Lazy Tuesday Picture Show

Soo.. A new season of Hell's Kitchen has started, and I should probably be recapping that, and Believe, and whichever of the other hundred or so TV shows turned up lately. I should be, but it's Sunday. It's, uh, God's day. I'm sure it says somewhere in the Bible about not recapping shitty reality TV on the seventh day. (That is to say, it was Sunday when I started writing this post, but then I fell asleep and stuff and then my time was taken up by staring at some trees or something, I don't know.)

With that in mind, I skimmed my 'Shit from the web' folder and picked some photos at random to share with you and possibly/probably waffle on about them a bit.

SO WTHOUT FURTHER ADO:

Yeah.. I don't really know what to say about this. I don't even know what newspaper it came from because I found it floating around the internet and engendering reactions from people akin to being told a loved one has died. People are just shuddering and passing it on, as I am doing now, to you. I'm not entirely sure WHY they're passing it on. It's not one of those mildly threatening chain-Facebook-mail letters: "BUY FROM GREGGS. OR YOU'LL GET THE GREYJOY TREATMENT!" (I've just noticed it says 'SUNDAY SPORT exclusive' in the middle, so I guess that's the mystery of what newspaper it came from solved.)

Fancying food is weird. I mean, I get the appeal of chocolate sauce when engaging in bedroom shenanigans, even whipped cream; but that's because I get to lick it off cut muscles and strong arms and it gets licked off my-- Excuse me, I need a moment to fan myself with my hand and swoon a bit.

Ahem. Sorry, got a bit distracted there. Anyway. Let me look this up and see if it's just urban legend, we?

OH GOD, YOU GUYS, IT'S A THING, It's not even only one thing, it's a couple of different branches of the same gross thing. Apparently the urge to have sex with food is called sitophilia. By that, I don't mean having sex with food involved, like the aforementioned whipped cream and whatnot, I mean having sex with pasties like the gentleman in the photo above, or when Jason Biggs fucked an apple pie. (Although, to be fair to JB he wasn't sexually attracted to the pie, he just wanted to know what a ladygarden felt like.)

So I guess licking chocolate sauce off someone is mildly kinky, but wandering through a supermarket and getting a semi because the French sticks look so damn sexy is sitophilia.

Look, I generally don't give a crap what consenting adults do with/to each other. But for the love of all that's holy, if you're dumb enough to scald your prick in a pasty, do not go to a newspaper with your story. I did not want to know that there are people out there who purchase Greggs food for anything other than eating. Actually, considering the disgusting crap that place churns out, I presumed people just bought the stuff for the satisfaction of throwing it in the bin, not for any other kind of satisfaction.

“I have been into Greggs many, many times and never have I seen a sign warning you not to put your penis into one of their products – especially after it has been reheated. “That, to me, is a clear case of negligence and I intend to sue. I ran my helmet under cold water straight away but I’m still in agony and can barely walk. It’s covered in blisters. I may never be able to have sex with a pasty again."

If this guy actually does sue, let's just hope he's laughed out of the courtroom lest it starts some kind of precedent. I really don't want to have to walk into a restaurant and have to deal with a little disclaimer at the bottom of the menu: "For oral use only. Management is not responsible for any injuries you may sustain if you misuse our food. With your dick."

I don't know why I find this so hilarious, but I do.

That's generally me most days. Only replace 'lazy' with.. well, with most of the words, really. 'Too lazy to sleep. Too lazy to human,'

Too lazy to lazy.

Man, I'm tired.

That's it. I got nothing else. I burnt myself out with the rant about the pasty-fucker up at the top there. I'm going to have a nap because quite frankly, writing blog posts is exhausting and I need one of those large, shiny muscular men with big leaves to fan me gently while I'm doing this.

Everything is so hard.

Peace, lovelies.

Writings and things

So, here's the deal. I'm a pretty terrible comedic writer, and I'm OK with that. I waffle, I ramble, I meander off-topic and never quite find whatever point it was I was trying to make.

What I am pretty darn good at is fantasy fiction. I've been writing it since I was able to write, and I'm halfway through a manuscript which is frankly guaranteed to make me tens of dollars.

This was going to be a long post full of vaguely interesting writing tips and maybe even some snippets of what I'm working on; bit I did not sleep AGAIN last night which is making every word some kind of agony to write.

I seriously can't keep my stupid eyes open,

Don't laugh, it's a serious condition.

Here. Have all my NOPES.

I'm not dead, I swear. I'm just a lazy asshole. I was going to post this whole thing yesterday but my intricate and frankly incredible drawing in Paint somehow disappeared and I lost the will to live.

Instead, I offer up this mini-post that is mainly comprised of a photograph which terrified me to the depths of my soul and made me think of Amber, because her fear of spiders makes my own seem like an insignificant sort of mild dislike, rather than the violent, hysterical phobia it is.

So, sorry, Amber. But this is almost certainly your own fault. Every time you blog about spiders, one appears in my home. This is merely the age old tradition of a cluster of eyes for a cluster of eyes:

Photographic Confusion

So I have a photo on my wall.

Many, in fact.

