Sunday, September 20, 2015
Thursday, September 03, 2015
Wednesday, April 01, 2015
And we're live
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
This is Ironic, Alanis
"Yeah! Now I can have exactly the right shade of eyeliner while I make 12-year olds stab each other in the stomach with machetes! Faaaabulous!"
You too can be like the Capitol.
It's not so bad; it's not like a world-famous fast-food chain has made a sandwich tie-in with a series named The 'Hunger' Games where the majority of people are starving to death. ..oh wait.
"You too can catch fire with our range of 'fiery jalapeno melts*'"
*Serious poverty not included, Subway does not endorse political rebellion
Alanis Morrisette should be singing about this.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
No one is completely sure what he looks like because it's nearly impossible to see him.
The Smiler is a man who stands behind you in the part of the vision that you can't see. He's got a permanent grin that extends past the sides of his face, showing each and every one of his bright white teeth. His wide bloodshot eyes always face forwards, and he has no eyelids and so can never blink. The Smiler always leans forward with his fingers outstretched hovering motionless just centimetres away from the back of your head. He has no reflection and no matter how fast you turn around, he will always remain behind you. Reports say that you can never be sure when he's there, except for the funny feeling that there's someone watching you. Some say the skin on the back of your neck prickles with the sensation of having cold fingers suspended so close to you, yet never touching. Some say that the temperature in the room drops ever so slightly, and some say that they suddenly feel fear drop into their stomach like a dead weight.
The good news about this man is that there is only one of him and he is only ever in one place at one time. The bad news is that as soon as someone learns of his existence, he will instantly appear behind them and he won't leave until that person tells of his existence to someone else.
I'm so sorry.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
50 Shades of Green, a Social Experiment, and My Dwindling Sanity
Doozy. I don't even know what doozy means, but I felt like saying it.
There's this online reviewer of film, TV, books and other media, I've been following her since she first emerged back in 2008, and could be considered a rather large fan. She's highly- intelligent, humourous, witty, analytical and insightful and I may or may not want to find her, marry her, and bear her children.
Anyway, her name is Lindsay Ellis, otherwise known as The Nostalgia Chick. Back in February she decided to embark on a project of some interest to me - she decided to write a book that parodied one of our most recent, prolific, and downright annoying literary phenomenons - that of teenage Paranormal Romance. You know the one, Mary Sue meets boy, boy turns out to be a vampire/werewolf/mummy/tapeworm, they flounder about bouncing off some cardboard extras designed purely to provide some mild conflict and opposition for a bit and then finally settle down. I've written and talked about this literary plague at length before.
Lindsay intended to write a book that both explored, and - not to put too fine a point on it - ripped the absolute rat shit bat shit piss out of the Twilight generation. All while pretending to be a real book. She titled her brainchild '50 Shades of Green' and you can see the webseries chronicling the project here -
TL:DW, she sits around with her friend drinking wine and discussing the building blocks of the novel for 15 mins each time, releasing the video to the public and taking and taking input in the form of comments and suggestions (mai hero). Each video covers something like 'what will the Mary Sue be like?' 'What creature will the boy be?' 'What's the storyline?' and then then moves on to 'We need cover art, please send us some' and finally 'whoo here is the launch party for our book'. I've been watching each video as they are released each month with great interest, wanting to know the direction that this parody was going to take.
After many suggestions from the fans and some deliberation, Nostalgia Chick finally settled on Cthulhu as the love interest. I think it had something to do with mocking the Twilight generation further, most of whom will assume that HP Lovecraft is some kind of vibrator and that The Necronomicon is a book that tells you how to turn people into toads. An ancient monstrous infamously untameable force of the universe indifferent to the fate of humans, created a hundred years ago by one of the most intelligent writers of our time, falling in love with an ordinary teenage girl? Of course! The Twilight generation would lap this shit up and then ask for seconds.
For the three people out there in the world who don't know what Cthulhu looks like, here is a picture.
So with the characters and plot finally cemented, the book was written. It was a story about a Bella Sue who has a fling with an ancient tentacled god. The blurb?
'In his house at R’lyeh, great Cthulhu lies dreaming... of her.
What would you do if you discovered you were the only one in the world with the hidden power to keep it from utter annihilation?
What if you had no idea what that power might even be?
Andromeda Slate, the self-proclaimed most ordinary girl in America, can’t figure out why the gorgeous but mysterious new boy at high school seems to hate her so much. It couldn't have anything to do with the strange dream she had the night before he first showed up in class, could it? The dream where the very same boy rescued her from a giant, green, tentacled sea monster?
