I finally believe in god, one god. Mr god.

Love, games

My brother lamented to me when he first got married that there are few good two-person games. Most fun games are ideally suited for four players.

Risk and Monopoly especially are not made to be played with only two players, at least if these two players have to live and interact with each other once the game is finished. Both games involve the complete obliteration of the opponent while the other has everything. There is no near-winning in two-player Monopoly and Risk; the scales at the end are intentionally unbalanced.

There are some games, however, that are suitable, even enjoyable, for two players. Canasta, for instance, is a fantastic game for two. My favorite way to play is still with four players, but the two-player variation is enjoyable. Stratego is another good two-player game, and ofcourse Pass the pigs.

Happy Birthday to Irna, it's her 20th this year, I wish her all the best in her future undertakings.

Menacing Glare

Do click for a better view, but this was what I received recently from an concern friend. I do not know where to begin. You would think that would be written for me, but it isn't. I'm sure many of you would know now, because news travel fast, faster than the usual internet connection.

Like I mention before, in my older posts, I do loathe social networking sites. You know when you feel something, you will always relate it to a song and currently 'Mario's I don't wanna know' is on repeat in my head.

Holy Mike Ditka!

Okay, I am being lazy. Really lazy. I have all the time in the world to write, but I'm spending it playing Football Manager. And occasionally I go outside to play frisbee. But you get the point. I am useless. I can't even persuade anybody to give me a job. I'm employable. I'm fun to be around. Seriously. I am. Fuck you. I am. But nobody wants to pay me money to work for them. I'm sure there are some companies who would take me on, but I don't want to go back to being a rent-boy again, and I sure as hell ain't working in no McDonald's. Anyway, the point is that I need you snivelling rats to help me get back to writing.

So help me out, and comment some ideas

Wed

Someone voted no? Why?

Well it’s been a while since I updated this so I reckon it’s about time or should I begin ranting on Facebook? Or perhaps cease my ranting in general and merely moan in the direction of friends?
How convenient, just a day after promising the possibility of some kind of mild peril, I was in fact placed in such a situation. I realise that todays events we're particularly mild but no-one can deny that there was peril involved.

NYE

Coma

You know when your life relates to a song that your life is not authentic. Oh ye, floodgates. I just realized I will be the world's most loneliest person.

When I would refuse to eat my peas, when I thought my parents were displaying exceptional cruelty by taking me to a Thai restaurant, when I was forced to try hummus in my childhood and bought junk food to cover up the taste, whenever adults would tell me that my tastes would change and my palate develop. I thought the notion ridiculous. I was pretty sure this was the same from birth to adulthood. Well, it's true. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions, and yes, even hummus; all of these are among what often makes it on my plate. If young me could see current me and the things I like to eat, he would be disgusted at the betrayal.

At Christmas time, I think especially of the song "Little Drummer Boy." The first time I heard the song, I cried. It was so beautiful to me. A little boy, having nothing to offer the baby Jesus, plays him a song on his drum, the only means by which he can pay tribute to the Messiah. I think I recognized a kinship between me and the little drummer boy. Fifty cents or a bucks' worth of allowance doesn't buy a good present for a parent, let alone tribute worthy of the king of the universe. As a child, I think I understood these terms (I may just be reading adult reflections into my childhood). In any case, I loved hearing the song.

Now, I think it's kitsch. Overly sentimental, saccharine kitsch. If Thomas Kincade painted a song, it would be "Little Drummer Boy."

Damned

things in my room which piss me off

- The empty box of M&Ms in which I placed two discarded smarties bag earlier this week. It sits by my desk, marginally ajar, and every time I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, I think it still has M&Ms in it. I get all excited, then discover very quickly that you have to be a total moron to mistake a rubbish for a M&Ms. The upshot is that I acquire a strong craving for chocolate.

Solution: write a reminder to buy more M&Ms when I next go shopping

- The perpetual absence of paper/notepad that makes it impossible for me to write any reminders to myself. I always dump it in the dining room. Which means that I would have to go all the way downstairs to make a note of whatever is on my mind, by which time I will almost definitely have forgotten what it was.

