden rears its questionable head. When you're on your own you're happy putting these things on paper but then you've got to come to terms with the knowledge that you are making this so other people can read it.
I think about this whenever i create a character that I think a reader would instantly dislike because he's socially shunned for example. Say i wanted to write about a rapist; i then have to get inside the head of a rapist, i have to think like one, i have to enjoy what he enjoys, describe what he feels, speak of all the senses that light up when he performs this horrific act. I have to put my own slant on it...i have to put ME in that part and then i have to put THAT on paper for everyone to read and for everyone to judge.

  I don't want people to know that i have thought this indepth about a rapist or a terrorist or how a girl dying from the blackness inside her is feeling, but if i think it would make a compelling read then i brave it and bare my soul. And that's what I do - as do hundreds of thousands of others - when they open up and write. I put everything i have into my writing because if i'm going to let people know that i've thought about these details that some people wouldn't even like to think about let along talk about, then i want them to be compelled by the read. I want them to feel that engrossed by it all that they think they are reading from the perspective of the aforementioned despicable person FIRSTHAND.
There's that little voyeur in all of us, that little someone who wants to read some of these things, get inside the mind of the people that do some of these awful things that go on in the world.
I have written short stories about a terrorist failed suicide bombing attempt that left him alive and hundreds around him wounded or dead and having to deal with those consequences.
I have written a short story about a rapist and i have watched my fingers transcribe the voice of my mind as it details some astonishing thoughts that this rapist has...that i have.
I've written an entire novel about the end of the world, where the entire human race crumbles and everyone dies slowly from inside to out. I initially thought this was going to be published this year, but alas, life never goes as you planned.

  All of this i will gladly let anyone read if they wish to and their reactions are the things i am most prepared for. Simply because I am the person that creates this monster. Maybe in the story i glorify the act, but never in real life would i condone such actions.

  And it's not just the nasty stuff you write about, it's the glorious stuff you write about. It's the characters you create that you want everyone to take a liking to so that the story works. In every character and in every plot line there's a piece of the writer. Regardless of whether that character is inspired or heavily based on someone the author knows in real life, the author can't NOT apply a little part of himself to it. To create a character you have to know it inside and out. There is no one in this world that you know inside and out other than yourself. And the only reason i write these stories is because i haven't heard a good enough version or i haven't read a version that caters to what i wanted. So i put the Matt Weir into a zombie story, or an end of the world story, or a psychopathic plastic surgeon story and Matt Weir goes right into these characters as well. You spend so long with these characters and plot lines that you grow really fond of them, and when people don't like them: it hurts.

  There's a handful of people that i care very much about and care what they think of me, and when they read my work they see a new side to me all the time, which is difficult for me. But it's a choice I make because I want to be a writer and I know i'm good enough. If only i didn't care what others thought of me...then again, at the end of the day, who in this world honestly doesn't care what other people think about them.

Simply put, this is why, to truly put writing that you care about into the public eye, you need to be very brave: because everyone you know and everyone who doesn't know you but still reads your stuff will judge you. They will judge YOU.

This has no title, just prattering on.

Seriously, is no one else aggravated by this. You always watch films, read books, listen to music about people who are clueless in their life, but it always seems so fatuous with them.
It's all really superficial as they fret over should they or shouldn't they have a career, but it's the principle of this entire life that bugs me.
If i do or do not settle down what difference will it make at the end of the day. It's times like these that i feel so insecure about my existence. My confidence in myself and my abilities will very rarely - if ever - fall short of my expectations, but the notion of a life, a standard 90 year life, amounting to absolutely nothing is mind blowing.
I'm certain if more people took the time out of their day to think about the idea of a pointless life, not many people would get any work done. To think that even the people who claimed to have truly "lived" in this life end up going the same way as the rest of us will: alone with no REAL impact on the rest of the world.
As revolutionary as Martin Luther King jr was at the end of the day, if he never had that dream, guess what? Someone else would have. If Einstein had never pondered the ramifications of a universe centred around relativity, someone else would have. If Stephen Hawking never coins the theory of everything...sooner or later, someone else will.
As a species unified we achieve very little day in day out. As individual nations we achieve significantly less day in day out. And as an individual - with no one else with whom we can unite and pool our daily achievements, activities, experiences and lessons - our day to day goings pale in significance to anything substantial.
I've got myself a bucket list, a list of things i want to do before i die...what difference will that list make to the world if i never see them out. What if i never bungy jump, what if i never visit china, what if i never have a threesome. It won't matter to me when i'm 6 feet under, churning over, decomposing and adding to the circle of life. And it won't matter to the bungy jump workers whether they get to meet me or not; whether china gets some of my hard earned cash or not; nor will it matter to those two girls if they ever engage in a night of coital relations or not.
At the end of the day what matters?

