I’m a child of science-fiction.
It was my father’s fault. Him and his bookshelves full of Asimov and Clarke and Wyndham and Wells, and to this day I still look forward to the myriad promises I found there.
Given the choice, I would trade my phone for a laser gun any day. Wouldn’t we all? And I’d swap my rented flat for a rented room on an interstellar vessel – even a crappy one with a shared bathroom and portholes that are painted shut. And I’d definitely exchange Miss-Matic’s wardrobe for one full of tinfoil dresses.
Did I ever mention how prominently my ability to procrastinate features on my list of talents? It’s pretty high. Or it would be, if I’d gotten around to making that list.
Right now, right this second, I should be doing the dishes. There are a lot of dishes, waiting to be done.
There are bowls, plates, knives, spoons, glasses, mugs, forks, and chopping-boards. There are also pizza cartons to be thrown away, and surfaces to be wiped. All these delights are waiting for me in the kitchen, due to be done approximately yesterday, while instead I slowly list them. Why don’t I just do them? Won’t it be easier to get it out of the way? Won’t I get less trouble from Miss-Matic if I just do the frickin’ chores?
Well, yes. But I’m just going to do this first. And then make a bad cartoon about it.
Then I’ll do the dishes.
Some people like going to the dentist.
I imagine these people call themselves dentistophiles. They’re the kind of person who likes hands in their mouth, and being told to open wider seventeen times consecutively.
Others don’t like it so much. These are the dentistohaters. They don’t like hands in their mouths, and have a terrible fear that on the seventeenth time the dentist will shriek, ‘Too far! Too far! Oh God! Please, God, no!’
Personally, I’m ambivalent about being the subject of dentistry. Maybe this is because my teeth are okay and I don’t have much trouble with them. The last time I was at the dentist my teeth were described as beautiful, which was nice until the rest of my face was described as, ‘that stuff on the front of your head.’
Last night I watched a 2010 film called Buried. This is a Ryan Reynolds vehicle, only one without wheels. It’s more like a box, with Ryan Reynolds in it.
I once took a course on short-film production. In that course, it was suggested that the way to make a short film is to use as few actors as possible, and as few set-pieces. The powerhouses of creative vision behind Buried clearly decided to take this idea to its extreme. There’s one actor – Mr Reynolds, and one set-piece – him, in a box.
I have a couple of webmail accounts. There’s the one I use for Important Stuff, like applying for visas, clawing back erroneously paid tax, and saving lives – and the one I use for everything else.
The reason I use two accounts is because everybody wants to spam me. Spam is just another form of currency. If I want to purchase item X or service Y from you, it costs me Z. But that’s not all it costs me. It costs me regular weekly emails from you and all your partners, and all the idiot companies you’ve passed my email address to.
I don’t want these emails. I don’t like them, I don’t read them. This crap outnumbers the number of emails that mean anything. What makes you think I read them, anyway?
Girls have it good. Don’t you think girls have it good?
Girls get to do certain special magical things that only girls get to do. And on top of all that, they get to do everything guys get to do as well. They even get to pee standing-up. It’s true, I’ve seen it. I peed squatting once, and that was quite nice, but is beyond the scope of this post. I’m not sure why I mentioned it.
But of the many things girls get to do that guys don’t, fucking about with their hair is the one that makes me jealous.
Many of the best things in life happen in bed. Like sleeping, and dreaming, and having breakfast in bed. If you have a special person in your life, you can jump up and down on the bed with them, or kick each other out of the bed and laugh and stop them getting back in, or steal the duvet and pretend you’re asleep and have a really good grip when you’re asleep, so they can’t steal it back. Things like that.
I can’t think of many bad things that happen in bed. I had nightmares once, but they were all kinda cool.
The fact that everything that happens in bed is awesome has led me to an epiphany. You can make things you wouldn’t normally do in bed BETTER, by doing them in bed.
Self-service in super-markets is a wonderful thing. And when I say wonderful, I mean frustrating, error-prone, self-defeating, and shit. Of all the pieces of technology that piss me off, only printers are worse than these fuck-wit self-service machines.
Last night I was in my local supermarket, wishing to purchase the following items:
- A crate of cheap cider – destined to pollute the lovely Miss-Matic’s stomach.
- A couple of bottles of Indian beer; one Mongoose, and one Cobra. These two babies were going to battle it out for my affection.
- A cake, made of layers of white and red stuff (or maybe red and white stuff – I forget).
Everyone and their fucking dog has a blog. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve read more blogs by dogs than I have by people. Maybe it’s because they’re more interesting; maybe dogs just have more to say. You give a person the opportunity to talk about themselves and they’ll just post shit about their cat. You never see dogs posting about their cats. Doesn’t happen.
Anyway, it just so happens that I do have a cat. So regardless of what I just said, I might blog about my cat one day. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault that my cat is better than yours, you’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes.