Friday, February 29, 2008

Tits for tat.

I love breasts. I love small breasts, big breasts, sagging breasts, perky breasts and whatever else you can find. I love breasts that are always hanging yet conical; I love breasts that bear no burden of proof. Boys are introduced to breasts, and they never let go. Even the hardiest of men would find it difficult to survive without his regular dose of the valleys yonder.

However, being the bigot that I am, I only like breasts that come on women...I'd be repulsed at the sight of my own mammary rack. And I am.

Another pair of breasts that I can't abide by would be the artificial kind. Or even the kinds that need a bit of a lift to get people to notice them...which would take away from the appreciation even further, given the acknowledgment and realization of them needing a lift in the first place. However, it must be said that there're those amongst us who wouldn't really care about the authenticity of the sacred melons.

Shame on you.

It's those who would disregard the au naturel in preference for a set of artificially inflated jugs that sicken me.

It's substance that should matter.

The same can be said of most things today; with superficiality being the main craze amongst the kids these days, it's getting more and more testing to remember a time when men were men and women were happy being flat chested.

So, let me say this, if not to make myself more earthed and humbled, then at least because it fills up space and makes people feel better.

I like big girls. I don't mind my partner not having a D cup. And being a short pixie is a big plus in my book.

Beauty is passe. It's time to make like the clouds and condense.

As cliched and tired as it sounds, being proud of what you are and where you came from counts for more than becoming something that you don't have to be.

Not anymore.




I will save you, Britney. Hang on, baby.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

A house is, sadly, not a home.

It's hard to stake a claim to being naturally intuitive when all you do is second guess.

Things have come to a point whereby all I'll be doing for the next few months would be to speculate upon my role at home, as well as to uber-analyze my situation in relation to the (two) immediate people around me.

The shit hath hiteth the fan!

I like to think that I can see the good in people; it keeps me going and contributes towards my ever-sunny disposition. I suppose my problem is my lack of a panic button, or at least some silent alarm that goes off in the back of my head when things come to a head...rolling.

Mayhaps it's my fat, jolly, naive, positive chinky demeanour. Ignorance is bliss.

I suppose that years of sporadic domestic disturbances and a lack of peace of mind when it came to what went on around my house have taken their toll on me. I'm just tired. Not numb. But tired.

Things should be on the up and up soon, with all the distractions and follies that'll come my way. But, still.

It's like having a niggling feeling that the Rapture is conditional...and you can't live up to the conditions.

I wonder if I'll ever be as scared of being alone as my father is now...and if I'll be as willing to sacrifice as much as he has just to get over it.

Where's the shame in being a man who doesn't have the Jones for lovin'?

Save your nuts for a rainy day.

I'm so spent...and not in the way that you'd usually associate with being 'spent'. The last few nights have involved running marathon sessions of Lego Star Wars, holing myself in my room with the missus watching The Simpsons and generally just sleeping very late and waking up a ridiculously short time later.

It's as if I'm still not ready to release my grasp on the last vestiges of my youth...and I feel incredibly old, yet qualified, for saying that it is indeed wasted on the young.

You wankers; if you only knew how much of the world was in your hands. You wouldn't be walking around wearing flower-embroidered boot cut jeans. It's as bad as my innate desire to have Alien Workshop jeans when I was sixteen. Alien Workshop withered away as quickly as it came down upon us; the same can be said for that effeminate junior metrosexual rubbish that kids these days aspire to be robed in.

It's really an ugly, stinking, rancid potpourri of ideas gone wrong.

But I digress.

I went for my first job interview ever a couple of days ago, and left the building feeling happier for it. If I manage to weasel my way into the second interview, I'd feel more than happy, and, by the hammer of Thor, if I actually land the job, I swear that I won't masturbate to Internet pornography for two weeks.

Before you guffaw at it, let it be known that two weeks can lead to my testicles growing to the size of watermelons. Just ask Spud.

Again, I digress.

I suppose that the stars have aligned and the fates have agreed that it really, really, really is time for me to move on and that I should be moving off my arse to greener pastures...or at least pastures that have fewer cows in them.

I'm so excited. I'm like a pig that's swimming in shit.

But, even though things are as blessed as they seem, I could do with a little more sleep.

Monday, February 11, 2008

I am the puck in a game of tonsil hockey.

'Convocation' sounds like such a dirty word; it's like I'm about to receive a lobotomy. Or an enema. Or a colostomy.

I'd like to say that I've amassed a gargantuan amount of priceless life experiences and epiphanies during the last 7 years in tertiary education; how else could you make up for the ultimate blemish on anyone's permanent record? Granted, it's taken Axl Rose more than 7 years to come up with Chinese Democracy, but I'm not a hermit rocker on the cusp of reaching the brim; I'm simply someone who might have taken too long to achieve a goal that was irrelevant, and hardly irreverent, to everybody around him.

In all honesty, although the goal's been achieved, it only goads me into another tiring, arduous endeavor that means to drain me of whatever life juices I have left...for a longer term.

Alas, for now, I'm going to pat myself on the back (although my girth ensures me that such an act is impossible) and welcome myself to the rest of my life...although it's for real, this time.

Then again, since most of you tossers had moved on with your life years ago, I suppose it's only appropriate that the self-anointed Laggard King amongst you finally starts strolling upon the beaten path.




At the very least, at least I can fund a long-standing comic book addiction.