Good Mourning Brain
I wake up to another sunrise. Lips stuck together like glue and sticky eyes that barely open. I couldn't sleep last night. I know I had no sleep because I feel just as tired as when I went to bed. Everything annoys me 200 times more then it usually would when I've had a bad sleep. The clinging and banging of the pans from the unknown unwelcome friend of this girl I brang home with me last night, who somehow I force-fed enough alcohol to convince what I'd hoped was a she, to sleep with me. As I turned over to face away from her she lightly scratched me on the arm with her long red broken fingernail, it hurts me and annoys me. She breaths heavily and everytime the scratch throbs I feel like she is directly insulting my religion, not that i follow one. Religion is for people who need to find a way, a light at the end of the tunnel, a glimmer of hope. Hope is not what I needed or wanted, Hope is not the key to freedom, freedom comes without hope. I try to recollect what happened last night but I cant peice together much, I had a feeling it didnt go so well but I brought a girl home so I cant complain.
I have absolutely no clue as to what she looks like or what her name is. I wonder if we'd had sex and I reach down to feel I'm still wearing a condom, not filled with anything. Sex has become mediocre for me. Everytime I'm having it my mind begins a questionaire and I drift off into my own world, whats my favourite movie, favourite color, favourite book, favourite actor, career opportunities, what should I do tomorrow, Is she enjoying this, how much have I drank, have I gone soft, did she just cum, will she cum, what would be my ideal proffession, probably an actor seeing as how I'm doing it half the time anyway. It used to be so I could last longer but has now gone way beyond that. I get out of bed avoiding eye contact and pray shes still asleep. I have a shower and turn the music on so she doesnt hear me leave. I feel it's risky leaving 2 people I barely know or better yet remember in my own house alone but I'd rather have all my valuables stolen then have to experience that 10 minutes of social awkwardness that always comes with one night stand sex. I begin to cringe when I think about whether or not this girl will be a cling on. I brang her home last night because I was drunk and horny and thats as far as I wish to take it.
I'm on my way to a place about 15 minutes away to get an X-ray done on my dislocated knee. I look in almost every passing and oncoming car hoping to see somebody I know so they know I'm still alive. I see one of my best friends Norman who I have known forever. This brings back horrible memories of last night. He turns his head away from me and I feel beside myself. It was his girlfriend who I had brought home, not slept with, but the friend of the one I did sleep with & I can imagine just how it must have looked, me violently drunk taking his girlfriend and her best friend home to have some sex party that he wasnt a part of. They had been fighting all night and I was on his side until I realised I would have to change teams if I was getting any action tonight. I try to give him a sympathetic look but the lights turn green and he's gone before I can make anymore eye contact. Preppy fuck he is anyway. He'll get over it.
I arrive at the Radioligist's and talk to the girl at the counter. She is young and looks clueless, she's cute but I avoid flirting with her because shes at least 6 years younger. I dont do more then 5. One of my many 'politically correct' morals I have taken up. Before too long the radioloigist calls me through, she looks like some kind of witch off a movie like The Wizard of OZ. She tells me my pants are too tight before saying Hi and that I must take my jeans off and wear a robe. I walk into the little changing room and take off my jeans, aswell as my underwear to irritate her and make it a little more exciting for myself. She calls out "What are you doing" and I find it hard not to yell back something witty, but nothing comes to mind in time. I come out of the changing room with a twisted grin on my face and lay down on the cold plastic table. She lifts my knee adjusting it on a mat for the x-ray. I wonder if she's seen under my robe yet. This excites me. She walks out of the room and tells me to move again, this time onto my side, then she returns a second time and tells me to get on my hands and knees. I turn over and prop myself up as if I'm about to get my prostate checked. I know shes seen what I've had ready for her this time and her expression changes. Just as I wanted, she looks disgusted and I feel the latter. This is the last of the x-ray and she tells me I'm okay to leave. She walks me out and gives me an arroused grin as I pay my bill and am told when the x-rays should be ready for pickup. I no longer feel satisfied and I regret removing my underwear. I feel dirty, like some little kid who firsts hears about 'the french kiss' and slips his tongue in his Mother's mouth when she kisses him goodnight.
Next up is the Doctor's for more knee examinations. I sit in the waiting room cringing at every other sorry looking soul sitting with me, staring at me. I feel myself cringing over half the time I am out in public lately. One teenage boy wont stop looking at me and I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face everytime I turn my head. I look at him, judging him until he gets scared enough and looks away. He is dressed in a pair of faded old sweatpants and an equally as faded t-shirt boasting about how much he drinks. People with no fashion sense disgust me, If you cant present yourself nicely then what can you do. As if there mothers never taught them how to dress, tie there shoe-laces, make their lunch. Dependance appauls me. Man was made to be Independant & If you cant enjoy your own company then you cant enjoy anything. I stop and wonder how I have grown this deep hate for the world. I feel it has something to do with the way the government treats it's people, and the way weak people crumble under their government, bums, lowlifes, people who cant think for themselves and must have everything handed to them. Authority and the way they abuse their power, the way they can push us around because we aren't police. They to used to be like us. Powerless. There are a few ways I feel I get back at governemt and authourity and the powers that be. Shoplifiting being one of them. I can no longer walk inside a store without shoplifting anymore or I will leave feeling cheated. Nowhere is sacred anymore not even Salvation stores. Not as if the money really goes to charity anyway. Just back to the powers that be, the money-making masterminds behind 'Christianity'. If I cant shoplift I'll have to at least swap the tags. Its the bigger franchises I get the most satisfaction stealing from though. Wiping it right in their little faces that I didnt pay for their item they put the price up on by over 100%. Other things include graffiti, not paying taxes, avoiding fines and being unemployed for as long as I was.
I open up a copy Time magazine and begin to read an article about the movie Iron Man. Apparently it didnt get the real point of what it should have been about across. Apparently it should have been about how the war on terrorism can only be solved with the biggest and most hi-tech weapons and is basically just a big video game, but instead it was about solving conflict and cutting off arms dealers to terrorists. You'd think the dipshit editors at Mr. Big Time magazine would realise movies made about comics shouldn't be taken so literally. A baby begins to cry and for a while I hear only that. Over the loud screams and cries I hear a voice shout a name that sounds similar to mine. I look up and my short stubby asian doctor is looking at me. I follow him into his office and he asks me whats wrong with his always caring eyes.
- By Scagnetti
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Guts
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.
Just from jacking off I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world. My teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.
As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbour, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobodies supposed to be home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls. It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unraveling my insides until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow striped swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...," Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole......
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.
Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.
Ever. - taken from Chuck Palahniuk's 'Guts'
Just from jacking off I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world. My teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.
As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbour, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobodies supposed to be home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls. It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unraveling my insides until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow striped swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...," Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole......
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.
Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.
Ever. - taken from Chuck Palahniuk's 'Guts'
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Seinfeld Tour?
So I was on the bus on the way to school when I saw the Seinfeld Campus Tour bus. I was shocked and amazed by this bus. It was just chillin' in a parking lot near my house. I had so many questions like, what the hell is this Seinfeld bus? Will it still be there when I get home? Will I be able to meet Jason Alexander and give him props? Will I be able to meet Michael Richards and lash him like there was no tomorrow?
Well it was still there when I got home so I rushed there to get my questions answered. After knocking on the bus door for 10 minutes I realized no one was home. There was a website on the side so I decided I'll just peep that when I get home. It turns out the Seinfeld campus tour is just a big bus that is going around America to different colleges (but not mine) giving away black and white cookies, snickers and twix bars to students and that's it nothing more nothing less.
