Friends are awesome things. But you can totally have too many. I’d rather be a whore than have too many friends. While I’m pretty sure I screwed that up, I’ll continue my exposition. I find the more I try to juggle multiple friendships, the poorer the quality those friendships tend to become. Maybe I’m just awful at friendships, or maybe I place too high of a value on most friendships. Whatever the reason, I’m pretty sure it’s none of these. It’s totally because I choose completely decent and worthwhile friends (for the most part).

Then again, there are definitely awesome friendships I’ve been neglecting, even slightly abusing lately. That definitely needs to be rectified before it’s too late. However, friendships that you balance on the end of your finger, like those birds from National Geographic really aren’t the ones worth putting a crazy amount of effort in.

The thing is, most people prefer being whores, only giving over limited and superficial impressions of themselves to others, rather than keeping it real, honest and loving with a selected few that deserve and respect the love. I’m completely wrong for the most part, but this is how I see the world. I don’t relate to any other way of thinking. Why? For the most part, I don’t put the effort in. For some others, I’m just too narrow minded, or mostly, not narrow minded enough to be able to relate.

At the end of the day (and other clichés), it’s all personal and how we decide to deal with these things that makes the difference. So hey there, new friend. You’re awesome. But watch your step. One foot wrong and I’ll forget to put any effort in.

Kidding.

Maybe.

~fin

Wow! Talk about a long time between rides! No. Wait. I got that wrong. The cool thing about blogging/writing/conversing with oneself is that it’s just like fucking a bicycle. Wait. No. Damnit. What’s the reason behind this massive gap? Laziness. Clean, pure and simple laziness. Hang on, is laziness pure?

I bought a scarf on Friday. It’s ridiculously soft and warm. It’s Italian made (so am I, kinda. For all the good that does me), and was meant to be $70 ($70 for a scarf! What the hell?), but was only $45. But really, let us be honest. No one really comes here to read about my random and unexciting purchase of a scarf, however soft it may or may not be. No, it’s definitely my scathing remarks and alluring wit that encourage my readership (really, James?) to return. (Run. Run now!)

That said, as two of you know (out of four!) I’m totally into super-slutty chicks right now.

(As a genuine aside (for once) I’d like to draw your attention to Exhibit A.)

Exhibit A.

Did I mention that I love my friends? All of you, equally. Kinda. I swear!

So  yes, super-slutty (now with added hyphenation!) chicks. Why is this? I’ve no idea. Actually I do. I’m just not comfortable admitting them in a semi-public, somewhat anonymous forum. I like the fact, that at the moment, deep down, I’m a ridiculous red-blooded mammal (less mammaries) that’s for some reason ridiculously attracted to the super-slutty type of woman.

Inexplicably but rather predictably, I blame Facebook. I blame Facebook for bombarding me with images of various twice-met super-slutty women that seems to want to parade around wearing far less than would be legal in any self-respecting totalitarian Islamic nation. (Let the Jihad begin!) I blame Facebook for rousing a renewed interest in the aforementioned twice-met but not completely unmemorable random girls.

What brings me (us?) to be drawn to such a blatant advertising of of ones breeding potential? I’ve no idea. But the thought itself sounded just as equally thought provoking. Seriously now, are these chicks just massively promiscuous, or is there something more at play? Are we all at our cores (both genders of us) just simply driven by a more intrinsic instinct to mate?

I’d definitely like to think so. For tonight, anyway.

~fin.

I miss imagination. I mean proper, crazy, far out, in your face, holy crap I-totally-forgot-I-was-in-my-bedroom-and-this-really-isn’t-the-bridge-of-the-Enterprise imagination.

Sure, I still daydream. As I’m sure everyone else does too. But what I’m talking about is the type of imagination that would take you to a place that wasn’t your room. A place where my lounge room was Pokémon Stadium, my lounge room was a Dojo out of Dragon Ball Z, and walking down the hallway took me through the Stargate. (Anyone noticing a nerdy theme here?)

These were the days where you could get lost flipping the old lounge set upside down, and climb rocks, not moulded durafoam. Where I could roll up a piece of cardboard and have my own Lightsaber (my phone now proudly takes that place), and where the Nintendo 64 made me a real Pod-racer – not just some kid sitting on a beanbag with a shoddy game controller (albeit it amazing 64-bit graphics.)

Every now and then I’ll rekindle a bit of that. I’ll get lost in a TV series or a video game (Mass Effect, anyone?), but it’s never the same. You get wondering, thinking, wishing, missing, but you’re never there. You’re always still in bed or on the lounge, watching TV. It’s taken me ages to realise (yes, with an “s”, thank you, Word) this but that’s OK. It’s alright that I’m not that kid anymore.