And it couldn’t have anything to do with that time she read aloud from that ancient tome of eldritch magic, the Necronomicon... could it?
Andi Slate never imagined she’d find herself in a situation where somehow she was the key to saving the world.
Her life is about to get a whole lot less ordinary.'
It was sent off to many publishers, and declined many times. Finally, a publisher accepted it. The joke was bound, and printed under a pseudonym. And on 19th August, just 6 months after the idea was created, it was released. And..it shot right to number 2 in the YA fiction charts on Amazon.com.
I shit you not. The book designed to mock, degrade, and generally illustrate the vapid sheep mentality of the dumbass people who love cheap paranormal romance went straight up there with the bestsellers. The bait had been dropped and the fish snapped it right up within a matter of days. And the reviews are mainly positive. I couldn't believe it. Mission accomplished.
But the strangeness of this whole project was only just beginning.
I've read it. It's pretty good. The main character Andromeda is as vacuous and bland and relatable as they always are in paranormal romance, and the book is of course very self aware, with amusing little meta moments such as the lead not understanding the point of the book she's reading (in this case The Phantom of the Opera). It starts and end as they always do and it parodies the source material very well. Even made me laugh out loud a few times.
The project was complete. The parody is out there in paper form circulating the world and fooling everyone and rather making a face that looks like this.
Here comes the weird part. An awful lot of effort has gone into this pseudonym. Lindsay has done a magnificent job of designing a fictitious author whose name sits on the front of her book - Serra Elinsen. A little too magnificent, in fact. She has a biography (she's a 'part time author and full time mom of five rambunctious kids and loves chocolate'). She has a picture.
She not only has her own website, but she also has a twitter, a facebook page, a goodreads page, a tvtropes entry, and many more. You can find them in the following links.
http://serraelinsen.com/ (notice that her website has an animation of a worm on a hook with fish swimming past it. Bait, fish, lolgeddit?)
Serra Elinsen is prolific and replies to her fans and comments on her success. Her website details her process of writing her book. Her goodreads page contains comments saying what she thinks of other books, with a few obvious jokes about her true identity. She's the subject of more blog entries than I can count. Youtube reviews of her book have just begun. People are discussing and reviewing and praising and sharing this novel. This novel. That is intended to troll and mock the mentality of the kind of people who like this garbage is now being circulated as a must read. In fact if you google Serra Elinsen you'll get something like this -
Not bad for a woman who doesn't exist. You'll notice that out of the first 50 hits, only ONE of the links is a reference to the joke. Lindsay has done such a marvellous job of creating this false persona that not even google will tell you any different.
Now here's the point that I've been building towards and the thing that's making me lose my sanity an eensy bit. I'm starting to think that Serra is a real person. I can't tell what's true and what's not. Regarding this novel and social experiment, I mean.
While looking at reviews and publicity for this book and the comments on Serra's website, I'm completely unable to tell who is in on the joke and who is not. I find the odd reviewer or commenter who knows who is behind this book and says as much, but 95% of the reviews I have seen have comprised of people worshipping this fictitious author and praising her on a job well done. And I'm wondering..do these people actually know what's going on, and are they merely playing along with the magnitude of the joke and the deception and just pretending to be a vapid fan who's been fooled? Because that would be cool. Or..are they in fact a genuine vapid fan who has been duped, lapping up the shit like we knew they would? There is no visible difference between the words of a reader who is playing along with the joke, and one who is not.
I just can't tell the difference! There is no difference between a review of the book written by someone who is playing along, and someone who's been duped. Hell, even Nostalgia Chick has admitted that she can't tell the difference.
People who are probly in on it -
People who are probly not -
People who are pissed off.
And just to compound my confusion even further, the predictable but fortunately small amount of backlash aimed towards this 'author' has resulted in some very strange things. Have a look at this -
My brain. It hurts.
So many people think that this person is real. People are not only praising her, but they're also addressing her like they would a personal friend and even jumping in to defend her honour against any criticism she recieves. So this brings me to my next point.
[philosophy] When enough people think that something or someone is real, do they then become real? Wasn't it Einstein who said 'Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one'? Isn't it also true that most of what we percieve to be real and important is intangible and exists in the mind only? Am I in on the joke or am I part of the joke? What if -
I've been following this 50 Shades of Green project ever since it began last February. I've seen the entire thing being fabricated from vague idea all the way to YA bestseller and talked about book. I know that Serra isn't real and that this was all done in the name of parody. But all between the fan reaction, the websites, and the fact that the novel has absolutely nothing on it - both on the physical paper and nearly nothing on google too - to link it to the Nostalgia Chick, I'm starting to think I've lost it and that the 50 Shades Project was all in my mind. And that Serra is in fact real and it out there, running around with her five rambunctious kids and eating chocolate.
This experiment has messed with the minds of so many readers, and I don't even know who knows it and who doesn't. It's messing with my mind as a result.
Serra, if you're out there, I want to poke you in the nose. Just to see whether I can or not.
Oh god, please let me poke you in the nose.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Saturday, May 05, 2012
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Inheritance: The Abridged Version
Previously: ERAGON, a young farmboy, thinks he is destined to remain living in his simple village, with nothing great to do except engage in homoerotic wresting matches with his cousin. One day he finds a dragon egg in a forest, and the dragon hatches for him. Then that shit gets real. He runs away to learn how to fight, and knows that one day, he will have to face the evil dragon rider John Malko – uh, Galbatorix, and put an end to his despotic rule once and for all. Despotic. Shit. I don’t even know what that means. But I’m writing it.
The Cast –
ERAGON – A simple farm boy turned mighty dragon rider.
SAPHIRA – Eragon’s dragon
ARYA – Token hot elf chick
GALBATORIX – The BAD GUY. Rules over the land with an iron fist
SHRUIKAN – Galbatorix’s evil dragon
GLAEDR – Glaedr was a powerful golden dragon who died in the last book, but his consciousness is stored in an Eldunari. An Eldunari is a giant glowing ball located in the dragon’s heart, that, should he so wish, he can store his consciousness inside and then cough up like a hairball so that when he dies, his mind will carry on living insi – oh you know what, it’s a big telepathic glowball.
BIG TELEPATHIC GLOWBALLS – Several. GALBATORIX has been hoarding them to make himself super super powerful.
Chapter one – WAR. WAR rages across the land. The GOOD GUYS are trying to capture a town, and it’s not going well. Suddenly a man on a magic horse emerges from the WAR, and shoots SAPHIRA with a spear.
SAPHIRA – Haha, your puny mortal weapons are no threat to a magical dragon!
[the spear promptly pierces saphira’s chest]
SAPHIRA – Erk. Medic!
[saphira is healed]
ARYA – Hey look ERAGON, this is a magic metal. Named Dauthdert.
ERAGON – Boy that sure reads like Deathdart.
ARYA- I know. It’s a magical substance that we’ve never mentioned in the previous eight thousand pages, but we’re bringing it up on the first page of this book. By the way, it’s the only metal that can kill dragons. Think it’ll come in handy?
ERAGON – Nah, but let’s keep hold of it anyway, it’s shiney.
786 pages later -
[eragon, arya, and saphira break into galbatorix’s castle]
ERAGON: Galbatorix, I am here to kill you!
GALBATORIX: You’ll never defeat me! I have bigger glowballs than you do!
GALBATORIX: Besides, in order to kill me, you’ll first have to face my dragon, SHRUIKAN!
[arya hefts the Dauthdert]
ARYA: Hey Shruikan, you see this? I found it in chapter one.
SHRUIKAN: Oh fuck me, no one told me we were putting this in the storyline!
[arya shoots Shruikan with the Dauthdert. Shruikan dies]
GALBATORIX: Shruikan nooo!
ERAGON: I’m going to cast a spell that’ll make you realise what a bad man you’ve been!
[eragon casts the spell]
GALBATORIX: O my god, I’m a bastard! Wait, didn’t we do this in Harry Potter already?
SAPHIRA: Well that takes care of that then.
Months later –
[arya sends eragon a magic letter saying ‘Meet me tomorrow at this rock. I have a secret to show you, so come alone’]
ERAGON: So what’s this all about?
ARYA: Eragon! You’ll never guess what! I –
ERAGON: The last remaining egg we saved from Galbatorix’s castle hatched for you, you are the new dragon rider, and your dragon is green?
ARYA: ..how’d you know that?
ERAGON: It was on the front cover.
ERAGON: Bit of a giveaway.
[arya shows eragon and saphira her hot new dragon, firnen.]
FIRNEN: Hey babe. Just got out of my egg. Let’s shag.
[Firnen and Saphira fly off into the sunset]
ARYA: (actual quote) Well that didn’t take long.
