Tuesday, February 26, 2002

I need to do stuff. I really need to do stuff now. But I cannot do stuff- I am cowering in one corner of my life, rigid with fear. The knowledge that I have not done very much stuff and I need to do it NOW pins me down like a moth to cardboard, with stuffdoing forever just beyond my reach. I shall go forth and do STUFF presently.

I wonder if anyone's actually reading this?

Monday, February 25, 2002

Nope, the Grant Morrison thing was a false alarm. Some dipstick mucking about. Probably the guy that got kicked off the board, or one of his mates. If he has mates.
"What if it was all true...?"

This is a bit weird: I may have been involved in pissing off Grant Morrison. According to rumor, he's been posting here under the name "Mr. Insensitive", and apart from some pleasantly cryptic I-know-something-you-don't stuff about the new X-Men comics, he's lived up to it. I breifly entertained the suspicion that he was the total fucktard that recently had to be kicked off the board. Anyhow, he posted some pretty lame stuff, got some pretty frosty responses and has now deserted us.

I wonder if it's true? Sounds like a collossal windup to me, but y'never know. I really hope it's all been a hoax, not coz I'm a total fanboy who can't bear the thought of pissing off the man who gave us King Mob, but because... well, I like his comics, and I'd hate to think he was such a boring bloke in real life. Maybe it was all some out-there psychological experiment. Whatever. Just a little too soon after the whole Total Fucktard Experience for some of us, I suppose.

Today's story ideas:

1. Coat bought in thrift store is actually a primitive alien life-form that functions as a communications device.

2. Goth obsessed w/vampire pop culture becomes one and can't handle it.

3. People who reckon they've been born w/elf or dragon souls ("otherkin") are actually right. They've been put here to learn/teach- someone with a "dark elf" (will refine this to be less D&D-ish) soul becomes goodnatured and compassionate, while someone with a high elf soul can't let go of their old life and becomes more and more elitist and judgemental.

4. God is a memory from a previous stage of our evolution.

5. A meeting of disparate people in a cold room- they all look unhappy.

Today's mood:

Friday, February 22, 2002

"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake..."

You know what I need? I need a god complex. A big, fat, grandious, Messianistic, worship-me-I'm-brilliant, black-helicopters-were-circling-my-house-all-morning, more-revolutionary-than-thou god complex. I come into contact with so many fucktards who think they're some kind of wild, out-there maverick genius just because they haven't yet worked out the difference between offencive as in "fuck" and offencive as in n*****, or they've read a couple of conspiracy sites . I want a god complex so I can deal with these people.

Think I'm talking about you, specifically? That's because you're a self-absorbed string of pondweed, Mr/Ms MI5's Most Wanted! There are gajillions of bigheads just like you out there- just like you! Same giant, economy-sized ego, same "sense of humour" that's only stimulated by rape jokes, same tired old "let's put Superglue on the doorhandles of the headmaster's study" brand of "revolutionary" antics. Same shit, different shithead! Offended yet? Good! Because I HATE YOU!
"We Have Such Sights To Show You..."

I need more tattoos (and peircings). I do not have enough tattoos (or peircings)- in fact, I would go so far as to debate the possibility of my ever having enough tattoos (or peircings). Also I want four spherical implants in my left arm and a teardropshaped implant over my sternum, but those would be harder to come by.

My problem is purely financial, you understand. I cannot finance my ideal body. I was thinking of setting up a private site with a paypal account so people could contribute to my tattooedness, but I can't think of anything interesting enough that people would pay to see it, and I'm far too normal looking to make a good cam whore. I wonder if any reputable tattooists would let me take a webcam into their studios? Then I could charge people membership to my site, and when I had enough money they could all tune in and watch me getting some ferociously huge back-peice done. Filming the implants being done would be better yet. When I get my implants done it must and shall be webcast. Not because they will be particularly special, but just because somebody having bits of teflon inserted under their skin isn't something you see every day. Unless you are a professional teflon-bit-inserter, I suppose.