Sure, they were simpler times, but they weren’t as interesting. While I don’t get completely lost in absorbed in other worlds anymore, I get completely lost in mine. I’m the architect of these things, and while it’s not Enterprise, it’s still a nice place to escape to. It’s just not what it was, and that’s what I miss most.

Yeah, this isn’t the crazy rant about inbreeding rednecks, or a huge philosophical discussion (does anyone really give a shit about them anyway?). But what it is, is something that we’ve all gone/are going through. We all miss being ten years old, screaming down that hill on our bikes, helmet barely strapped on, knowing that we’re invincible. Knowing that it’s not the hill we’re screaming down, but a side of a volcano, and that Mum running behind us to catch up isn’t really mum, it’s a pterodactyl. We all know that the times, they are a-changin’, but we also know that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Imagination is an awesome and powerful tool, one that’s often overlooked in favour of rational and conventional thinking. (Pterodactyls anyone?) Do yourself a favour, cast away all that conventional and normal nonsense and be that kid screaming down the side of a volcano. Remember what it’s like to get lost in a world of your own. Don’t recreate it, don’t wish it was the way it used to be. Just roll with it and see where your mind takes you. See what happens and where you travel to. What changes, what stays the same, and what you can come up with.

I wrote this with no music, for once. It was nice to get lost in my own little world.

~fin

People shouldn’t be allowed to have children without passing a test. Sure, this is old news. But really, I’m trying to propose something new. Not a old fashioned pen and paper test. Not even one of those ridiculously useless touch screen multiple choice nonsense things. No. I’m talking about genetic testing.

I honestly believe this is a reasonable method of concluding if people are eligible to have children. Oh look, you’ve got the genes of an orangutan (and some swine), and you’re obviously a Meth addict. Shit, I don’t think I’ll be allowing you to procreate. Time for some snipping and harvesting (of eggs). People are more concerned about means testing maternity payments than they are means testing parenting skills. Not only should we screen for the endless genetically repressed cretins that make up the vast majority of society today, but we should enforce good old fashioned common sense testing.

Scenario 1: A man is on fire. Do you:

A) Throw water on him?

B) Throw more vodka on him (you hopeless drunk imbecile)

C) Drop and roll

The answer quite obviously is “B”. Bogans, Rednecks, Hillbillies and the like should be discouraged not only from inter-breeding, but from breeding/mating/sexing in general. I’m would never go so far as to endorse or encourage genocide. That’s just wrong. We need to give these guys more petrol, more rubber, less airbags and safety label and hope and pray that the genetic code takes care of itself.

Natural selection is so successful for a reason. If you can’t understand on your own accord that hairdryers and baths do not mix, then frankly, you not only don’t deserve your right to a daily bath and  conveniently dry hair, but you also forfeit your right to the whole “breathing” thing.

In conclusion, children are for people who have the decency to not be a burden to society. If you don’t fit into this category, you don’t deserve children. Nor can you handle being responsible for another human life, let alone your own.

~fin

Star Trek is an amazing movie (#startrek) and I’ll have nothing negative said about it in the comments, so help you God.

Meaning is a wonderful thing to have in life. Many of us go to work, come home, sleep, go to work, come home, sleep, wash, rinse and repeat. A very close friend of mine (you all know this), recently became a Police Man. (How very proper of me.)

He fits the mold (mould?) perfectly. Genuine of heart, kind of spirit, and round in waistline. While terribly nervous, he’s damn excited about getting “out there” and “doing good” and all that Jazz.

(Speaking of, I’d love some good instrumental Jazz. Feel free to recommend galore.)

The point is, he’s doing amazing things with his life. Sure, I’m still stuck in the “I wish I was Captain Picard” phase of my life, I thought I’d be doing something more with myself.

I don’t mean to say I’m meant for greater things, I mean to say I want to be/do greater things. Is it a matter of simply under appreciating where I am at the moment in life? Probably. But by the same token, where would I be if I wasn’t here?

I guess this is something that’s needed getting out on paper for a long time. Something that’s been breeding a greater general discontent within myself for some time now. Then again, it wont make much difference.

I’ll bumble along – for now. Apparently I’ve more lives than a cat. I’ll see how that works out for me.

And now, for something different:

Zach: Does your [redacted] power brick get hot?

James: Not as hot as I get for you.

Sure, it was a cheap shot. But he’s been asking for it (in more ways than one) for a very long time. I’d genuinely love to get hot for Zach; nothing would make him happier. It’s something I’ll have to work on, to make me a “better” person.

Today’s semi-meaningful blog entry was brought to you by a five day old headache, Microsoft Word 2008 Notebook Layout View, Star Trek XI OST and a very, very full bladder.