Solution: invest in a home tattoo parlour so I can scrawl important things on my body

- The lack of a bin. (I acknowledge that neither this, nor the paper-problem, really counts as a ‘thing in my room’, but in an abstract way, it is possible to argue that a notable absence can subsist, in a sense, so I’ll pretend to believe that, for the sake of preserving my integrity). I hate not having a bin. Emptied canned drinks and M&Ms boxes are strewn across my floor, half-filled with all the rubbish that I never want to see again. They look forlorn and abused. It depresses me.

Possible solution: n/a

- That god-damned spider. He hasn’t grown at all since I let him stay, and moth season is fast-approaching. He’s such a wank. I hate him.

Solution: make a human friend, then use him/her to kill all the moths and eat the spider

- The ever-growing pile of clothes that is wedged between the end of my bed and the wall. Most of the clothes are clean. Every day, I lift them from the floor on to my bed, in the vain hope that, by the time I want to go to sleep, I’ll have done something about them. Over the course of the day, the pile grows – sometimes by just a few items, other times with a whole wash-load of clean, dry garments. Sometimes, I try to tidy them away into a cupboard. With little success. I’m like Achilles trying to catch the tortoise: no matter how much headway I make into the mountainous heap, it will always grow a little bit more, forever keeping me from completing the job. Every night I shove the mound back off the edge of my bed, then lie back for an hour or so in order to think of a practical way of solving the problem.

Solution: wear all of my clothes each day

- The nocturnal woodpecker-ghost who lives in my wardrobe. When I rest my head to get some well-deserved and disturbingly weird dreams at the end of a long day, he wakes up and gets into action, tapping away like a madman. With all that racket going on, I stand no chance of getting to sleep. Grumpily, I slither out of bed, whack on the light, and seek out the source of the sound. Of course, the pecking stops when I get out of bed so, after a quick search, I optimistically return to the comfort of my duvet and shut my weary eyes.

And he starts again. Tap-tap-tap-tap-fucking-tap. The second time, I’m feeling pretty riled, so I stand around waiting for the sound to start again after I turn the light on. I can hear it faintly, but then it suddenly dies down again as the woodpecker becomes aware of my presence. So I turf out my entire wardrobe, taking care to put all the clothes in a neat pile at the end of my bed, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I fail to return the clothes to the wardrobe. Eventually, they join the stack.

The third time, I lie still for a while, trying to ascertain exactly where the sound is coming from. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that it is the god-damned wardrobe. It simply has to be.

I give it a few more minutes, just to be sure, but still the wardrobe remains the only candidate. Furious and bemused, I get up one last time, just to scour the now-empty wardrobe one last time, and still I find nothing. Exasperated, I collapse onto the mattress, flick the light-switch, and shove my fingers in to my ears in a show of resignation. It takes me a good hour, from that point, to get to sleep, as it is hard to get comfortable with your hands on either side of your head, it transpires.

Every god-damned night. Woodpeckers are rubbish, and ghosts are even more pointless and annoying than mosquitoes and my mum.Which begs the question: why? And why me?

Solution(s): learn witchcraft or kill self

The secret I have not told anyone before

I am now going to tell you a secret that I have never told anyone.

The train from Cambridge to London was delayed by twenty minutes, so I wandered off to the far end of the platform, where I could eat my burger in peace. Naturally, time flew, and before I knew it, the train was pulling up to the station.

In a rush, I grabbed my bags and walked briskly to join the small queue of people waiting to board the last carriage. I was the last person to alight the train, and as I entered the carriage, I realised that I was in the Quiet Zone, in which audio players are forbidden. I didn’t stand a chance of surviving the whole journey without any music, so I headed forward to make my way down the train. Sadly, there was no thoroughfare through the carriage as there were too many people in the aisles, sorting out their gear and casting magical spells prohibiting me from passing, probably. I made a hasty retreat and set my bags down by the train door, planning to wait patiently for the people to take their seats so I could walk through and into another carriage. Unfortunately, the longer I waited, the more awkward it would have felt to start walking through, and the longer they took to take their seats, the longer I had to wait. Sighing, I leaned my body against the wall and strained to hear How To Disappear Completely.

The compartment was very loud, and the music was barely audible over the top of all the noise, which ultimately negated the whole point of not sitting in the Quiet Zone, but by now it had become a matter of principle. There were still many spare seats in that carriage, but there was no way I was going to give in to their evil will and endure 50-odd minutes of purgatory in the company of weirdos and second-rate businessmen who can’t afford Bose headphones. After about half an hour of standing around, shifting my weight from my left foot to my right foot and back again to stave off leg-cramp, I saw the ticket inspector making his merry way through the Quiet Zone. I fumbled for my wallet and removed my ticket in eager anticipation of his imminent request to see it. He came through the door, and I smiled at him as I handed him my ticket. He said something to me.

“Sorry,” I replied, pointing at my ears: “Daft Punk.”

A stern look crossed his face, and he began to talk again. I already knew that this guy was going to be nothing but trouble, but I decided to humour the fascist jackass, so I removed my earphones and asked him, politely, to repeat himself.

“I need to see your Young Persons’ Rail Card, please sir,” he said.

The bastard was obviously trying to catch me out. “Oh, of course – here you are,” I responded, in a snide manner.

He nodded when he saw it, then asked me: “You do know that there are loads of seats still free, right? You don’t have to stand here if you don’t want to. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable – why don’t you go find yourself a seat?”

I sighed melodramatically. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Clearly unwilling to just let me be, he quickly retorted, “Why don’t you explain to me, then?”
Oh sure, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? You reactionary tit, I thought to myself. “Oh sure, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? You reactionary tit,” I said out loud.

He looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Damn straight you are.”

“What?” He looked angry. I was certain that he was about ready to have me chucked off the train and fined, so my mind raced to find a way to squirm out of this situation. I know, I thought, I’ll pretend to be foreign, and I’ll just blame the language barrier. The plan was ingenious.
“Je m’excuse, my anglais is not so good.” I stuttered, in a perfect french accent.

He looked suspicious. Worse, he started to spout a bunch of incomprehensible jargon in my direction. Suddenly, it clicked, he was a french-speaker. Of all the shitty luck, this guy was clearly out to get me, and would stop at nothing to see me crash and burn. I really hated him.

The way I saw it, I had two options. I could either admit that I lied about being French( well kinda) , apologise to him, and take a seat in that vile Quiet Zone, or I could try and get out of it by faking my own death.

I really don’t fucking like Quiet Zones, so I let out a gasp and clutched my breast, breathing a melodramatic “Mon Coeur, mon Coeur, it hurts.” I let my knees buckle and I collapsed to the floor, trying to make it look like my body was having spasms. Lying there, I struggled to remember why on earth I had ever thought that this would be a good idea. I presumed that I had probably hoped that me dying would have made him feel uncomfortable so he would leave and go and pester some other passenger, but this racist zealot just wasn’t going to leave me alone, and I knew it.

Now, only one choice remained. Insulting a ticket inspector, lying about your nationality and trying to fake your own death in order to make him go away are exactly the kinds of things for which those Nazist train officials would fine me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pay no god-damned fine. So I killed him by whacking him with a copy of War and Peace, then I stowed his body in the toilet, which I duly guarded until the train reached my stop. I disembarked the train, when it reached the station, with a victorious smile on my face, and a bloodied hardback in my hand. It was another good day. Absolutely everything in this blog entry, except for this sentence, is completely true.

:)

Guide to being depressed

I read somewhere, though I can’t remember where, that a startlingly high proportion of bipolar-disorder-sufferers would not want to be cured of their illness, were there a cure available. Whether or not this is actually true, the fact remains that people love being depressed – it’s a form of self-indulgence that, for some reason, makes people want to empathize with you. It’s like having your cake and eating it. It is also a fact that people are fascinated by depressed people. Life is all about being popular. Nothing else matters. If you’re unpopular, your only hopes of salvation are to either create an army of loyal robot-friends, or become depressed. Every tortured soul longs to have bipolar disorder, but if you are one of the unfortunate people who does not bask in the odious self-importance, self-obsession and self-pity of clinical manic-depression, then you are going to need to look into regular depression as a means of justifying your inability to deal with any problem in a mature manner. Because I am such a god-damned nice guy, I’ve decided to take the liberty of writing a guide for you boring, socially-inept morons who wish to be dealt a new hand in the game of life. You can thank me with cash.

1) Develop a vice. Womanising; heroin; alcoholism; untrustworthiness; insomnia; seemingly-insurmountable existential angst; self-harm; gambling; psychotic urges: befriend one, or more, of these devious fellows, immerse yourself in it, then overcome it. It is very important to conquer your vice – to some degree at least – because most people are total wankers when they are snared in the clutches of a destructive habit, and the self-righteousness that comes with defeating a serious problem makes you appear confident, strong, and intelligent, even when you’re still a shell of a human being on the inside. It is also important, if you plan on choosing more than one vice, to opt for problems which complement one another. Psychotic urges combined with a heroin addiction, for example, is not a winning combination. Seemingly-insurmountable existential angst and alcoholism, on the other hand, join together to form a potent aphrodisiac. Throw in an interest in writing pretentious poetry, and you’ve got yourself a winning ticket in the popularity lottery. There is no rigid formula to ascertain which combination will work and which won’t, but it’s kind of like feng shui – you just know when you’ve got it right.

2) Depression makes you appear more interesting and, so long as you can acquire the label ‘self-destructive’ without actually destroying yourself, you are going to become popular. I have no idea why. Even if you do destroy yourself, you’ll still amass a following of teeny, wannabe-depressives, but dying young is severely overrated, so I’d recommend avoiding that. /completely irrelevant and cringe-inducing quote alert/ “dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.” This transition from ‘loser with good health and a secure career ahead of him’ to ‘damaged pottery that inexplicably finds itself in high demand at auction’ can be somewhat confusing, and it is crucial not to let it get to your head. Keep yourself in check by developing an inferiority complex and regularly banging your head against walls.

3) Prepare yourself – being depressed is not all plain-sailing. Recent studies have shown that very few people are aware of the dietary requirements of wallowing in a state of angst-ridden inertia. Eating disorders are not kosher, but occasionally skipping meals because you’re too upset to eat is an absolute must for all wannabes. You must also take great care not to eat a proper meal more than twice a week – from now on, jacket potatoes and baked beans are the manna and quail in your lonely desert. (Which reminds me, dessert is well and truly off the menu – only real winners eat more than one course. You are not a real winner, otherwise you wouldn’t have needed to get depressed in the first place. You’ll get over it.) This is not easy to deal with, and you will have to quickly grow accustomed to the intrusive sound of your stomach rumbling at inopportune moments if you want to succeed. Moreover, there are certain food groups which are entirely inedible to people with depression. Anything that has been stored in a jar, for example, will now be poisonous to you. Fortunately, the government has intervened to force companies who provide food in jars to label the lid with a warning (or ‘safety button’, if you want the technical term): “Reject if depressed.” This should help keep you safe from a potentially fatal surprise.

4) Ditching those loser-friends who stood by you through thick-and-thin is essential, but be sure to hold on to any friends who are well-connected to attractive people – you can’t do it all on your own, so you have to pick the right people to use as social leg-ups to get you to the promised land of admiration and empathy. Networking is definitely not cool, so you have to be as subtle as possible in your approach. Frequently harping on about how much you hate people and how little you want to socialise has been scientifically proven to be a very effective means of blinding people to your social leeching, but take care to avoid coming across as a whinging hermit, or nobody will want anything to do with you. Fail, and you’ll have to start all over again at number 1, or else risk an awful life of contentment and productivity. Scared? You should be, you loser.

5) Invest in a tube of superglue in order to stick the tip of your tongue to the inside of one of your cheeks. Nobody likes happy-clappy born-again tossers. The smug bastards. Being embittered is crucial, and what better way to express it than with intellectual sarcasm? Irony and satire are your new weapons of choice, and if you don’t learn quickly how to use them, you’re absolutely fucked. If you aren’t witty or intelligent enough to work out how to do it yourself, then you need to drag your sorry ass to the couch in your living room and watch a whole weeks’ worth of sitcoms, then spend the rest of your life surreptitiously quoting and emulating them. You may not like the prospect of sacrificing your identity and selling out, but everyone else wants you to do it, and they’re all better people than you, therefore your views on morality are lame, and you must discard them accordingly.

6) Although any wannabe-depressive needs to own a blog, or some other form of public space in which to shamelessly seek attention, always keep in mind that it is a cardinal sin to post an entry on a Saturday night.