If you ask me the whole idea is pretty lame I mean the bus is really cool looking but that's about all.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Burn After Reading
So I just got home from seeing the Coen's brothers latest Burn After Reading & I gotta tell you, It's a Beautiful fucking movie. I'm having some serious trouble deciding wether or not I liked No Country for Old Men or this more. I think I will have to choose this because No Country didnt star Frances McDormand. Who is possibly the best female actor ever (who is old). Brad Pitt also ruled in it as he always does when he isnt playing a heart-throb. Clooney continued being the sexiest man alive and I walked out of the cinema not hating John Malkovich, which is not an easy task after seeing his role in Rounders. The way he loses his mind on the phone time & time again is very good entertainment. Tilda Swinton is as always an annoying, arrogant, shit-eating dropkick with a nose like Satan's throbbing member. The best thing about this movie was the unexpected things that happen,when you see the Brad pitt scene in the wardrobe you will understand completely. I highly recommend this masterpiece. A movie you will definetily not want to Burn after watching.
5 stars lad.
ps. You can fuck off with your 'what if I wanted to like burn it so I could watch it again' comments
vacation
so we decided to get on a train and go down and check out Los Angeles. obviously was a good idea. but i could only stay down there for 3 days cuase i have school commitments and all crap unless some hollywood agent discovered my amazing talents and demaned i stay there and make some sort of movie but sadly that didnt go down like that but it was still goood times...
Our carrier of choice
GFL on the line
freights also got a mention
Steeele
thank god for the arcade room on the train or we would have been board as hell!
after the long train ride we got to our hostel. it was pretty much full of asians and euro's there was one black dude. he was bifff so reilly nicknamed him bbc (big black cunt)
Downtown
oddly shaped buses get a mention
lalaland
santa monica
a car is so necessary in this city.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Look Alikes
Dislocator
You know you're a foolish drunk when you wake up hungover under a bed in a scummy hotel room on a tuesday morning with a knee looking like this.
Little did the big gods of karma know I can now legitimately rock a pimp limp and a cane out for the coming 2 weeks.
ps. You other 2 dipshits who are allegedly part of this blog better get your act together. 7 posts in a row & I'm 1 post away from abandoning your asses & making my own supercool blog.
Little did the big gods of karma know I can now legitimately rock a pimp limp and a cane out for the coming 2 weeks.
ps. You other 2 dipshits who are allegedly part of this blog better get your act together. 7 posts in a row & I'm 1 post away from abandoning your asses & making my own supercool blog.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Teenage Mutant Ninja Toilet Pipes
Yesterday afternoon we began our Journey to the Centre of the Earth
Tunnel Vision
These tunnels aren't really as big as your shows like Tennage Mutant Ninja Turtles make them out to be. We had our hearts set on some Melbourne stormwater drains type shit. We were wrong & we were claustraphobic.
The dust masks served a purpose.
We ended up crawling about 200 metres in and each painted in the circle stairwells. Little did we know there would be no air ventilation what so ever.
Painting like this proved to be hard work considering how shakey I became after inhaling about 2 litres of paint fumes.
There was so much paint fumes that our torch turned in a lightsaber. Use the torch!
We all inhaled a stupid amount of paint. I now know exactly how a daysh feels everyday of their life.
Wizard of Oz's Tin-man
After this we went and wasted our welfare checks on cheap wine and White ox.
Tunnel Vision
These tunnels aren't really as big as your shows like Tennage Mutant Ninja Turtles make them out to be. We had our hearts set on some Melbourne stormwater drains type shit. We were wrong & we were claustraphobic.
The dust masks served a purpose.
We ended up crawling about 200 metres in and each painted in the circle stairwells. Little did we know there would be no air ventilation what so ever.
Painting like this proved to be hard work considering how shakey I became after inhaling about 2 litres of paint fumes.
There was so much paint fumes that our torch turned in a lightsaber. Use the torch!
We all inhaled a stupid amount of paint. I now know exactly how a daysh feels everyday of their life.
Wizard of Oz's Tin-man
After this we went and wasted our welfare checks on cheap wine and White ox.
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