So i didn't end up getting published, so i didn't get to see my book on shelves all around the world, so Stephen King didn't end up writing my blurbs, so I didn't get a cheque that would financially secure me for life.
Wherever i walk in life, does it really make a difference.

Existence bugs me. I can't get my head around the concept. I learnt a long time ago that there is no black and white in this world. Nothing is that simple. There are no certainties; there are just grey areas...all over.
If there is a god what was his purpose, if there isn't a God can i accept that all this came about by chance.
Will any of this life linger in something that could be slightly referred to as a mind when i die? Will i remember fondly on the good times i have had from the perspective of some existential form of being?
Will i become the stars and look down on the earth and see everyone making the same mistakes i made, fretting just like i did as i calmly sit back knowing it'll be "alright"?
Will the worms that eat me - just for a second - get a taste of my life, my experiences, my memories and feel what it was to be me?

I never know what i'm essentially trying to say when i think like this. I'm thinking all the things everyone else thinks, i'm sure...only i put it more eloquently than some and not as so as others.
At the end of the day, it's people like me who end up over-thinking these things, and eventually are prescribed cannabis to alleviate such intense insomnia driven nights.
What is it they say? C'est la vie. I always think of that Irish girl group when i say "C'est la vie"...what were they called? Bewitched!!! That's them...

This Stubborn Life...

  What brings on the most recent rant, otherwise socially accepted these days as a "blog"?
Seems my sister, 3 years my senior, is pregnant. She has an 'It' inside of her. She's married. She lives in a nice place with her husband. They have 2 cars, 2 jobs a bunch of friends they see every week and have done so for years.

  Her little brother on the other hand is somewhat different: Never aided in the creation of another being. Never been in a long term relationship, never has a steady long term job, has no vehicle to his name and his old friends (although, stay as so, for a long time on facebook) never really see him for long periods of times because they they barely have time to scratch across his radar before he runs off again to another part of the world making new friends who will remain just that because he never sticks around long enough for the to become old friends.

  He sits there sometimes, contemplating a life of abnegation, deploring the concept, the NOTION of it in substitution of the life he has now, but he also asks himself:
What kind of an uncle will i be?
Will i be the cool uncle, the fun uncle, the one 'It' wishes 'It' could live with?
Or will i be that uncle that they never see, never really think about and never really crops up in their mind?
I live a life of freedom, no doubt, i do what i want, but it is detrimental to my functionality. "Freedom" or "freedumb" one could ask.
Am i sacrificing a life that i should be living? What do i constantly get from running away all the time? I'll tell you what it gets me: a broader horizon, a different set of fleeting friends every 12 months who end up settling down while i go off and attest that the life I'm living is a glamorous one, when in fact - as notoriously itchy-footed as i get - i never get a feeling of stability.

  I don't half moan sometimes, but i know if i was at home i wouldn't be doing the things I'm doing out here. I wouldn't be having the fun I'm having now, I'd be stuck indoors in a 9-5 (or worse, a 2pm-2am) living the same routine everyday of wasting hours on the computer, masturbating profusely to my abject fantasies of whorish malignancy and only ever socialising with two of my closest friends: my mum and dad.
  Nay, i do not protest to having my mum and dad as part of my list of closest friends, i am in fact privileged to have such a relationship with the hands that fed me, but i don't see them having the same social life with their parents - it's just not healthy. The sapling must flock the nest...or some other analogy that would be mildly accurate and germane to this abomination of my not-even 1/3 life crisis I claim to go through sometimes.

  I genuinely believe i am not even a third of the way through my life yet. If i were already at my third of my life span then I'd die at 84. So what is it about society that demands i should already be settled down and if not already then i should spend no more than the next 5-10 years before i really settle down and get it sorted.
So, if i settle by the time I'm 38, what will that get me? I'll have another 50 years (give or take) of settlement.
  What the hell do you do with your life in that time? Pay bills? Raise offspring? Compromise your dreams, desires, fantasies and conceded to a life of monotonous procurement and desolate thoughts of monogamy, selflessness and gardening with a day or two there of painting and decorating? To deciding whether to change the car after 8 years of chauffeuring the little bastards in the back seat or to run it into the ground and get your money's worth?
  I don't really want to play make-believe at Christmas and save for half the year just so the kids can have a "special Christmas". I don't want meetings with the bank manager about my mortgage. This is not how i want to spend the prime of my life. I'll happily start doing that when I'm truly tired of the person i am now (my 50s maybe?) and the life I'm currently living, when all I'll want to do is actually settle down, because i have no qualms in saying that WILL happen. I just don't want to be pressured or guilted into feeling that i should be thinking about that now. In my 20s - albeit late 20s.