Next blog entry; a (humourous) rant on something random.

~fin

Apparently so.

A close friend said to me the other day, “People are always so surprised when they find out I haven’t had sex.” “Not so!” I replied.

You see, this makes little difference to me. In fact, oddly enough, I prefer it this way. While he might desperately mate with another person (he also might not), I see this as a remarkable opportunity. As a young gentleman I had the pleasure of losing my virginity (oh no!) to someone (in hindsight) I didn’t really care much about.

And it’s a theme that’s (so far) following me through life. (For the most part.)

Granted, preciously holding ones virginity (eBay, anyone?) is a ridiculous concept. Why Men (an women?) get so much bragging power out of taking and losing their virginity (I need to break out the Thesaurus) I’ll never quite understand. (Sure I understand it, I just don’t quite relate to the concept.)

This friend of mine, he is a wonderful person. One of those “wouldn’t harm a fly” types. Why then, does (the vast majority) of society find the fact that he’s not boned a single person at his age (ed note: age redacted) remarkable and *gasp!* worthy?

Is it more shocking that he hasn’t had sex? Or is it more the fact that we’ve been subtly brainwashed to value his virginity, and virginity in general so highly that we’re surprised (and somewhat awestruck) that he’s remained so “pristine” for so long?

I (of course) think it’s the latter. Sure, everyone these days are boinking like Rabbits. But it’s more that fact that he’s not that we (we being society as a generalised whole) find surprising.

This friend of mine (bless his cotton socks) gets on fine, penis and virginity intact. And for the most part, the people that read this it wont apply to, it’s the general perceptions I’m commenting on here.

For me, I see this as a huge awakening. Where and who I was four years ago and what I am now (in this regard) are completely different. I still see the value, but I see it as less of an issue. Sure, I can say all this from the other side. But hindsight is always 20/20.

To end, a Haiku:

Clothes thrown to the floor,

Minds thwart of judgement,

Why did I do this again?

~fin

(Fuck off, Helvetica.)

Whilst deciding what to write this evening, I’ve realised that I’ve placed a ridiculous amount of pressure on myself. Reactions from “Début” (god, I’m pretentious) were positive, for the most part. But it’s those reactions that have me feeling pressure to follow up with something equally as amusing.

This got me thinking, and blogging (naturally), that the pressure of repeating a good performance, far outweighs the pressure of putting on the good performance in the first place.

I could elaborate on this further, but that kind of defeats the purpose of a thought provoking piece of literature. One could argue that if you can’t handle the pressure, you shouldn’t be doing “whatever” anyway. The flip side, how pressure and an over-abundance of destroys people. Good times.

I’ve tried writing thus far without music. It’s not working.

Escapism is a theme I’ve been perpetually interested in. TV isn’t so much relaxing is that it is getting lost in an entirely different world. But again, lets be honest, none of this is really new to anyone.

(How is it that the Red Hot Chilli Peppers get to sing “Ning nang nong” et al. in their songs, and get away with it?)

I’ve a dream to write something truly escapist. Something that some of you will get so lost in, you’ll forget the world is out there, miss busses, forget life and just escape.

(Itallics are the whores of the font stylising world.)

Most of all though, I just want to write something that I can get lost in. That’s a dream worth pursuing. Effort is such a difficult thing to give (and really, who can be bothered?)

All in all though, I think the pressure got to me. Performance anxiety? Forced blogging? Call it what you will. I failed, for the most part.

~fin

(And for the record, Computer (noun), “realised” etc, is always spelt with an “s” and not a “z”(zed, not zee)).

It was upon the gracious and wise advice of a great friend(s) (Clare, Ryan, Zach (alphabetical order (read nothing into this))), that I decided to “blog”.

Every bitch and his dog these days has a blog. How will I differentiate mine? I wont, bastards.

I like paragraphs.

So it’s only as I sit here, listening to Smashmouth (eggnog-less) that I’ve come recognise I really do need to force myself into these things.

(For some reason, I have it in my mind that Smashmouth requires eggnog, despite never trying the stuff). Furthermore, it’s amazing how my creativity just died the minute I turned the music off. (Self editing is an amazing feature). It’s probably a little pathetic that productive thought patterns tend to rely so heavily on the influence of background noise. For me, at least.

On a similar note, I’m slowly becoming convinced Ryan is gently kissing my ass, subtly and continually for the added and extended use of my SLR. Message to Ryan; Keep going buddy. Feels nice.

(That wasn’t really similar at all, was it?) (I will not type in Helvetica. Be gone).

I refuse to make plans for this, because really, that holds me accountable, doesn’t it now? Fat chance of that. Also, I plan to follow this up immediately with a second post. Because there is nothing like over-using a brand new toy.

~fin