I don't know what to tell you. I'm good? You okay? Hey, where have you been? Did I do something wrong? Oh you shouldn't have! Really, hah! See you soon? Talk to you later! BRB! You frustrate me. You make me smile. You're awesome. Bye. Goodbye.


I love you.

I love you so much, I think I'll tell you a little story.

There once was a Crowned King of a Country
Who carried out Royal and Regal Duties, Regularly.

But as his workload grew more and more in abundance
Stress would stress-in and stress out until the King doth wince

Hitherto, the young King managed to perform every other deed
But it became apparent and evident that he needed a trust Steed.

So the King went to the Royal Stables
And found most fit a steed for his future fables.

The King mounted the horse and commanded its will
Through harsh summer months and the cold winter chill

But once the King's health faltered and he lost grip on the reins
The Steed took over through exploiting the Kings Pains.

The Steed followed itself whilst the King's slumber
The columns of the Palace broken asunder

Aye, steadfast is the battle for dominion between the King and his Horse.
Aye, constant is the struggle between the Mind and the Heart.

Climate Code Green Campaign - the impact of Climate Change on health (am...

Today, I came across something that irked me.
Nay, today I saw something that scared and annoyed me, incredibly

Thank you, de-motivator google!

What I found, personettes and peoplethings, was a cameraman and a 'journalist' of a women conducting a vox pop outside my school gate. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? After all, there are plenty of people pouring in and out of the gates every hour, and trickling in between--so naturally one would conduct a vox pop there, especially for something like Wednesday evening news.
Alas, to my grand, sodding dismay the woman was asking students 'if they drink alcohol.' Students above the legal age for alcohol consumption who live in a culture where drinking is normal and not really frowned upon at all.
Next up, Newsy Newsperson tells us that Water is Wet. More on that, after the break. This is Stupid McStupidface on L-Ahbaliried.
Honestly, asking youths about alcohol? How shallow can we get? Is there *really* nothing more important to talk about? Is this the extent of tele-journalism, brainwashing and spin? Is this really all that the youths should be asked about, do we not have any other questions to be asked?

Regression at its best, media.

To Another

I know a friend called Ben Kaffar
In some years time he'd be driving his Car
To many a festival where he'll play guitar

He'll play his sing-song tunes
To riff-raff beats
And sing his blue-bird lyrics
Many a stage he shall see
A famous man he will be

But oh, Dear Ben, it's been so long
Have you learned right from wrong?
Do people plague you with social etiquette
and cause you to worry and fret?

Don't be down, old bean
For in time, pain won't be seen!
Rejoice and dance with yourself
Put those doubts on the shelf

And set it aflame, ablaze, asunder

Let confidence roar like thunder!

That is it, I am spent
Perhaps in time I shall have some coin
With which to spend on more than rent

**

There is a man, Matthias the Kentzia

The man, the legend, the 'bestja'.

A man made to dare

Chest brazen with many a hair

Of Germanic descent and Maltese blood

Miles above those who live in the mud

Lover of Discipline and Imperium belief

With many a person he holds a beef

Some of these people he knows their face

The rest, one day, their IP he'll trace

They'll rue the day they fragged his ass

They'll wish they had a more respectable class

Thundering down with the raffica, akimbo

He'll leave you in martyrdom's limbo!

To Elaine!

He loves you
it's true
he made this sing-song to tell you the truth
like superman taking you into his booth

hipster fashion and pop culture jokes
it's when it matters that he chokes!

see the tell tale signs of love-stricken eyes
look deep, pray tell, don't be petrified

by his double-beat thumping heart
through his life a map you must chart

through thick and thin stick with him
when the lights are bright or even dim

lest there be darkness to fight within
lest there be troubles and you let them win!

I came to pay a visit; it's my turn to be kind
So open up young lady; let me into your mind

Take me past level one and two
Take me deeper where blue is not blue

Take me past level three and four
Where gravity makes sense no more

Take me past level five and six
Where reality can no longer play its tricks.

When you take me and when I get there
I will, after all this, tell you how much I care

We'll walk over bridges and have lovely talks
In reaches were doubt can no longer stalk

Where Autumn trees are the Summer norm
Where Spring birds in the snow can form

We'll laugh and cry and laugh again
I'll hold you in my arms, my old friend.

Let us dive into the river brown
So we can reach that rustic town

Lull me into that deep deep sleep
Where I count the android sheep

Luck will follow us no better
Than rain can make the sun wetter

It is there, O lady, where we can and will be.

I want critique.