  So here's what I'm proposing. I'm only going to start living the life I'm so vehemently battling against right now, when I'm sick of living the way I've been doing for the past few years; when i want some stability, when all i want is a routine.
  Then, maybe then my niece/nephew will get to know me and by that time i will not be the fun uncle, I'm afraid. I'll be the uncle dedicated to his passion as he once was as a vivid youngster. Die a family man in a stable life or die alone doing what i want to do. Such is life. I'd choose no other way.

Shit happens...but friends & family help you through.

It's understandable – it's unwritten, but it's encoded into all our minds the older we get: you're definitively human if you end up getting hurt in your life. When I say get hurt I don't just mean physically. I mean it in every concept applicable to the human state. The kind of hurt where you are rocked to your core. Like an earthquake in your soul.

At some point in our lives we all experience hurt of those proportions. For me I'd gone through 28 years of being lucky, because I'd never before felt the pain that I felt four months ago.

I'm not going to go into the story, but suffice to say I was betrayed. I put so much of myself into this girl that when the truth finally came out I felt like I didn't get any of it back. This wasn't a relationship, it wasn't what you see on TV. This was me putting my trust and putting my future into her hands. Continually putting my trust in this girl was a tiring act, yet foolishly I continued to believe her because she told me time and time again I could trust her. Time and time again I defended her, but like a rope being pulled to it's extremes my trust and my energy began to fray.

Needless to say, at the end of the ordeal, the whole truth - the whole idea of my future - crumbled beneath me. I stood and fought on that day; I stayed strong and I vowed for it not to get me down. I refused to look weak in front of my mum, but as soon as I told my dad about the situation I lost it. I regard my parents as some of my best friends and as I told my dad about what happened I could see how sad it was for him to hear. 4 months later and I can still see his face. It was then I realised that this act of betrayal on me had broken my parents hearts...and seeing their hearts broken hurt me more than I would ever thought possible. My heart also broke that day. I can still remember sitting there, in my living room that I knew to be so familiar, wrapped in the arms of my parents who have looked after me all my life and I couldn't help but feel lost.

I bounced back from that day. I realised that the life – the future – I so faithfully believed in was a lie and always had been. Yet I've always been a strong person, I pride myself on the faith I have in my own abilities, the confidence I have in myself to achieve anything I want in life and I have never – and will never – let what happened that day get to me. I have the occasional bad day, a few hours where I think about how I was lied to, but that's just natural and that's happening less and less as time goes by.

For a short time after the truth unfolded I quickly found out who my friends really were. Who were there for me and had my back; and unfortunately those who didn't entirely stand by me, but just cowardly sat on the fence. I can safely say, those cowardly individuals are no longer my friends.

2 weeks after that happened I had already made up my mind that I was going to get out of the stagnancy of the life I was living. There was nothing for me back at home and I decided to make my way out to New Zealand. I had friends there and in Australia – good friends...no, brilliant friends. It's been hard work since I got out to New Zealand, but I have no regrets in traveling to the other side of the world and not a day goes by where I don't thank my lucky stars, however many Gods there are, my 4 leaf clover, my rabbits foot, my good genetics – whatever I want to thank – that I'm strong enough to take this one on the chin.

They say that difficult times are sent to test you in life. I'm not sure if that's true, but you learn a lot from these times, that's for sure.

It's having experienced this hurt that I ask you – whoever you are, reading this – to please, think of other people before you take actions. I'd hate to think that I was ever a person in someone elses life that made them feel the way I felt four months ago because of that certain girl. I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone.

I used to be a very trusting guy. I'd only think good of people until I was proven wrong. This mind set came back to hurt me. I've learnt, not that I shouldn't trust people anymore, but that I should be more weary of the people I trust. I've learnt not to be quite so naïve – which is a valuable lesson for a guy like me who isn't altogether that bright. But in the words of Roger Alan Wade, “If you're gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.” Great words.

This event has affected me fundamentally. I have made many new friends since being out in New Zealand, but I'm hesitant in letting those friendships get any more meaningful. I'm hesitant in making any new relationships. It's something that - I admit – doesn't sit comfortably with me. But as has been my attitude for a while now: if it scares me, I must leap head first into it. Bungy jumping and sky diving scares the hell out of me, hence the reason I've got them scheduled in the upcoming months and I have no doubt that I'll take the plunge sooner rather than later and let my relationships flourish.