My cheesedoffness continues apace. It's like there's something hugely missing out of my life (to coin a phrase), and it's not a widescreen telly. The really annoying thing is that I know it's up to me to sort it out, and I don't know where to to start. The things that used get me going, get me fired up, they just don't do it anymore- they just seem like the same old thing now. What am I looking for; does it even exist? Who shot JR?

"Why are my desires so cryptic with darkness? And why do I no longer care?"

--Julian Myndfyre

Today's story idea: Woman living in house with daemons- money running out, will soon be evicted, doing nothing to forstall this. Daemons metaphor for lethargy, desair, "switching off".

Today's mood:

Thursday, February 21, 2002

"She may be the face..."

I want a full head cast done. Just to say I've had the experience. It sounds really screwed up and horrible: sitting there, unable to move for hours, while they slather plaster or whatever onto your Nivea-ed phiz. It'd be really easy to do me as well, coz I'm bald apart from one little love-lock at the back and I've no eyebrows.

I could do loads of stuff if I had a cast of my head. As it is, I'll just have to do small peices that I can stick in place with eyelash glue or summat. I want to make lots of little sticky things for my face. Borg-implant bits, rips, vegetation, that sort of thing. I want to work on my image more. Cute little eyeliner doodles are all well and good, but for serious impact you need serious PVA glue work.

I'm thinking about masks, the projects I want to do. I'm restrained a little by the fact that I have to wear glasses but I think I can get round that- I've got an old, fucked-up pair that I could incorporate into some sort of eyepeice.

It must and shall be done.

I'm going to add a new feature to my blog: "Today's story idea", which will do what it says on the tin.

Today's story idea: Nothing, really
Today's mood:

Coffee... need coffeeeeee....

Wednesday, February 20, 2002

The Price of Tomatoes Has Fluctuated Again

I was flicking through some sites last night / this morning, looking for photographs of the cast of Buffy naked and smothered in apricot jam, and lo, it was borne in upon me that for most sites, Gothic(k) = completely crap. Everyone and his suicidal underage girlfreind wants a website, but when they get one what do they do? Put it under wraps indefinately while they sit around looking for Anne Rice characters to name themselves after. Yahoo ran out of permutations of "Lestat" in 1998, when the number of digits that you'd need to stick on the end would no longer fit in the User ID box. (They'd have run out even sooner if more Goths could actually spell "Lestat" properly.) Riceans have been forced to unearth more and more abstruse pseudonyms. I'm thinking of starting my own internet company: LameVampiroidNames.com- we'll do the searching for you. Employing the sevices of two 17-year-olds called Louis98781 and Louis99521 to do the actual reading (let's face it, they'll never get proper jobs anyway so I can pay them under the minimum wage- hell, I could probably pay them in eyeliner) LameVampiroidNames.com would provide the discerning unimaginative dipstick with a suitable monniker... for a modest fee, natch.

It's a surefire success. However, I don't feel that the world really needs yet more web pages consisting of a dribbly red blood graphic,
some truly bad poetry typed in red on a black background, and a link to Sanguinarius.org. No, we don't need more Goths- we need better Goths!

Let's have a Goth retraining camp. Lock'em up for a couple of weeks and don't let them out till they've read a Patrick McGrath novel or two and can quote from more than one Baudelaire poem. Don't tell me I'm being unfair. You need the about same vocabulary for Suskind's Perfume as you need for Interveiw, you don't need to learn any scary new words.

They'd thank me for it one day. Let's face it, if your online persona is going to scream "effete trollop with delusions of intellectual superiority," you might as well be able to tell your clique from your cliche. N'est-ce pas, mes enfants?
What are you like?

Ah, shit. Remind me not to surf when I wake up in the wee small hours.

It shouldn't matter. It's all a long time ago, my life is immesureably different since I left this person, I've been in a relationship with someone else for the last, what, five years... but somehow it does. It does matter. Apart from the tiny weeny corner of my soul that still wants That Ex dead (with big fuckoff knives in), I honestly hoped That Ex'd be happy, or at least in a life with the potential for happiness. But nooooooo.....

