I hate hippos.

Irrelevant thoughts I had the other day.

I was sitting in bed on Sunday afternoon thinking about something. It was freezing cold, somewhere outside in the dark of east london a kid or a firework screamed. I was thinking about how when I was a kid I used to see every object as alive. Mostly toys but sometimes other arbitrary things that I used often enough to develop some kind of imagined rapport, pillows,VHS tapes, toothbrushes. This presented many moral puzzles in my kiddy mind of good and evil. I felt guilt for neglecting one object over another. In my head I'd be apologizing each night to the pillow that never got used because it was ugly. Packing away my toys would feel sinister. They'd be all squashed together and I'd have to put the giant wooden lid of my toy box over their soft faces. Black button eyes turned upwards without expression as I closed out the light. I'd feel their stuffed faces under the pressure of my hands as I closed the box on them. As far as I was concerned it might as well have been a box full of babies. I was wondering what I'd be like today if this "condition" had continued into adult life. If I still thought this way it'd be quite problematic.

I come from outer space, created in the heart of a star.

I may be a little obsessed with these epic space documentaries.



Watch Programme 1: Star Stuff in How to Videos  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Tiffany Bozic!

What is that your business

What a dick.

Few things annoy me more than this guy, yet he makes me feel better about not finishing my degree. If you're stupid to begin with it seems university only gives you the confidence and surface value credibility to fully believe your own bullshit and encourages you into thinking your flawed ideas are interesting. Most dangerously of all - it seems to give you a platform to impart your nonsense to a wider, equally moronic audience who lack the exclusive credibility you gained by smoking, drinking and fucking your way through at least 3 years of an expensive arts course about obscure crap the likes of which you'll hear bantered about at dinner parties amongst witless middle class twits (who don't believe they're middle class because they shop at tesco's and have a regional accent).

I don't disagree with the merits of tertiary education at all, however I did leave with the foul-tasting impression that it was too fucking easy, that it is simply the preserve of aimless wealthy kids looking to dodge "real-life" for another few years. I'm talking about the arts faculty specifically here.

Anyway, if a kid can't learn to spell, that kid is a fucking moron. Everyone makes spelling mistakes, I very seldom see perfect grammar in anything that hasn't been conscientiously edited. But for fucks sake try. Or is that for fuck's sake?

I liked this bit:

"Professor Wells also said it was time to dispel the idea that correct spelling was a mark of being educated."

Its also appears that the time has come to dispel the idea that the title "Professor" is a 'mark of being educated'. Cunt.

'It seems highly likely that one of the reasons Britain and other Englishspeaking* countries have problems with literacy is because of our spelling and the burden it places on children."

Britain has a problem with literacy because children here are allowed to be stupid as a result of people like this going around saying that learning something so basic as SPELLING is a "burden". And kids here ARE stupid, observe:













And finally:



Oh I don't know...you're all illiterate...?




*I reckon this should be hyphenated .

Peculiar Compliment

"Stop smiling or you'll murder someone!"

I've always suspected that murder might come from a part of me but I never guessed it was my smile.

PLAY!

What's on the telly!

I walk into a room. There's a television. On the screen a woman is crying, her face all creased and wet and the ink in her eyes dripping. She's saying something vague about life. She appears to be at a turning point and the camera is there to witness the revelation. The shot cuts but her voice continues weak and relentless. The next shot is of her again, a wider shot, a different time and place. The eye of the camera is at her back as she shuffles through a department store. She's wearing a skull cap with wires attached to a box that looks like a car battery at her waist and a gaudy waistcoat. She grabs at clothes, every item spasms with colour as she lurches amongst the racks. The wires move oddly atop her head, responding to her irregular gait. Like branches. The shot cuts again. Her voice has stopped but I hadn't noticed, I notice now as a it is replaced by a more demanding intrusive one. Assertive, this voice asserts itself. Graphs appear; a parade of science. A line representing her brain activity, like earth quakes. The shot cuts back to her face, a daughter is resting a supportive hand on one sloped shoulder. The daughter looks like her mother but younger, but only just. The daughter watches her crumpled dishwater mother weep and smiles because at least now she's realized. What an awful waste of space she has let herself become. The camera cuts back to her lost amongst the racks of clothes, the skull cap apparatus, the bewildered face.

HOT.

Hello.

nice.

McCARTHY.

"The following evening as they rode up onto the western rim they lost one of the mules. It went skittering off down the canyon wall with the contents of the panniers exploding soundlessly in the hot dry air and it fell through sunlight and through shade, turning in that lonely void until it fell from sight into a sink of cold blue space that absolved it forever of memory in the mind of any living thing that was."

oh yes. McCarthy.

Make me a non-human.

today I want run. i want to run so that my heart pounds louder than traffic. I want sweat to run over me like water over sheer rock. I want to run as if being chased, like a dog. But my body is flawed. My breath would seize in my chest like a fist around my heart. My bones would stick and jar. Someone needs to take my bones apart, smooth them down and put them back together again. So I could run and keep running away. From my own boring thoughts .

"Elliot Smithing"

Elliot Smith has been verbed.

Definition: listening to the music of Elliot Smith while attempting to fold the body in half in order to suppress a stress related tummy ache, can include crying but not necessarily. Person will usually remain motionless in this position even once the music of Elliot Smith has ceased.

For example: I spent the afternoon Elliot Smithing because my cat died.

Stuart Helps.

I said I felt like shit and Stuart said:

Oh dear.
>
> Q. Why shouldn't you wear Russian underpants?
>
> A. Chernobyl fallout.
>
>
> Feeling better?

Peaks and Troughs and Class Hatred.

I'm very much in a trough at the moment. My kitty went missing for a week, we found her on Saturday locked in a neighbours basement. I could hear her plaintive cries and soon became inwardly hysterical, the feeling a little like -I imagine -a new mother gets when she hears her baby's first gurgling screams. But cats are, for the moment, the extent of my mothering instincts. The family weren't home and we could only assume they were on holiday and my poor kitty was starved and dehydrated in that cold basement. So we broke the window, pushing at it tentatively until it cracked so the pane of glass resembled territories on a map. Kitty felt lighter when we got her out but seemed fine and a little ungrateful, we thought. But she did spend some time meowing at us with fierce affection and pushing her head under our hands, so I guess its ok. The neighbours returned the following morning. I feel an intense resentment towards these neighbours, which I guess isn't fair. Something to do with them having a basement in which to hoard crap, which is the same area we live in adjacent to them. A basement. We live in a basement, with carpets and a kitchen. They have this space just to keep the things they don't need. And to trap cats in. Something about paying these cunts 150 quid for an emergency call out to fix a window to a basement that has bars on. Something about that woman's self-rightousness, and her clipped middle class manner of speaking. Something about her gormless kids sitting in the back of their people carrier.

Just makes me angry.

fred.

what i did today.

I can hear fat people breathing.

I can hear it louder than trains and it irks me. It bothers me an unhealthy amount.

I went to South Africa for 2 weeks. My skin is patchy and sunburnt, I feel weathered and healthy. I climbed mountains and rode horses across beaches with toothpaste white sand and listerene blue water. Thats what those colours made me think of. Teeth.

Now I'm back at work, in front of my screen which hums and waits with answers and dead ends. I feel I can't adapt to London and its cold and dirt, to 2008 and to this screen in front of me.