The snow-coated beach asks for nothing. It holds its Summer memories but is ready to embrace the stabbing winds and blanketing waves of snow of a Canadian Winter. It's non-expectant, it's ambitious, it's... dare I say, human. It is constantly engaged with the grey skies that come with the season, in a dialouge more engaging than lover's quarrel.

I've always liked snow-beaches though, they've enchanted me since childhood, longer than I've liked girls I'd say. Yeah, that sounds about right; a good long time ago. There I stood, a figure of blacks and grays, draped with layers of clothing shaped by my pea coat. I remember how I wore that woolen hat to hid my greasy, matted hair, thinking I'd see no one and nothing of significance. Had I seen myself though, I would've felt nothing but pity.

At the edge of the shore, by the lighthouse, was a girl in teals and bright greens, she stood out more than me. I'd learn her name sometime later. Not then though, no, I knew I wasn't meant to then. I drew my name in the sand with a yardstick I found by some rocks, gave a look to the horizon and then to the girl. After that, I left. I walked up the wooden staircase out of the beach and onto the trail, and I walked that trail. Right up to my car, I got in hastily, eager to turn on the heat. After letting the heat reach my fingers and de-misting the windows I drove off to my home. I missed it.

I didn't slack, I has photblag, see?!

The Tale. Pt. I

. THE TALE OF AIDEN DAES; THE GUTSY CHILD


The children galloped and scurried on the turf-covered ground of the playground. They went round on the merry-go-round, slid down the slide, swung on the swings and took delight in candied foods. But the children did not, however, talk to the blond child by the tree. That child was the village's burden, an orphan fed and housed by the makeshift welfare state. All the children would mock him and shun him, because all the adults would tell them to. Aiden didn't know why, nor did he think it mattered. To him, that was their way, and he was fine with it.
But why was their way causing him so much harm? Why would he clutch his chest every time a parent will pull their child away from his sight?
"I never hurt them," he'd say, "but it's their way."


As the children walked home with the sun, Aiden stayed at the playground counting the falling Autumn leaves. One by one he'd count them, going down, down and down. Slowly they'd fall from a great height, but they wouldn't even dent; it amazed and astounded him. He was snapped out of his gaze, for the leaves were hidden by the moonless night.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" He yelped as soon as he realised how late he had stayed out. "How'd I not see the freaking sun set?! It's the sun! Seriously!"
He pushed himself up with his hand and got up and started scrambling to get home, he didn't live far, he thought, but he had to hurry.


By the small pizzeria two corners from his house, was a broken street lamp. He was familiar with the street lamp, for some reason it's been broken for weeks. He'd hate having to walk by it, he'd always get the darkest of feelings in the pit of his stomach. He'd tell himself the street lamp was growing stones in his belly, and that he should stop passing through. It was as he was warning himself of the gut-wrenching feeling that he saw two figures under the street lamp grappling each other--fighting. As he inched closer he saw that the aggressor was a man and the victim the woman. He got closer still and recognised the woman as Ms. Packerton, his school teacher.


Ms. Packerton always took care of Aiden, she made sure he wasn't bullied at school she shared her lunch with him when he couldn't afford any and she always scolded him when he was mischievous. It was when he was remembering all that she had done for him that he felt a fire in his heart and tears on his toes.


Aiden charged, bearing a sky-tearing, God-fearing cry in his lungs; and it exploded out of him like a star out of the sky. He launched himself onto the bewildered man's back and dug his finger into his shoulders and ribs. The man wavered and swore, bashing Aiden into the lamp post. Aiden bit down on the man's neck, but the man did not take this kindly, and retaliated. The boy's back and the red-brick walls met in a heavy thud. Aiden fell to the ground in agony.


The man stood over the boy and kicked him in the stomach, but someone forgotten is someone to be wary of. Ms. Packerton gave her last-ditch effort. She threw a rock, with all her might, directly at the man's lower back. The man growled and turned his gaze to her. He walked towards the Middle school teacher, his steps tick-tocking away at the cement pavement. Slowly and meticulously he took in the victory that was teasing his fingertips.
"You shouldn't have done that, I could do this town a favour by killing that monster and get with a fine piece of ass like you in one night. Now, I might have to kill you just so you don't go yapping your whore mouth off."
He raised his hand and it hung in the air, loosely, before tensing his taut muscles and bringing it down upon Ms. Packerton.


But Ms. Packerton's skin did not break, and her bone did not crack.

Like a winged statue, Aiden held the arm of the man with one hand. His body was tense, but his eyes were relaxed. His resolve was solid and his will was ablaze. The man was confused and angry, and he shouted questions at the young boy who's endured so much.
"Why do you even care about this bitch?! You're risking your life for a person who hates you, like everyone else!"
"Because Ms. Packerton is my friend. And I will protect my friends; because that is my way!"


