I'm Outta Here

I'm moving my blog to Blurty. It's more community based. And heck I like talking to people so it's not a hard decision to make.

Keep in touch here.

In the words of Homer J. Simpson:

"Outta my way, jerkass!"

Later

My teeth are great. Mr. Driller couldn't find anything wrong with them. Regular brushing and plenty of fruit is worth it if it negates the need for painful dental work. Hurrah!

Played Mario for most of the day. I was in the zone, finding secret levels and secret areas and bonus levels inside secret areas. I was smokin'. Really.

Has it been a year already?

I have an appointment with the dentist tomorrow. Needless to say there was some fairly frantic brushing happening this morning. I reckon I'm pretty safe though. I don't think I have any teeth that don't already have a filling. Plus my teeth aren't giving me any pain. Wish I could say the same about the rest of my body. The Audioslave gig has left me crippled. While playing Mario on my Game Boy for hours on end has left my eyes buggered and my hands fucked. No more videogames until the pain subsides. Seriously.

I'm still writing my story. I'm past the 2,500 word mark. It needs a lot of polishing but I want to have the basic story down first. Fun

Anyway I have to go to work. Bah. I'm only working weekends at the moment. Which would be great. If I was in college. 10 hours a week? It's like being an Arts student all over again. I don't want to complain too much as I'm secretly delighted. I have a job that gives me loads of days off to be lazy. It's feckin' great.

Must practice my Simpsons quotes for the dentist:

"How often do you brush your teeth, Ralphie?"
"Three times a day, sir."
"LIAR!"

"We call this happy little fellow the Gouger."

"Let's have a look at the Big Book of British Smiles, shall we?"

Brilliant.

Lonely City

I just heard from Naomi via email. She sounds pretty homesick and she's not sure whether to pack it in and come back or stick it out for a few more months. I don't know what she should do, but I hope that she chooses what she thinks is best and doesn't worry about what anyone else thinks. I think that she's very brave for flying off to America and trying something new.

In short, when one of my friends is sad, I am sad.

Ssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…be very quiet. Just in from the Audioslave gig. My throat is sore from shouting along. My ankles hurt from jumping. I have bruises in odd places and I’m covered in sweat. Most of it isn’t even mine.

In short, a great concert.

And I have to say, Chris Cornell is one sexy man. I hope that when I’m a recovering alcoholic, I look half as good as he does. Damn, he’s a fox.

It was weird. Loads of people were taking pictures with their cameras and phones. Even Chris whipped out a tape recorder and told us to shout as loud as we could on one song. All of us trying to record a piece of the experience.

Now I am going to bed. No alarm will be set. Hopefully I will sleep until my ears stop ringing. Could be a long night.

Four days off work in a row. I'm treating it like a short break, doing only the things I enjoy. Plenty of reading, cooking and sleeping. Also had an idea for a story. If I write it I have an idea of a site that might publish it. I have the time and the inclination, this might happen. Which reminds me, the editor of the college rag hasn't mailed me back yet. I hope she got my message. She might be busy with other stuff. They can hardly deign to be picky, can they?

Off to see Audioslave live tomorrow night. Not sure what to expect, but I hope they play some old Soundgarden stuff. Also for music, go here.

Oh yeah, my film magazine of choice has gone mad and given the Matrix 2 a ridiculous five stars. They'll be getting an angry letter, if I can overcome my sheer bone-laziness.

I just thought of something. How will Naomi cook in America, thousands of miles from her big ass kitchen? Answers on a postcard please.

Work rang me at home yesterday. At first I panicked, wondering if I was supposed to be on duty. It turned out to be good news though, they had my wallet in the cash office. Some anonymous person handed it in. No money, of course, but all of my cards were still there. A major bonus. So this little lesson (trust no one) only cost me 20 quid.

Speaking of money I picked up my first pay packet. 45 quid, after tax. And I'm only working two days in the next week. Any hopes that I could save up enough dough over the holidays to tide me over the next college year are disappearing quickly.

Back on the Streets

I'm in town for the first time in three weeks. When I stepped off the bus I have to admit to feeling a thrill at being back in Dublin, even if the streets are still dirt-encrusted, litter strewn, and gum speckled. I'd forgotten that when you're working, a day off is something to really savour. Even better when you have two days off in a row. I'm also feeling pretty swish in my new t-shirt. I have a theory about t-shirts. Basically a t-shirt is only satisfactorily cool if it is a)Interesting and b) Unique. Having a t-shirt that no one else has is very nice. Like when I brought a load of t-shirts back from the States. I've never seen anyone else wearing them, anywhere. I've actually had people come up and ask me where I got my t-shirt. A good t-shirt should set you apart from the pack and earn you a brief sense of individuality. (Jeez, how many more times can I type t-shirt?)

Gotta go, I want to buy my favourite sandwich, grab a smoothie, hang out in my comic book cellar and blow my first week's wages on a swanky Game Boy SP with a copy of Doom 2.