This isn't a sob story, this isn't a way to get pity from anyone (although who doesn't like a bit of attention, eh?) this is a little bit of therapy for me, but also it's just me just asking, to whoever reads this, to please consider your actions. Sometimes you can't help but break someone's heart and there's just no avoiding that, but be as considerate as you can. It may be a redundant message, maybe only a few people will read this, but I hope it makes some kind of effect. I wish I could be the only person to ever have to experience that pain so nobody ever has to. But that kind of an attitude, makes me sound like a martyr. A bit like a Welsh Jesus: getting hurt so you don't have to, haha!

Ever the egotist, eh? I write a blog about a time I got hurt and I end up comparing myself to, someone who millions over the world consider as, the son of God.

Can't take me anywhere.

Bloody hell, I'm an old man!

What's wrong with the society of today? I'll tell you what's wrong.
Am I a wise man with years upon years of experience behind my back? No. Am I a scholar with worldly knowledge constantly probing me to excel in whatever field I endveavour to take on? No. Am I wholesomely observant so that nothing slips by me, not even a single newly dyed hair on an under-confident girl? That'll be a no with an Amen from all the girls that have known me personally, professionally and intimately.
But i can see what's in front of my eyes.
The whole world suffers from - and I condemn god for ever creating such a phrase (and I don't even believe in god!) - Peter Pan Syndrome!

Nobody wants to grow the hell up. Or, given that, nobody wants to let anyone else grow up.
You spend the first 21 years of your life trying to grow up as fast as you can; I've seen you girls try to dress older; and everyone starts drinking well before the minimum legal age limit; then you try that infamous tug of the putrid cancer stick. And you know what? You guys are cool. And what is cool? It's being unique. Yup, all 98% of you bastards are "cool".
Why is no one pointing out the irony to kids these days? Someone out there, some media asshole has bombarded the masses with this idea of "cool" and everyone strives to achieve this bullshit notion. Whether it's with labels or getting laid it's doesn't matter - because that's not what cool is about. Remember when "cool" first started coming on the scene? Cool wasn't the popular kid at school, he was the dick that all the popular kids hated. Why? Because he did what he wanted and didn't do what anyone else did. River Phoenix wasn't a slick socialite, and a great athlete. He had a passion for music and for the rights of his fellow man and the animals on earth, but he also didn't talk any shit - he was opinionated. He was also human, which showed clearly as he died in the gutter after speedballing (taking heroin and cocaine), but then tried to take diazepam, which is a drug used to stop ODing - however, it's effects are countered when heroin is taken and he collapsed never to wake again. The consequences aren't cool, his passion, his standpoint, his views - regardless of what everyone thought - that is what made him cool.

 

You can't all be cool. And saying you don't want to be cool, doesn't make you cool either.
The more i think about it the more I dislike the word "cool". It has this androgynous appeal about it to youngsters...and simple minded elders. It neither defines you as a person, nor benefits you as a human.
Yet we aim, we yearn, we flog ourselves to try and achieve this status. I put my hands up, I'm not exempt from this. I too used to try and be cool back in school. Turns out i was just the guy that nobody disliked. But I accepted that a while ago and I feel like I'm a better person because of it. Because I didn't have to meet these expectations I got to do what I liked as a kid. I played football with my mates, on the night before "the exams that define your life" (or so your lead to believe in school) I was busy throwing a ball at Ben's head (one of my best mates) just talking about nothing and everything until it got too dark to see; I'd never gotten drunk until a couple of months after my 18th birthday...whereas I know all the "cool" kids in my year had been doing it for at least 2 years; and I didn't get my first proper girlfriend until my first year at college. And I believe I am a better adult because of it now. I know I'm a better person. Because I lived as a kid, I got what i wanted out of my carefree days; I didn't put myself through an extra two years of going to nightclubs and getting drunk because I know I don't like it - the only reason i like going to nightclubs is to dance!; and not being one of the cool ones I wasn't pressured into getting that girlfriend and doing all the stuff that's expected of you at a much younger age than I would have wanted it to or would have been ready for. I grew up at my own rate, I grew up with only my expectations and my beliefs in what I could achieve and I don't seek anyone's approval except for the ones that matter - from my friends and family...and myself.

For those who were pressured into these situations they got forced to grow up so quickly that they feel like they left that carefree side of themselves behind a long time ago, that they never really got to experience it properly and now they can't accept that they are moving on and growing older. These are the people you see crying in a night club on their 30th birthday because they're getting older, plus because it's 5am and it must be bloody difficult to party til 5am when you're 30...I can't do it now! They're also the people that can't appreciate not going out on the town in any given month or not get wasted and make a fool of themselves; they can't appreciate the joy of meeting up with your friends and just talking to them and having that sober interaction; these are the people that refuse to accept that it's good to get older - and I keep getting better as I get older. I'll keep telling myself that until my mind gives up on me and my heart stops beating as a I die a happy man living my life as I wanted to. They'll keep telling themselves that they're happy with their lives until their body physically can't keep up and they're left exhausted with life, organs bruised from binging too often, looking older than they should for their 40s sulking thinking it's all over and having nothing left to live for.