The man finally saw what a strong soul Aiden has when he looked him in the eye. But it was too late, for Aiden had launched his fist into the man's stomach. The man jarred and fell to the ground, his arms clamping onto his abdomen.


"Aiden..." Ms. Packerton began to utter, "...why didn't you run away?"
"Because," Aiden began, "Love came down, and rescued me."

And that floating consciousness, like a pearly bubble of undisturbed thought, floated in a black ink which shared its eternal space with an indiscernible shade of blue. It was stark, save for that sphere of dreams.


And it burst. From the orb of minds a plethora of colours reached and spun outwards, forming tentacles and networks of colours; like radiant veins in the blackness of infinity. A supernova of consciousness pierced the space of self. The Reds arranged themselves above and around, the Oranges darted below, the Yellows shot and branched out of the ground, the Greens took flight and broke through the sky, the Blues stood over all as obelisks, the Indigos scattered and scurried across the ground and the Violets covered large portions of the ground, moving back and forth in perpetual motion.


I suppose I should fill you in a little, you just picked this up and all you got was a very intimate moment with a dream that was arbitrarily picked from my Dream Logs. I had this dream a long, long time ago. Listen, sometimes in life, it's the first things that make themselves apparent to you which are the most important. You don't realise it at the time, but it always is. The thing is, that we humans are resistant to the idea of foreshadowing outside of films or books. We just always like to think that we want will come true; regardless of previous signs already rejecting this.


Sometimes though, it's the disregard of a sign, but the following of that raw, gut instinct that helps us see through the day. This particular morning, also.
" 'Ello, Benjamin." I heard from behind me. Funny thing, instincts, they're not wrong that often.
"Hey there, Roberts."


Wesley Roberts was one of the most distasteful, disgusting and dishonest men one would ever meet. Sure, his hair is going gray and his skin is getting wrinklier, but his wallet gets fatter and his lackies get bigger. In number and brutish qualities.


"You owe me an eye." he said, bursting at the seems with authority.


"And you owe me a life."


 Do you ever get that feeling of instant regret after opening your mouth for no real reason whatsoever? No? Well, it's kind of like feeling your balls retract all the way up to your oesophagus and build a cottage up there for the winter. I apolgise to all ladies reading this, I don't know what it'd feel like for a woman, but I assume it's just as bad.


"This is industrial London, Benjamin, and most of my money is made off of bricks and mortar, as you know. Every man in this city interested in owning any property, any man with wide-eyed dreams of opening a business in any shape or form, and many other such men, can be bent over by yours truly."


"You're out of luck then aren'tcha? I'm not interested in any 1 square inch of land in this city." Oh, I'm outdoing myself this morning. Wesley Roberts stood there, staring at me through his dark-lensed Ray Bans with contempt, or so I thought, until he sported the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen a man sport.


"Oh, you'd think that, wouldn't ya? You see, every so often I find someone who has something I want. Now, I'd normally just go about the usual methods to get what I want from such a man, but sometimes I make us of other methods. They're a little rough around the edges, but I think that makes them especially efficient."


Oh... shit.

The Natural yet Somewhat Less-Useful Internet.

I have not posted in a while. I call that dedication. Oh yes.

In case you haven't noticed, NEW LAYOUT, if you already noticed, awesome now get with the others and celebrate the new layout. Free chicken wings for all.

So a while ago I was thinking, and I had a thought. A thought that I found to be quite deep.

What did I do?

I did what any pseudo-intellectual would--post it on my facebook.

You can hug the whole freakin' world. That's awesome, hug the word and everyone on it. You can look at the moon and think 'wow, there are other people avoiding coursework just to look at the moon; like I am!'

Just last night I was looking at and pondering about said moon. Then my friend, who's studying for her A levels just sends me a text, telling me how beautiful the moon is. Now there's only two explanations for this.

1. I told her I was going to look at the moon.
2. She saw my reflection in the moon (and thus has ocular powers I should ask her about)

So, that's all for now, I got a bigger post to bring so GET READY.

Or don't, I know I wouldn't hold my breath or anything. You can't wait for dedication

/procrastination

Barefoot for a day

Barefoot for a day



Hell yeah.

The Teatime String Theory.

I'm probably one of the only people who thinks that (and I await a facebook group to defy me)somewhere, some day a future me will confront me thanks to time travel (and my characteristic and diligent following of rules)and it will be comforting to know that time travel was made possible and that my future is probably pretty cool.