I was mucking around with Google when I came across a website that looked familiar. After a moment or two I realized it belonged to That Ex. (You know the sort of thing I mean. Everyone's got a That Ex.) 'Course, a tiny little part of me was hoping that the site was being kept up as a memorial, That Ex having bought it in a messy RTA, but most of me is all venomed out where this person is concerned and was simply hoping that That Ex had moved on, learned from all the stuff that went down between us and generally sorted things out a bit.

Nope. In the intervening years, That Ex has learned exactly zilch. Same hackneyed philosophy that I thought was so mind-melting at first and which seemed less and less so as time wore on, same trite phrases being trotted out, same frankly fucked up attitudes rationalized in the same thin, tired way, same immaturity leaking through the cracks in the wise old facade. And I'm thinking, yeesh, have you changed at all since I knew you?

Oh. Yeah. You have.

You've bought a new shirt.

Today's mood: sorry, they don't seem to do a "horribly disappointed" emoticon.

Tuesday, February 19, 2002

Pseudodermis_tm.com: The Face of The Future

Been thinking today about skin: fake skin. I reckon that'll be the next big thing: breathable polymers that can be grafted to the human body. No more facelifts or skin peels or Botox shots, no more sunbeds or Jolene Creme Bleach, just a veneer of plastic laid over all the flaws. Hey, mum, can I have a new Laminated Barbie?

'Course, there'd be the usual unscrupulous clinics who'd ship you off to Poland and do a really crap job: shoot you full of narcotics, slap on the plastic, get rid of the air-bubbles with a hypodermic full of wallpaper paste before you woke up, then send you home looking just mahhhvelous... till the first time you take a long hot soak in the tub and your brand new Pseudodermis(tm) starts to lift off like when you leave your PVC jeans too close to the radiator. Then there's the effect of the trapped bathwater on your skin...

Girls as young as fourteen will attempt to improvise. The latest craze will be to have your mates over to wrap you in cling-film and turn on the hairdryer. Catching on swiftly, the company will rush to get its Home Pseud-Io Line onto the shelves despite doubts over safety. The first fatality will be a fourth-former named Chanel Nerys Bligh, of 23 Mountpleasant Drive, Margate. She will expire due to the inhalation of concentrated plasticizer fumes. Pseudodermis Ltd will express sympathy for the dead girl's family, but will not accept any liability. Sales will remain buoyant, and Chanel's mum will end her days chained to the security fence outside the Pseudodermis HQ; clutched in her withered hand, a placard made from a broom handle and a faded 8x10 photo of her dead child.

(Damn. I really should patent this fake skin stuff before somebody else does...)

Today's mood:

Sunday, February 17, 2002

This is your brain on paranoia, Part One (Well, my brain, really)

How come I didn't come across this[work warning + major minor alert, although why I'm still doing this I have no idea] a few hours ago? And to think I was worried....
Talking dirty

Have re-read terms of service, and in the absence of any definition of things like "vulgar" or "obscene", I've decided to go back and add a few strategic asterisks to be on the safe side. Also, I'm going to add work warnings and minor warnings to any sites I think need them. I hate censorship, and sort of resent having to do this, but I understand that the tribe of Blogger has to cover its collective ars- sorry, buns. And anyway it's only a few rude words, not the Magna Carta.


Later:- Having just completed said act of creative butchery, I went thru the Directory. Some guy with the f-word in his title. His actual title. I'm sulking now.

I also came across some prime examples of Why I Hate You, No Really, I Honestly Do Hate You.

Item: Weblogs with "blah, blah, blah," in the title.

I realise that this is supposed to suggest wry self-deprecation on the part of the diarist, but what it actually suggests is a complete lack of originality. You really had better be under the control of a demonic power, the age of 15, or the influence of mind-altering substances.

Item: Titles or descriptions featuring references to the supposed insanity of the diarist.

Either post evidence that you actually suffer from a genuine psychiatric illness or crawl back to the karaoke bar from whence you came, you sickeningly tedious person, you.