I printed off a bunch of motivational quotes and whatnot to stick above my treadmill at eye level, so that when I feel like I can't go on and might well die, the quotes will guilt me into going on.

One of them, though.. I don't know what it is about it, but I can't read it the way it's supposed to be read. Perhaps it's beacause I workout in the morning, or perhaps the peculiar mismatch of colours confuses and frightens me, but I started to write down over the last couple of months the weird things I read in place of what's actually there.

What'll follow here is the ACTUAL photo, and then the list of things I've mistaken it for reading:

Actual photo.

Things I have mistakenly read it as saying:

"Stop wrestling, you idiot."

"Stop doing what she's doing."

"Stop washing - silly doings!"

"Stop doing the washing up!"

"Swishing tart."

"Cat, wish, art, oink." (Incidentally, that's the name of my gallery show in the trendiest part of London. Send me £50 and I'll send you an invite.)

"Stop, wish, deny."

"Stop washing your dong."

"Wish-washing the step."

So yeah, that's it's for now. I'll write an update in a while if anything else vaguely humourous comes from me mis-reading this or any other sign. There's a roadworks sign near where I live that says "HEAVY PLANT CROSSING" which always makes me giggle.


Love you, awesome nerds.

x

If you're a bird, you're an asshole.

I do not much like birds.

It is an irrational thing. I can certainly appreciate how beautiful some of them are, and I even think that Kingfishers are pretty cute, but they're all assholes, nonetheless. I think it's something about how graceless their movements are on the ground. They're too fast, too sudden. Calm down, bird, you asshole. Why are you jumping around like that anyway? Like, are you super busy? Do you have a bird-meeting to get to? An owl parliament? No? THEN GO SIT IN A TREE OR FLY OR SOMETHING, DO YOU KNOW HOW OFTEN I WOULD BE FLYING IF I COULD FLY? ALL THE GODDAMN TIME. SO GO DO IT.

Anyway, I was lounging in my back garden this morning, minding my own business while my dog got to doing hers, and SUDDENLY a BIRD LANDED ON MY SHOULDER.

Well, I was shocked.

It was a little sparrow. I froze, it froze. Neither of us knew what the hell to do. I sensed the bird realised it had made a mistake but wasn't clever enough to work out how to rectify it.

I just closed my eyes in case it was a crow in disguise, and someone told me when I was five that crows will peck out your sodding eyes if they're given half a chance, because they're even more asshole-y than most birds.

Anyway, the whole encounter probably lasted less than a second before it took off and flew away, allowing me to un-freeze, dance the dance of the freaked out (many little hops, fingers flailing like out of control jazz-hands) and swallow a scream. I was in danger, man. You can't trust a bird.

I was obviously not quick (or able) enough to take a photo for you guys, but I have done this drawing to accurately recreate what happened:

Frankly, I'm lucky I escaped with my life.

UNTIL TOMORROW. PCE.

That Outside Place.

So, usually my spare time is generously divided between sleeping, eating and playing World of Warcraft. There's some televisual wonders thrown in there, as well as some running and general exercise-y activities to prevent me from slowly growing into my computer chair; but generally I like doing things that don't require me to go outside where there's all kinds of weather and strangers and situations I might not find interesting.

I just don't know what I would do here.

I mean, don't get me wrong - I am a social person and I enjoy doing shit with people I know, but it's those unfortunate other people who I'm loathe to run into. This isn't just something I've created in my mind, either. This is a thing I have learned through experience. I lived in Manchester for two years after I ditched out of university (Do you know they make you learn stuff there? Yeah, I was shocked too) and during that period of time I was incredibly outgoing and even welcoming towards strangers. I used to walk around at night just because I liked how the city breathed after midnight. I was mugged four and a half times, accidentally engaged in a serious relationship with a corner-dwelling drug-dealer, and once ended up going to a midnight mass with a group of very religious people whom I thought were taking me to a killer nightclub.

"Oh, you meant-- You meant an actual church. Ohhh."

The drug-dealer thing wasn't actually a relationship, I hasten to add. I didn't even know he was a dealer. I just thought he was homeless. I used to talk to him for ages and was mildly amazed at how many people he seemed to know. Turned out he just thought I was really shy about asking to be one of his girls.

Man. I did not want to be one of his girls.

I have, therefore, spent enough time outside bumping around into, onto and around strangers. Once you've seen a homeless man defecating into an empty McDonald's bag, you've seen 'em all, and you're much less likely to come across that kind of scene while in the warm, snug walls of your own house.

Today was a brisk, Autumn English day, and I ended up in the woods.

They're nice woods, as woods go. Pretty trees and old waterfalls, stone statues dotted around between ancient rock seats that you can sit on and go "Hm." Or whatever you want to do, I suppose. There used to be a castle in the middle of it, but they've since made it into apartments, which pretty much sucks ass.

It was probably hard to make stone look like water back when this was made. At least, that's what I think it's supposed to be.

I climbed three trees.

I would have climbed more but there was this moment during the descent of the last one where I wasn't sure for a moment how I was going to get down, and therefore decided to stop pushing my luck.

Next time I shall take more pictures.

Hmph.