Ta ta.

Note to self: Exam results are out on 1st July @ 5pm

Two good deeds, one day

I went into the pub and gave the barman back the money that he had lended (leant?) me to make that phone call. He looked quite surprised. The barflies seemed impressed but who knows if they were aware of what was going on around them?

Later, at work, I spotted five glazed hams that were about two weeks out of date. I like to think that by throwing them out I saved at least two families from an evening of stomach cramps, projectile vomiting and rigorous stomach pumping.

Doing good deeds is almost as much fun as being evil. What were the odds?

Adrenaline Junkie

The National Aquatic Centre opened up near me a few months back. It’s a massive swimming complex with slides and whirlpools and all kindsa shit. I had put off visiting it for a while – because I hate taking off my glasses and wandering around in pools – but Dad had gone a few times and he said it was great. So I decided to take the plunge (sorry about that). It was brilliant. We started with the slides. First one was a big dark slide that twirled you around and shot you out the end like a bullet. After my first go I noticed a curious alteration in my mood.

Fingers twitch
Nostrils flare
Shivers
Pupils dilate
Hair stands on end
Goofy smile dawns.

That was fantastic! I felt like a man locked away in the cellar who had just clawed through the rotten timber walls and caught a glimpse of the sun. I had to go again. I was an adrenaline junkie - on cold turkey for months - but now the fix was in. I was a recovering alcoholic who had just fallen off the wagon. I hadn’t been to an amusement park in ages and I was making up for it. I climbed the two flights of stairs to the slides until my chest heaved and my legs sagged and I saw white dots. Then I went again.

Eventually I had to give in to the complaints of my legs and stomach, but I’ll be back.

Oh yes.

My Holidays (note caps) went into a death roll after Naomi’s party, but things are starting to look good again.

Finally, something new to bitch about

Much as I love my sister, and I do, there are times when I wonder if she has learnt anything from her 23 years on this planet. Case in point, due to a remarkable run of circumstances I found myself stranded after work for an hour.
Where was my phone? It was in the glove pocket of the car.
Ah, so where was the car? It was in the possession of my sister, who had come to work to take the car home after I had driven to work because she needed it.
So what time did you ask her to pick you up? Around 945, because it’s a little tough to predict. I knew it would be somewhere between 930 and 10, an I didn't want to have to wait too long. The irony of this I didn't get until later. But I would definitely be ready by 10.
So what time did you get off? Around 930. Chatted to co-workers for a while. Last of them left around 940.
So you figured…? Right, she’ll be here in 10 minutes. Everything is cool.
She didn’t show? Nope. But I figured, hey she’ll be here by 10, right? That’s when I told her I would definitely be off. We’re okay.
When did you give up on her? Around 1020 I realised that she wasn’t coming. I had to go into a pub, look pathetic and ask if I could borrow some change to use the payphone-
‘Cos some punk stole your wallet, right? You got it.
So…? So I call home and I find out that she’s on the way. I don’t have time to find out the reason for her tardiness. I figured it would be a doozy. Like the house had been hit by a localised EMP ray and all the clocks had been frozen to the same time. Or halfway down the road all the wheels had fallen off the car. Or maybe the house had burned down. I was expecting at least some permanent scarring and preferably a few deaths.
So what did she say? “I just forgot.”
Hang on, she just forgot? Yup. “I was watching tv and chatting and…I…just…forgot.”
That’s seriously lame. Tell me about it. And it just sucked all the rage out of me. What can you say to something that flat? How could you forget me? There’s nothing you can say. So I just had to let it go.

I wrote a little story today. It is the first time in ages that I have had an idea for a story and followed through with it all the way. It’s a short morality tale about a petty thief who meets his brutal comeuppance.

I honestly don’t know where these ideas come from…

Coping with Loss, and a poem.

There are five stages to go through when you have suffered a loss, Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I have done them all now. I accept that my wallet is lost. As part of the grieving process, I have written a poem. If you look at my entry for 3/6, you will see that this makes me a hypocrite. Anyway, on with the poem.

Wallet, or Ode to a Lost Companion

Old
Cracked
Leathery
Skin
Just like Grandma.

You held my change in your handy pockets
and my notes in an attractive little nook.
But more than that
You held the contents of my Life.

When I find the person who stole you
I will rip their face off.
And make them eat it
Until
They choke.


I'm not one to toot my own horn, but that is the greatest poem ever committed to the web.

Did I mention I'm a hypocrite?

Apres Rant

I feel better now.