Item: Titles or descriptions which make much of the fact that the diarist is a woman, yeah? A W-O-M-A-N! With all, like, womanly glands and hormones and stuff. Bet you didn't expect THAT, huh? Huh? Well, get with the programme, wake up and smell the coffee, and take a reality check, mister, because the SISTERS ARE-"

Oh... do shut up.

Shopping and...

Went out shopping in Camden yesterday. God, that place gets on my pecs more and more. It's always heaving and everything's so wildly overpriced. I was looking to buy one of those hooded sweat shirts with an "evil inside" logo, but I'd have to remortgage my kidneys to afford one. Thirty quid for a sweatshirt. (Oh, well, seeing as how I can't get one off the market for a fiver and write something on it myself, you've got me over a barrel... hey, wait...)

Went up the TG last night, spur of the moment. Chocka. Took it pretty easy but had a good time anyhow, chatting, hanging around the lounge and watching the show. Didn't stay till the end, just till 3-ish.

(Ah, shit. This is going to turn into one of those teejus shopping-and-clubbing blogs if I'm not careful. Must... get... brain...)

"But he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke..."

I'm getting increasingly dissatisfied and cheesed off at things at the moment, my own lack of mental activity being the main source of cheesedoffness. Ever wake up and realise that someone's had all your best ideas first and that there is nothing left for you except to become another style-over-content muttonhead, spewing cheap, pseudo-intellectual guff from every orifice, hiding your vacuousity behind a screen of convoluted post-modernist "irony", examining the sociopolitical ramifications of What H Off Of Steps Said Last Wednesday, marooned on your little island of self-absorbed pontificating where everything that's important to you is political and yet nothing political is important, where taupe is the new ecru, where your personality is something you slip on with your new shoes and pop-culture is king?

Or is that just me?

"You great big beautiful doll..."

I really worry about things like this site. [work warning + completely unsuitable for minors], It was posted on my fave message board (ie, the one where I actually do more than lurk like a pervert) and mucho learned discussion is ensuing. It's heckofa creepy for sure, but there's something about it that tickles my sense of humour- especially the FAQs. Check this out:

"Q: What sort of people buy REALDOLL?

A: REALDOLL customers include futurists, artists, art collectors, film-makers, scientists, health professionals, housewives -- you name it. There simply isn't just one type of REALDOLL customer! We provide REALDOLLs to single men, couples seeking to enhance their s*x lives, people looking for exotic decorative art, adult retailers who want the ultimate display mannequin..."

So, not sad sacks who can't maintain a relationship with a real person, then.

"Q: Does the silicone flesh have a foul odor?

A: No. REALDOLL's silicone flesh is very nearly odorless. You can detect a very mild odor: a pleasant and fruit-like fragrance."

At this juncture I sprayed vodka'n'coke all over my keyboard.

"Q: What if I don't fit with RealDoll's... parts?"

Oh, wow! Oooh, you stud, you. So that's how come you need to bump the lala with a big pile of silicone in a bad wig- no mortal woman can handle your mighty, God-like proportions!

"Q: Can I use my REALDOLL as a pool toy?"


"Q: Do you have any rejects or used models I can buy for cheap?

A: No."

Damn, these guys are restrained. A more honest answer would be: "UUURGH! You rank swine! What the hell is WRONG with you? No wonder you're spending several thou. on a silicone toy- women won't come within ten miles of your house! Maybe if you scraped the grimy crust from your repellant carcass you might stand a chance. Yee-uch!"

Don't get me wrong: I'm into the whole "re-cycle by re-use" ethos. It's just that there's some things you don't buy second-hand....

I really hate you.

Today's mood:

Friday, February 15, 2002

Nothing to do, nothing to say...

Damn, I hate being bored. Boredom for me is an inescapable sign that I am being boring. I must DO stuff, and I must do it hard and fast and long! But what? Writey hat, writey hat, I need my writey hat!

I think I drink too much.

Today's mood:

Thursday, February 14, 2002

"Sleep no more, McCarnival...."

