This, too ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Not enough hours in the night When I was little I dreamed of Cerebus and a demonic bull, and when I was older I dreamed in sepia of cobbled streets under enemy airships and with jazzy Parisian girls with their hair up, and now I dream of walking until I die and of seeing people drown and of being stabbed and I do not care for it, and it seems that these dreams would have better suited a depressed teenager. I was stabbed again in last night's dreams. I have to stop helping imaginary people. A while ago, week? Weeks? I was making notes on an update that never came. Said notes include names, such as Mwanawasa and Chiluba, so I assume that I was going to write something about Zambia, and was probably drunk. Visa, too, though that's not a name. Maybe I was suggesting that we all go to Zambia and... uhm... steal some copper? I don't know what else there is to do, there. Look at a waterfall, maybe. Then I scribbled that, I am drunk and, really, I want a nicer ale and a nicest girl and sleeps and hugs and possibly one of those decongestant nasal spray things and some conversation that has nothing to do with the world pissing cup, on which I have given-up since it became clear that Serbia and Montenegro aren't going to qualify, and the Czech Republic don't want to (I can't even get anyone to talk about the cricket) much of which is now out-of-date, some of which is not, so much. It seems that I wanted to see a Slav lift the world cup, though I couldn't say why. Oh, I know that this wasn't to what the note, visa was in reference, but I have busied myself with something besides sweating, dreaming, and drinking... that being the rendering unto Her Maj's Aussie government an application, on my own behalf, for a visa. And, more to the point, the buggers have gone and granted it, and Imma throw away some things and move to Australia. Some of you got that, already, but I just thought that I'd say. So that's something. I shall go a year without seeing winter, so it seems. Ick. Mum has taken to forwarding E-mails of the sort that us younger types all endured six or seven years ago. The last one contained a test that told me I totally have the making of a psychopath. To be honest, I can no longer remember what constitutes the specific nature of a psycopath, but it's an E-mail meme type thing, I have to take it to heart, right? Ah well, she's happy. And, just the other week she got to intervene against a French student teacher who flipped out, causing the national media to claim that a foreigner had threatened to shoot our dear children. Which wasn't true, incase you heard that story and were wondering. Which you didn't/weren't. The gun mentioned in some stories, it seems, was actually a menacing bag of sweets, and the barricade was a [nothing]. Mhm. I don't know about psychotic, but, to-day, sweating from the heat and bored by the football, I went for a walk, intending to buy an icecream and some specific beer that I knew to be cheap. They'd run out of the icecream dealy that I wanted, and the particular beer wasn't on offer anymore, either. I don't know how long I dithered once my plan was interrupted, but, when I finally left, I found myself sweating ten times more than previous, and actually cooled down on the walk home. I then realised that I'd no idea what I'd ultimately bought, or what exactly had happened. Now I think that I may be autistic. I'm running out of places to go in which I haven't offended the sensibilities of a resident. I don't much seem to care, anymore, and may as well just ruin the rest, eh. My tea intake is dangerously low. I am already struggling with the heat, and lacking energy. This does not bode terribly well. Perhaps a year will get me used to it. 4:26 a.m. - 2006-07-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||