Sweary Rant

See that good mood I was in yesterday? It is gone. Disappeared as quickly as a stabbed kitten. I'm playing all my happy music. It is having fuck all effect. I'm usually against profuse swearing when I write but this is one of those situations where I think it captures my mood. So here goes. While I was working yesterday, some sneaky, cowardly little shit slithered into the changing rooms, pawed through my personal belongings and swiped my fucking wallet. The wallet that contains all of the most important goddamn plastic that a man owns? His bloody credit card, ATM card, student card, film club card, even his motherfucking driver's license? The same cards that are of virtually no use to anyone else, because they don't have his damn name and signature? Assuming the little twerp can even read. Yup, that wallet. He could have the money. There was maybe 20 quid in it. But all the other stuff is gonna be a bitch to replace. He better hope I never catch him, because I'm cooking up some revenge fantasies that involve him tied to a chair, a soundproof room and a pair of pubic tweezers.

One thing is certain, I'm gonna raise one holy fucking shitstorm tomorrow in work. Wait and see.

Second day of work. Realised that I already know how to do this job. Laughed. Learnt a few names. It's mostly girls working with me. They're all giggly and hyper in a "This-is-my-first-summer-job-and-look-I-have-money-and-I-can-go-to-the-local-nightclub-if-they-don't-ask-for-ID-so-some-spotty-chinned-monkey-boy-with-a-fuzzy-goatee-can-burp-alcopop-vapours-in-my-face-and-vomit-on-my-shoes" kind of way. At the end of the night, as my young co-workers waited for their respective lifts or to walk home in the rain, I popped a Pixies tape into the deck, reversed out of the lot and sped away, leaving them choking on petroleum fumes. Should I have offered them a ride? Bollocks. It can be a character building exercise for them.

Speaking of giddy I picked up the mew Metallica album today. I'm like a little goth girl with her first fishnet vest. Tee hee.

Cooked pancakes yesterday. American stylie. Spared a thought for my friend in America. Hope her plane didn't hit any skyscrapers. What? Too soon for humour?

Ah, nuts.

All of the people at the supermarket are in secondary school. I am the old guy trying to keep up with kids.

I am depressed.

Everybody Hurts by REM has just come out of my speakers.

I am really depressed.

Over on Gillen's blog: "Now, she's 21 and can't find any enthusiasm for anything. She keeps on thinking herself "Oh - remember when I was young" and then realising that she still is."

Replace 'she' with 'he' and you get me.

No that wasn't meant to be a poem. Amateur poets who publish their work should be tied down and forced to eat shit until they expire.

Today I am a culture fascist.

First day of work. Packing a supermarket’s shelves. Learnt the ropes in half an hour. Was bored an hour later. The neon lights scorch my retinas. Checkout scanners beep in a remarkable imitation of Chinese water torture. There is no music, except for the songs that play in my head. The customers lurch aimlessly through the aisles, like peaceful cattle or lobotomy patients. I’m thinking that the mall in Dawn of the Dead was no exaggeration.

It’s my first day of work and I’m already praying for college to start again.

Lost Weekend

I finally feel up to stringing a few sentences together. I was down in Limerick for Naomi’s going away party. I’m not much of a drinker and she’s never seen me drunk so she was really hoping I would get drunk. Whenever she saw me she was like, “David, why haven’t you got a drink?” To her credit she made this great sangria, which made drinking a lot more fun. Beer tastes like bat urine to me. To Naomi’s glee I did get a little tipsy. Which would explain why I went along with her idea that we should all walk around for miles in a wet field in the dark. And why when I got back at six in the morning I decided that instead of sleep what I really needed was some toast and a few games of pool.

Finally crawled into my sleeping bag at 730.

Woke up at 10.

Had a big greasy fry, Irish style. This means that everything is cooked in fat, burnt to a crisp and accompanied by thick slices of bread. Naomi’s Dad plied me with old school ‘country butter’, which is illegal in the EU according to her mother. But her Dad told me where to get it in Dublin. It’s gonna feel very weird looking for black marker butter. Only in Ireland…

I have this theory about parties. The more people you put together in a conversation the more general and shallow the talk becomes. When I was sitting around the table with a dozen people, we talked about the weather and the roads. When it was just me and another person, the discussion was very personal and intimate. Even when I didn’t really know the person. There’s nowhere to hide your personality when it’s one on one. Needless to say, these moments were my favourite of the night.

In the morning everyone was sitting around in the kitchen, now maybe it was just because I was a lot more sober or that I hadn’t slept much, but it seemed like the witty and vibrant people of the previous night had been replaced by drones whose conversation was so banal that I can’t even remember what was said. I’m not much of a people person. I need my space.

When I got home I said about five words in total. I was wrecked. I knew from prior experience that I had to stay awake until night time otherwise my sleep pattern would be fucked. But as soon as 9pm I was in bed. I was asleep by 9.05. Great weekend. My compliments to my wonderful host and her (very) understanding parents. If I woke and found empty beer cans resting on antique tables and grass tramped all over my carpets, I wouldn’t be quite so relaxed about it.

Oh yeah, Naomi reckons we all drank 44 beer cans and maybe 12 bottles of wine. Seems like a pretty conservative estimate to me.