This, too

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...sorry for the clipshow; have no fears, we've got stories for years...

I have gone [no idea] days without having a drink, and I'm really starting to hate milk, water, orange juice, and ribena (but not tea), now.
That was true, but then it stopped being true. Now I am finding that I can't get drunk... but I bet that I get a hangover. I said, hey, we ought to meet up for a pint after lunch, and my friend said, hey, well it's almost four PM, and I said oh, or some such, and resolved to fix my pocketwatch. But I won't.

"I have no fucking clue what that is... unless it's a place for German lesbian clones to meet up for a drink"
"No, it's a food item."
"Oh. Then i don't know why they'd call it a klondike bar"

Some days, I say a lot of things.

Heh, my dad stayed in the same hotel as the Australian cricket team, the other day, and, "spoke to one of them!" who told him something to do with his toast being ready. Of course he's now claiming to have spiked their coffee, or something, I gather, thus explaining England's bizarre winning-against-Australia gag.

"Okay, that's it, I'm going on a global booze tour. And I'm going to topple a few especially unfavourable governments on the way. I wonder what the booze is like in Bulawayo."

I want this

"Because no one can be awkward when they're cuddling!"
"Youuu've obviously never met an Englishman."
"Hahahaha"

I think that I could do with a bedside lamp. On the rare occasion of my creating an original thought, I can usually be found lying in bed in a less than quickly succesful attempt to fall asleep. I expect that's not too unusual, eh? But I'll be fucked if I can be arsed getting up and turning on a light in order to write anything down before I forget it. I suppose I'd need a bedside table, first. I've just got a bedside upturned cardboard box, at the moment.
Thank you, I am a classy guy.

Lost my chain of thought. Perhaps the lamp/table writing arrangement wouldn't be that much use, really.

I am, I think, lonelier than ever. Not feeling like much is worth doing, you know. I hardly even want to go away, anymore. It maybe feels a bit like everyone good is old enough to almost be done having fun, and I have missed out somehow. That's no good, and doesn't really make sense, but there's a difference between thinking and feeling, eh?

What have I done, of late?
Drunk a few times, and thrown-up, passed-out, and woken-up hung-over every fecking time. Damn you, teens, come back with my vodka-proof...ness.

I have hyphenated a lot of shit.

I have intended to get into the use of my shiny new digital camera, but, as it turns out, I'm pretty lazy, and little progress has been made. I thought about taking some pictures down the lane where I went to pre-school, because, hey, eighties nostalgia. But it was pissing down, and I was standing about in a badly torn jumper, with a carrier bag full of cheap vodka, waving a camera about, and school was letting out, and young mothers were giving me less than approving looks as I smiled at their children, and I thought better of commiting the occasion to digital memory. I tried, today, to take a picture of the Red Arrows as they flew right over my head, but I tried to make it so their diamond formation was coming out of my head, and missed the whole thing. All or nothing, for me. Or something. Heh.

I've read, but not nearly enough. In the process, I have noted a disproportionately high incidence of Hippolytes in my reads. Well, okay, the name's come up in two seemingly unrelated books, but that beats... Pangloss, or... uhm... Moonface and Saucepan.

Then it has been pointless conversation, by and large. Dr.Who has come up, a lot. I've chipped-in with my estimation of the Japanese people ("I choose to view them wholly as a composite of Kazu Makino and Gojira. Atomic lizards with short skirts and pretty voices. And woe betide anyone who challenges my preconceptions!")

"I wish I was black."
-My sunburned brother.

...Do they still make spearmint Polos?

7:48 a.m. - 2005-06-26

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