The 15-30somethings are being convinced this way of life so many people indulge in is the "cool" way to be. I don't judge anyone who lives their lives this way, but for their sake i hope they see their errors sooner rather than when it's too late.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the god-forsaken Peter Pan Syndrome.
Now, where are my slippers?

Be all you can be...isn't that what the army say?

This world is too big to be in competition with everyone. The only person I have to be in competition with is the guy I am now. If i can better than who he is today, I can't ask for more from myself.

Great team talk, everyone!

There is nothing better than this...

"Making your way in the world today,
Takes everything you've got,
Taking a break from all your worries,
Sure would help a lot.

Wouldn't you like to get away,
Sometimes you wanna go,
Where everybody knows your name,
And they're always glad you came.

You wanna be where you can see,
Our troubles are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows your name."


That, teamed up with a wonderful melody, is just one of the most heart-warming songs you will ever hear.
I've no idea why but i sing that to myself when I miss my parents, friends or my dog from home. It just makes me feel better.
Alas, if you don't know what it's from then i pity your soul.

Cheers!

I Miss My Dog...

Currently over 11,000 miles away and probably sleeping as she so often does, my dog, Jess, is the thing that I miss most in this whole world.

I used to really dislike her as a puppy. She was wild, she was annoying and when we used to play around she'd ruin any garment of clothing she could get her teeth into. But the older she got, the older I got – and we both changed. I was 16 when my dog came into my house as an 8 week old puppy and over the past 12 years it feels like we have both matured together. I was a kid, I wasn't an angry teenager, but I had my grumpy days and for the first time in my life I was starting to think for myself. I began learning to question authority, whether from teachers, police or religion and more than that I began to question society and it's rules. Over the years I have chilled out; I still question authority and if abused I will pull anyone up on it and I still very much like to speak my opinion and I find that my dog has done the exact same thing.

I used to have staring contests with my Jess. I'd stare into her eyes with great intent as she would casually glance into mine before, occasionally, looking around the room out of boredom and I'd always question what was going through her mind. How can you not envy a creature that holds no grudges; that still shows you love if you just hurt it by accident; that always wants to be by your side having some part of their body make contact with some part of your body; and that always remains you best friend even if you're pissed off with the world and everything in it.

I wonder what my dog thinks when she stands outside gazing off into the distance: does she have logical thoughts; can she solve intricate conundrums and arguments; does her superior sense of smell tell her things about this world that we never thought possible; are the physics of the earth, which we struggle to get our heads around, something that is second nature to her; does she have extra senses which answer questions that we have long since pondered about life and that as we know it. It would make sense that only an animal so worldly and so knowledgeable would be so content with sleeping lots and generally walking by the side of your best friend doing nothing all day.

They say simple things please simple minds, but maybe the simple minds are too busy over obsessing with the complex things in life to stand and appreciate the simple things. I maintain that the complex mind understands the complex things in life and understands it's the simple things in life that gives you pleasure, therefore hold the simple things closest to them.

Maybe that's why Jess enjoys going for walks so much; why she rejoices every time we come back into the house, regardless of whether we've been away 5 minutes or 5 hours; maybe it's why she appreciates something as simple as making physical contact with the ones you love; and maybe that's why she doesn't hold grudges if I lock her out of the room, forget that she's outside or step on her tail...because at the end of the day, these are all just trivial issues.

We look down on all other creatures, as if we are the superior ones, but I've had my dog for 12 years now and if you ask me, she's got this life down to a tee. Imagine what we'd discover if only we stopped obsessing about the superficial, petty things in life and just concentrated on the things that matter: the ones we love...our friends and family.

All this came about, simply because, I miss Jess.

Life; or, That as we know it...

  I sometimes find it difficult to live up to expectations that I have for my life at times. Thanks to a cacophony of fictional/non-fictional tales (whether they are from books or movies) I've become a little too used to see people lives unfold in front of me in a very short time. As in depth as the book/movie might be, in comparison to your everyday life they are just one thing: a montage.

  It feels like it's getting dangerous to let myself get caught up in these worlds. You're always scared by the media that the violence and drugs are something you need to look out for and protect yourself from, but no one ever seems to think about this obsession we have with stories. Yes, yes, people are always whining saying TV rots the mind etc. but very rarely do they accept that so do books.