Goooood, insomnia is really starting to bite. Staying up 'til three surfing science and "weird" sites is sort of fun but now the fatigue hallucinations are starting up. I keep thinking I can hear stuff in my house; couldn't sleep last night because of all the odd little sounds my mind was throwing at me. Woke up this morning absolutely convinced that there were voices in the next room, and I thought I'd left the telly on all night. Nothing. Telly switched off, radio alarm ditto. I have got to learn to chill out...

Sleep Depravation = Techie Inspiration

On the plus side, I had an idea for my one-armed-person's can opener last night.

"Roses are red, violets are blue...."

Oh, and for those of you who are dribbling tears into your double-mocha hazelnut latte with cream, more cream, and extra syrup 'coz you didn't get no ickle red hearts in the post, here. I'll be your valentine. My love for you is as deep as the clingfilm wrapping on the cards you never got, as sweet as the cheap waxy crap that the confectionary industry laughingly calls "chocolate", as enduring as the pink tinfoil wrapped around a heartshaped peice of said cheap crap. Of course I don't know you and would probably hate you if I did, but hey. It's a valentine.

Knock yourself out.

Later that same day...

Hmm. This [Work + minor warning!] is nowhere as good as the haunted painting from a while back. It's damn sloppy work, if you ask me- far fetched and clumsy. The Haunted painting blurb was far more elegant, getting the point across by denying that anything weird had happened, whilst at the same time heavily implying that it had. Man, that still cracks me up. I wish I could get hold of a better image than the ones the sellers posted on ebay- it'd look great on my wall. Or a t-shirt. I can't believe that the only merchandising the "lucky buyer" has come up with is hugely expensive posh reproductions. If it was me, there'd be haunted painting shirts, haunted painting coffee mugs, haunted painting mouse-mats, haunted painting lunch-boxes, you name it. Cheap copies of The Hands Resist Him would hang in every sullen teenager's bedroom next to the knockoff Marilyn Manson posters and skull-print scarves. I'd be minted, mate- minted!

Today's mood:

Wednesday, February 13, 2002

A new and mighty force is now at large in cyberspace. Beware!

Sorted out an ezboard yesterday. Not sure what I'm going to do with it, but hey- it's there. Probably get flamed a couple of times by sad sacks wHo TyPe AlL tHEir PoStS LiKe ThIs and then forget about it. And I also knocked up a website over on Geocities. I have very little to put in that either, but I think that'll change. I really must screw my "functioning human being" head back on and get some proper bloody writing done.

Making the world a better place for amputees

My current project for Uni is as follows:

"to go around the house with your dominant hand behind your back and when you find that there is something you cannot do, that usually takes two hands, redesign the object so that it can be used with ONE hand only. Object of design must be mechanical - no electrical solutions permitted. Use functions analysis to come up with your design."

The engineering department is obsessed with designing gadgets for one-armed people. Not that I'm complaining, you understand. The world needs more automatic page-turners.

Today's mood:
Much yay.
Hokayyy, now for image fun:

YEEES. I did it! I am Godlike! I am like unto a god! WHoo! YAY ME! etc.

Now let's do some more...

The Swearing Buffy Keyboard

Gnnnn. I give up. Henceforth all links will be in plain text that can be cut'n'pasted into the browser.

Monday, February 11, 2002

You. You tell me how to make the links work. You've been to more school than me. And don't fucking tell me it's the icon of a world and a bit of chain. I see world. I see bit of chain. I interpret using Brain, The New Wonder Between-Ear Insulation Device. I go pointy and clicky and still my links are pale and flaccid. Fuck you . I hate you. And your freinds. Especially your really good freinds, the ones you lend clothes to and have known since you and they were 3.

I hate them most of all.
No. I shall not have links in my blog. In fact I have only just relocated said blog after the last Great Hard-drive Collapse, because I didn't have it bookmarked, hadn't written anything down, and couldn't remember what I was calling myself when I signed up. I could have given up and got a new one, but given my past history you just knooooow where that's going: blogdom would be littered with my forgotten usernames, my discarded selves. I would be the weblog equivalent of the Nameless One off of Planescape Torment. Or something. Fuck, I hate you.

No special reason. I just do.