I shouldn't think too much though, for my head will hurt with all the pondering and whatnot. Besides, then I'd have 0.02 less material in my current book, 'The Quantum Travelling of Time, Space and Being with a side of Chips'.

It's a working title.

But yeah, today I was on the bus and there was this guy who looked a bit like an older, socially awkward me (I guess having access to the Internet with cybernetic eyes would make one less inclined to venture outside, then again, why would a shut-in civilian of the Internet decide to venture outside of his own dimensi- DAMN IT I'M OVER-THINKING AND WASTING GOOD MATERIAL). Right, where was I? Ah, yes, future me. No, he was pretty cool overall, gave up his seat for old people (the seat next to mine) as soon as I was about to get up. He also walked right up to the Junior college ATM alongside me. And I swear he gave me a few, discreet glances which screamed 'Oh yeah that's me, man I was so cool. I want to talk to him but that could be dangerous HMM OH DANG'.
Not only that, but he didn't actually use the ATM, he just waited in line. Clearly a man from the future won't have a current savings account he'd need to withdraw from.

That's not over-thinking, that's rationalisation!

I really felt like blogging before vlogging (I love how the v and b are right next to each other on the QWERTY keyboard, totally not atrocious to type offhand/blindfolded.)

I think I've used enough brackets for the day. So, to you, I bid an adieu. <3

(Have you noticed I started watching The Big Bang Theory?)

Lettered Adieu.

But if I had to walk away again, would you ever forgive me? If I had to leave before the moon, even if it's sometime soon would you smile the very next day like I had never gone away?

As I sit here on the clay-tiled roof of our home, I see the moon shine over Rome. I can hardly hear a bird; let alone a spoken word. I can't even see a cat stalk, let alone encounter someone on my walk.

I saw the many homes and shops of Rome, all seemingly bowing to the growing stature of the Vatican, which was partly covered by scaffolding and the like, for the Pope commissioned artists and architects to work on a new addition to the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel. Whatever for a Church of love in life needs such lavish constructions for is beyond me, and seeing all the construction and hearing all the eager comments of the citizens became stones in my heart. But these daily annoyances are pebbles that could fit in a child's hand compared to the boulder which I've been trying to ignore.

My dear Emilia, she's so precious to me, such that she is a necessity. I've never held such a love for someone I didn't want to bed. It is inexplicable, I see something in her that just seems to make me want to protect her, cherish her and guide her in life. Ever since I met her 7 years ago in the snowy Alps. She was so weak and hungry but still there was something in her eyes, something beautiful. It's not a word I like to use, but I do not think that anything else is as apt as that word for what I see when I look into her eyes. I can talk about how she holds ten-thousand stars in each one, or about how her gaze gives some of its own magnificent to light to whatever she casts it upon--but it does not suffice. I just had to protect that.

I had left her once before, 3 years ago. It was because I was scared that I took up too much of her life, that she wasn't living her own life because of me, and every day after that I used to look at the night sky and think about all the stars I'd see in her eyes, even now I think that the only reason there are this many stars at night is because they leave her sleeping eyes and settle for sky's infinity until morning arrives once more.

When I found her again a year ago she was selling pendants she made herself by the fountain in that yellow ocher dress I had bought her in Florence. The pendants would only be worn by peasants but they had a certain charm to them, something I feel that no one else would appreciate. When she had seen me standing so close to her she nearly fell into shock and started crying. She cried a million tears, and pounded my chest a million times. All I could do was hold her while she told me about those two long years we spent apart. She asked me to not leave her again.

What a promise I have to break, and you shan't know why, for if you did I know you'd follow me and that's something I know I cannot want. I'm a man of foolish tendencies and even more foolish habits, and it's because of those habits that I must bid her a farewell, at least for now.

The Outside World Doesn't Belong In Your Bed.

The Outside world doesn't belong in your Bed

If you let it in it will take your stead

The smell and touch of your day

Will never ever go away.

If you don't cleanse yourself

You'll end up off your bed and on the shelf.

So take some time to shower

No more than half an hour

Before you dream the night's dreams

Before the sun bares its beams.

Evidently, I have to do this, well tralila and a sheep's hammock; here I go! On my way making the list. (I'm trying to evade formatting issues >_>)

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.
1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicise those you intend to read
3) Underline the books you LOVE.
4) Reprint this list in your own blog/fb note so we can try and track down these people who've read 6 and force books upon them

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of The Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter Series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible

7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare *not complete yet*
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis (haven't read them all)
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac *I know I'll love it though*
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

So, in total...

Read: 23

Intend to read: 21

Love: 9