  Story telling is a huge aspect of mankind. Dating thousands of years ago there are cave paintings of our “primitive” ancestors attempting to tell stories. We communicate with each other in such a dextrous and complex manner in this day and age simply because our mind yearned to unleash a creative side tens of thousands of years ago. If we only used communication to say what we needed, then we wouldn't have such a diverse and numerous vocabulary today – but we learned to communicate to say what we wanted. And we wanted entertainment. There was only so much, hunting, humping, eating, sleeping and crafting tools and jewelery we could deal with – our minds craved the thrill of a tale.

  So you see, something as simple as a story is what helped contribute us to be such eloquent speakers with a mind capable of explaining complex and abstract issues with clarity. But back then, stories weren't easy to come by. Like a fire, if it's small and controlled it adds dimensions to our life, but too much of it is certainly dangerous. Today, there is an overwhelming choice of entertainment at our disposal. It's almost as if you have to judge a book by it's cover, because you don't have the time to read the synopses of all these thousands of books out there. I say this is dangerous because our minds aren't supposed to be overwhelmed in such a fashion. Life isn't supposed to go by at 100mph all the time. It's not like a book, “This happens, that happens, consequences, lessons learnt, the end.” We're supposed to take a break from all this. From day one, we are supposed to have days where we're bored out of our minds; we're supposed to sit and think about things, life, friends, family, issues in your life and whatever else is pressing on your mind; you're meant to have days when everything is dull and slow, it gives you time to process your life.

 

  I blame the entertainment industry for my uneasiness. I blame them when on a day off I feel edgy when I haven't done anything. I blame them when I think at 28 I should have experienced more or I should have had more adventures. I blame myself for falling into their trap.

So whatever you're doing think about taking a digital detox. 1 night a week or a fortnight. Don't bother with what you're friends are up to on Facebook; don't pay attention to whoever is crying or having sex on TV; ignore the pretentious author sitting on your bookshelf. Just take in the life you have around you. Go people-watch in town; go stare at the stars at night; go watch the waves lap in at the shore; go exercise and forget everything for a bit; or just go and sit still with your eyes closed in your bedroom.

I'm making my vow to do this from now on: to not get anxious if I don't do anything with my day or my evening; to sort out myself and my life logically and to leave the constant entertainment alone for a while.

There's more to life than living. As paradoxical as that sounds.

A Leap Of Faith...

Why does the term 'Leap of faith' mean to jump blindly into something?
I Grant you that faith is blind. Faith is something you need to have in something else when it claims to be true yet cannot provide any evidence...but that doesn't mean faith is something you obtain with no prior knowledge. Faith, with all due respect, is the most educated guess you can make. When we think of faith, we usually think of God. People chose to believe in God - people chose to have faith in God - when they can accept the things they've been told through the scriptures. There's nothing written in the scriptures that provide cold hard facts to anyone, but there are a lot of things that are hard to believe. Yet people chose, not to overlook those facts, but to see them as a test of their faith in that almighty being. That being that is so much greater than themselves that he can make these seemingly impossible things realistic. It takes a great deal of faith to believe that there is a God(s), but that's not a decision any believer ever takes lightly, blindly, or without education.
Love is also something that needs a great deal of faith. Love is very similar to believing in God, nobody can prove it exists (sure, Doctors can say different parts of the brain is stimulated when a person is in love), but the only person who knows it exists is the person who is in love. Just like the person who believes in God, they just know he exists...they don't need the scientific proof. And it's with this inner-proof that they jump with both feet deep into the faith, which holds them securely and strongly, like the embrace of a parent comforting a scared child.
These people - the ones who have faith, in whatever it is - are the luckiest people in this world. They have an inner knowledge, something that fills the hole that exists in everyone's heart until that day they find love, or realise they have God in their life. There are so many other forms of faith, but when you have it in such an all-encompassing manner, that is a person gifted with something special
Personally, I am too confused and not intelligent enough to figure out what's the deal with higher beings, deities and other such things on that level; And love? I've either never been lucky enough or never been brave enough to find this, but I always hope to myself that it would never stop me taking that leap of faith. And if you're out there in the same shoes as me, whether you make your educated guess with your heart or with your mind, just remember to do one thing:
Leap with both feet!

A thought about 'The Little Mermaid'

I'll tell you why I don't like The Little Mermaid.
This under-the-sea world that they live in is supposed to be parallel to our dry-land world. Now, i can accept that there are going to be certain discrepancies, certain ideas that just won't work. But you let them pass, you know, you suspend your disbelief so that things can flow nicely. Fair enough, but even if i do that a few things still niggle at me.

