Ow ow owwwww.

This isn't writer's block - it's just procrastination, and intense sadness.

I'm Sirius

I mean it. I can't have you sitting in your room reading and not getting things I post.

Searing regret

From whence the imagination plumed

Lost inside a dripping cave

To the deep, deep trenches

So poorly exhumed

With a smiling face I did not bear,

To the the deep, weeping chasms of fear

And towering despair

I'm targeting a new audience of intellectuals. I'm sorry, but you'll all have to move on. All of you.

Nostalgic

Oh, right. I got a haircut yesterday, and the hairdresser felt it necessary, after having finished cutting the hair on my head, to quickly trim some of the hair on my back. I don't know if this is common, but it did happen to me and I don't know what to do now. I felt somewhat appreciative of the act and the casual intimacy of a friendly stranger, a friendly stranger who thought it a good idea to extend her job description to an alternative part of my body. At the same time, I thought it was noteworthy enough in it's unexpectedness to be written into a blog post. But why, dammit? Why did she do it? I didn't interview her afterwards about it, but I should've done.

Perhaps she just likes shaving hair of any kind? Her house may be filled with formerly furry animals, with some in a kind of trans-hairiness state while she waits long enough so she can feel satisfied when she shaves off their furry body hair. Shawn dogs and cats and hamsters and bumble bees everywhere, weeping and licking each others animal bottoms.

What if she just did it to spite me? I did mention that I was concerning about the thinning of some of my head hair, and she may have decided that to dissuade some chance of a hair transplantation from my upper back to my head from happening, that she should shave some of it off. This idea is weird and I think it was an odd decision to make on her part. The hair on my back isn't nearly long enough to be transplanted and formed into any useful or cool hairstyle.

Anyway, I spoke to Jesus about it and he advised me to keep it to myself in an especially secretive way where nobody would ever read about it, like on my blog. Then we exchanged contact details and texted back and forth for a while, but we're not very good friends anymore.

J

Doubting

There is no more news on our previous story. People don't care about the real issues, apparently. John Lennon is dead.

Pyjamas. Pyjamas are great. I wear pyjamas all the time, because they're comfortable. They're like wearing soft air. Air that just likes touching gently in weird and convenient places. They're insulating and touching me in places right now.

Caress not my feet, pyjamas bottoms, for that would decrease my mobility. Do not extend past my waist, for that would make me look like an idiot.

Thanks, pyjamas.

Stressed

Ok, so I was wrong about Richard Herring. But, have you been keeping your eye on the late John Lennon? His movements may have been minimal since December 8th 1980 - I'll grant you that - but did you know that he once took part in an orgy comprising three bears (of gradual increasing size), a dormouse, two same-sex pigs and a sunflower? The sunflower is thought to have been involved because it looked really sad and floppy, sort of like a disappointed penis.

News to come.

Mournful

Richard Herring is dead.

It's complicated

Richard Herring is a covert salmon masking himself as a herring disguised as a human in the form of a border collie named Richard Herring. Surname and beard notwithstanding, his elaborate ploy has so far been very convincing and worryingly progressive. His plan to produce, capture and grow Stephen Fry's tears has, as of now, failed, but he did come quite close.

Updates on this breaking news story coming soon.

Bemused

I'm going to re-post an older post of mine that you may have forgotten and then give it a grading at the end. Here:

" Tuesday is a New Day 

 It was a fine day in Cranbrook on that fateful day of Tuesday. Tuesday, being neither mid-week nor the beginning, is probably the most unremarkable day of the week. Granted, it never tried to be remarkable, on account of it having no consciousness, but then it should've thought of that.

It was earlier that I'd decided that going to the seaside would be a grand escapade, worthy of a day-out for any young male who wanted a breath of fresh air from the claustrophobia of modern town life. My arm swung violently outside the door of the Volkswagen Polo in a care-free and boyish fashion, as if I were one of those young teenage American's in the 60's, that they have in movies sometimes. Driving through sun drenched suburban streets, with a wink and a smile at passing pedestrians. I didn't have the slick gelled hair, or the Ford Mustang, or the right time period, but the spirit was there.

"You there." I sniped at a passing brute with the burgeoning gut of an over inflated balloon.
"What's up, mate?"
"I wish to know the location of the sea from my current coordinates."
"Well.. You need to go to the coast then. It's about 50 miles to the nearest beach from here."
"May you confirm that I am now in Cranbrook?"
"Well, yeah, of course you are."

What had happened? How could this be? I was land-locked. But my knowledge of English geography was of course, infallible. It appeared that in this time of immigration which is so often the topic of choice for middle aged jean wearing presenters of Top Gear, that Cranbrook had changed it's location. Perhaps it had done so in an effort to escape political persecution, or possibly because it was scared of water, or France. For whatever reason it was, I threw my leftover Subway sandwich at the man in an attempt to appease any feelings of hunger he may of had towards me, and made my escape. Onward, was the only way forward, as an intellectual might say.

50 miles east? No, too ethnic. 50 miles west? Too cold. So I'd heard. How about North? Too many hills. South it would be. South I would travel, as if gently maneuvering my way down Great Britannia's shapely and alluring figure, eventually reaching a promised dip into fertile waters. How could she resist me?

To be Continued.  "

F

I can do this more depending on the level of response this gets.

Amused

Does music stimulate creativity? Perhaps. Probably, actually. Actually, definitely. Lost me there? That's okay.

What do I write about now? I said I'd write more and I'm sticking to it so far. Three posts have been posted in total (including this one). Three is a lot. Three is a lot when compared to one. I'm not sure to write about, though, so I'm going to continue this self-referential indulgence until something better comes. I'm exercising my fingers here, at least.

Anyone know what a vole looks like?

Weary

Anyone know what a jib is? I need to cut it for popularity's sake.

Thanks,

J

Eat my loins.

2 years? Time for a new blog post.

So, since then, a fair amount of stuff has happened. Things like - but not limited to - eating, washing, talking occasionally, working and shitting. The latter activity having been performed to differing strenuous and smelly degrees.

Today. This day of days. What possible event could have spurred me to write something? I'm always considering writing. I always think, "Oh, I'd like to do that. That would be good." And then I don't do it. Why should I? It's only something I want to do for numerous fulfilling and enriching reasons. I have pages of websites that regularly update and I need to check them. I need to check them, then leave the page, and then reload the page when I can't think of something to do within 3 seconds. I could quite easily end up spending that vacant time pondering something meaningful, and God knows, the fucking bastard, we don't want that to happen.

Yeah, just sit there, you wretched little nincompoop. I'll get you. I'll wrangle your jollys. That's what I'll do.

You like your jollys, don't you? Me too.

Signing off until 2016. You complete berk.