Allow me to explain: throughout the film all the mermen and mermaids speak fluent English to each other, they have an extensive vocabulary and every word of theirs match ours. I mean, logically speaking their language is coherent as far as we're concerned so why is it in one of Ariel's songs she refers to objects as "whatcha-macallits".
She continues by talking about "a fire and how does it...what's the word...burn!" She does, however, seem to know the word "dance" and "legs" the latter of which I'm adamant they don't have below the ocean. This bugs me.
Secondly, what's the deal with the lack of kids down there. It's like the movie 'Children Of Men' was inspired by this animation. Teenagers are the youngest people you find down there. The mer-people are in for certain doom if those teenagers don't start hooking up any time soon. And it's not like they they haven't figured out how to do it yet. Of course, we have speculated time and time again how we would copulate with such a creature only to no avail, but surely they must have a clue - I mean their parents got it right!
Finally, what's the deal with everyone looking aesthetically amazing. Every guy seems to be buff, loaded with six packs and a healthy pair of guns; and all the women are slender, slightly curvaceous creatures with a ample set of bussoms! I kept an eye out during that film and with all the mer-folk you encounter I saw one over weight mermaid - and to be fair, she was getting on a bit.
I begun theorising the possibilities of these social anomalies and at first I attributed it to steroids, but that would only answer the male part of this equation, so why is it all the women are so aesthetically pleasing? Then it occurred to me. The one answer I've been looking for my entire time of watching The Little Mermaid and it actually helps with my 3 main problems I have with the film as well.
Take a look at the land-walkers in that film: they are short and fat, skinny and tall, and more often than not, ugly. They sound funny but there are the exceptions and this is Prince Eric - prince charming himself. However, the exceptions down under is the overweight, aging mermaid I mentioned previously. Everyone's beautiful. There can only be - and is only - one answer to this...dumping.
The land-walkers have been dumping toxic waste into the sea for so long that these mutations have occurred. What happened? Who knows, maybe fish mixed with human DNA and over time wham! Mer-people! But the toxic waste dumping has had both a positive an negative effect.
Positives - it's left everyone beautiful: The men are buff and the women curvaceously awesome.
Negatives - People are no longer able to conceive. The dumping has either dramatically reduced and then killed male sperm count or it has effectively made the female eggs inhospitable. Also it made them slightly amnesic. Clearly the toxins affected their cerebral cortex in some way they've been left unable to remember names of things they learnt through word of mouth from the surface. Hence the reason Ariel can't remember what it is a fire does...oh that's right, burn. Poor girl.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, if there's one moral to be taken from this story it's that every action bears a consequence. Do you hear me? Dumping wastes into the ocean has an adverse affect on those creatures, whether they be mythical, whether they be animated...they're still being affected.
Stop the dumping. Heed my advice.

Life can be about campfires and marshmallows: A new perspective...

  It's true what they say, if you think that the world is - on the whole - a terrible and dangerous place, then you most definitely read too many newspapers and watch too much news on the TV.
  Sensationalism sells issues, rakes in viewers and betrays our minds on daily basis. What can you say about a world so resplendent; so unequivocally, so unabashedly beautiful when all the mass media want to do is trodden on it with disease-laden, formal-wear shoes.
  I'm not asking you to live in denial, to think that bad things only happen to other people. Of course they don't. Naivety of that standard will only serve to get you into trouble sooner or later. Yes, people are murdered both tactically and in cold blood; friends and family are lost to vicious diseases; famine sweeps and embraces the poorest parts of the world; natural disasters take lives sometimes without any warning; our daily actions are draining the earth of the natural resources it has taken millions upon millions of years to create. Whether these events, these actions, these consequences are within the grasp of our control or not, it is still not enough reason to live in fear.
Do football fans avoid going to matches for fear of being attacked by notourious hooligans; Do surfers avoid the sea for fear of being attacked by sharks; Do people avoid living on fault lines for fear of that one impending earthquake.
Of course they don't because all these events occur in their minorties. They are so miniscule in their occurences that they are not even worth thinking about.
  I urge you to look around, see the beauty of the world and envelope yourself in all the things that are good in this world.
I'm sitting here right now surrounded by half a dozen panoramic windows as I overlook one of the most stunning sights I have ever seen. I have the privilege of living in Queenstown in New Zealand. If you've been here before then you'll know that I'm greeted by the sight of the Remarkables Mountain Range (named as such because they are one of only 3 ranges in the world that run from north to south); the Wakatipu lake sits at the feet of these mountains, rippling delicately as they reflect the ever-dynamic colours of the sky; and rolling hillsides drenched in a coating of - what looks like - millions of Christmas trees. To top it all off, part of the sky looks like the cotton wool section in the chemist, only to be bizarrely contrasted with the other half looking like the sheets of a gunshot victim.
  Without sounding like an over-the-top environmentally friendly hippy or some brainwashed cult member I ask of you to cut down on watching the news and reading your papers. Yes, keep up to date on the goings on with the world, because ignorance isn't bliss, it's dangerous. But take some days to indulge in your world, rather than someone elses that happens to be filled with tragedy at that time. Take some time to enjoy what you have around you, whether it's a concrete jungle or a real life jungle. Our world is amazing and there are so many good things going on around them. Make some impulsive actions once in a while; don't get caught up in your 9-5 all the time; and more what's more important than anything else: enjoy your time with your friends and family. Life can be all about campfires and marshmallows, you just have to change your perspective.

On that note, for food tonight, I'm going to indulge in the local delicacy: Fish and Chips.
Fan-bloody-tastic!

What has the world come to?

  I realised how pathetic I am today. What can I do in comparison to a majority of the public? A lot, to be quite honest. I'm well educated, well traveled and I'm a very athletic person. I've had a 9-5 job; I've  been face to face with the poverty and hard times that inner city kids have to deal with in America; I've dealt with the elderly knocking at death's door forgetting if they even LIKE tea, let alone whether they want it with their meal; Using hand gestures alone I've taught foreign people - who can't understand a word of English - how to safely use extreme sports equipments; I've looked after animals day in, day out as they drop dead all around you or are sold on as temporary crutches to settle an irate child.
I've been to 4 out of the 6 continents in the world; I'm not as well traveled as I'd like to be, but I've seen more than my a lot of my friends, much more than my siblings, countless times more than my parents and my grand parents can't even grasp the distances I've traveled.
I've had a "dance-off" in a hip-hop location against a black guy who's jeans were slung low and his hat turned the wrong way around and still won; I've walked through Harlem at 3am where there were no other white people around; I've been in a fight and won convincingly; I've been in a fight and lost convincingly.
  I know what I've done with my life and it's not enough. Not yet. There's so much more I want to do. I've not even finished the start of living my life. But given all of this information I can still say outright, "I am pathetic."
It's not an issue of self esteem, or confidence, or a damaged ego. It's a matter of fact.
  I look at my ancestors, granted I don't have vivid documents to peruse, but due to what anthropologists have told me our predecessors were:
- Clothing themselves without clothes shops, factories, sewing machines...hell, they didn't even had a thread and needle.
- Hunting and feeding themselves without farmers, abattoirs or Macdonalds.

  This is just a couple of examples of the amazing things our so called "primitive" ancestors were doing...and I'm in total envy of their abilities. What happened to the natural man?
If our technology stopped working today, I'd be screwed. I don't have an ounce of survival knowledge. I wouldn't know what fungi, berries, plants are safe to eat.
And that's why I'm pathetic. I don't even know how to start - and successfully - keep a fire going. Matches, Lighters, Firelighters and all that jazz. My only job was to start a fire and keep the room warm. I don't know how many pieces of scrumpled-up paper and firelighters and matches I wasted just trying to get it going but I hit an all time low as the fire kept dying out.
  How I kept it lit at the end, I have no idea, but out of respect to my ancestors and - god forbid - just in case the world ends and I have to start a fire and I have lots of scrumpled up paper, firelighters and a box of matches to hand, then I endeavour to use the internet - not for pornography or watching people hurt themselves - but to find out the basics behind lighting a fire and keeping it burning.
  I'm pathetic, but at least I know it. And at least if I die because of my lack of "primitive" skills, then it'll be my own fault and not that of an ever depleting society who's inhabitants are growing more and more inept with every blog-posting, TV-watching minute that goes by.

Big Issue?

I talked to the homeless guy, who sells the 'Big Issue' in town, today and I said to him that it's quite ironic that the magazine is called 'Big Issue' when homelessness really isn't THAT big an issue.
He went off on some self righteous rant reeling off stats about how many people are homeless in UK, how many CHILDREN spend Christmas freezing cold, and maybe dying on the streets...alone.
I pleaded with him to look at it relatively, and to put it into contrast with AIDS, poverty, terrorism, and the potential threat of global warming and all of a sudden it becomes quite apparent that homeless people and homelessness as an "issue" in the world, is sort of like a slug on the street:

It's not nice to look at, they always seem to get in your way on a rainy day, but at least you can just walk around them and pretend they're not there.

For his arrogant rant i decided not to buy a "big issue" off him this week.

Welcome...

...to the world of tomorrow.
No idea why I wanted to start my blog off with a Futurama quote, but you can't go wrong.

Enjoy what's to come. If in fact, you do end up reading them at all.
Ahem.

MB