ERAGON: I know, right.
ARYA: So anyway, we’re running out of pages, and since we’ve all known for the last four books that if you fancied me any more your dragon would be dryhumping my leg, I think we’d better do something about it.
ARYA: No silly, I’m going to tell you my name.
ERAGON: But –
ARYA: Don’t knock it. We’re still in the Young Adult section of the bookshop, so this is the best you’re going to get.
[arya leans in close and whispers to eragon her true name]
ERAGON: Your true name is Wendy?
ARYA: Shut up.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
There's something about them that's just magical. It's like that feeling you get when you walk through the glitter enamelled gates at Disneyland, transporting to a different country in the blink of an eye and the spring of a step. The kind of carefree feeling similar to dancing in one's own front garden completely naked, knowing that legally, little can be done to stop you. It's not unlike pulling off the perfect handbrake turn in a shopping centre, just like Grand Theft Auto taught you to.
Today I woke up not to the blare of an alarm, but the sizzle of bacon and eggs on the fire. The chirping of birds above my window, as the comfortable fall breeze flowed in and brushed my legs. I leapt out of bed with a smile and went out to get the post in my bare feet.
Boy, feeling the grass between my toes was sure refreshing. Feeling the hot tarmac was even better! I was only steps away from the postbox when I came across the biggest spider I'd ever seen, ever! It was sure a surprise. Now, usually I don't like spiders, but on this particular sunny day, I started to think. What did spiders ever do to me? Have I ever been bitten? No. And even if I had been bitten, is that representative of spiders as a whole? I don't think so! So I picked it up and cupped it gently in my hands, its many eyes staring up at me with an expression of cautious love. I think it even licked its lips.
I reached the pavement and noticed my senior citizen neighbour, Mrs. Annmarie Callahan, walking by with her dog. I stared right at her and grinned, extending this beautiful spider out towards her. Surely she'd want to marvel in the beauty of little things, like spiders grown up to the size of a human fist. I just hoped she wouldn't try to take my new pet from me.
But then things got weird. Mrs Callahan screamed and threw her arms in the air when she saw my adorable arachnid, and her dog tore off into the street in a panicked response. Just then an Argos truck came barrelling around the curb and smashed the poor puppy into soup! There was a faint *pop* and several coiled organs spilled onto the street, blood spraying in every direction, at least ten feet in the air, like some kind of Cherryade geyser. It was really warm; I got it all over me. It's sooo hard to get it out of your hair, but I bet you already knew that. Mrs Callahan, though, had like some major freak-out attack. What I remember for sure is that she starting screaming like crazy, then she got kind of breathless, clutched her left arm, and collapsed in a heap on the ground. I heard a really loud *CRACK* and she howled like the seductive octogenarian she was.
Needless to say, I'm not one to let a senior citizen neighbour suffer, no sir. I knelt down next to her and let my pet spider kiss her on her cheek, the classic childhood cure for all ills. She shrieked in delight as the spider placed its magic lips on her cheek and blood started to seep from it. I guess the injury was so bad that the spider had to actually bleed it out of her system - what a clever spider!
I heard some frantic footsteps coming this way, and saw the truck driver running over to where we were. He screamed a horrible obscenity and gestured at the spider - I forgave his language, I'd probably exclaim such a thing as well if I saw such an amazing creature. But then - to my surprise and shock - he got down on his knees and forcefully removed the spider from her, crushing it with his bare hands! I was in shock!
He started talking to both of us, but I didn't hear a word of it. There wasn't a chance that he was getting away with killing my friend. I lunged for the postbox and pulled out my recently received package, opening it up to reveal a shiny new ice pick. It was not long before the ice pick had pierced the truck driver's eyeball and split his brain in two with a satisfying, jelly-like *squish*.
I didn't have any other post, so I went inside, tossed the eyeball on the frying pan, and poured myself some orange juice.
I just love Saturdays!
Friday, December 24, 2010
9) The fact that it is not only sightly illegal, but also morally frowned upon to punch carol singers in the throat.
Seriously, I thought they didn't exist outside of cartoons. Gentle readers, I was wrong. I can hear them. I try to run, I try to hide, but they keep finding me. Like Alien if he were shorter and knew the lyrics to - OH JESUS GOD NO
FA LA LA LA LAAA,
LA LA, LA LA.
8) Love Actually. It was awesome to watch the first time, and the second time, and maybe even the third time, but now, actually, on the 23rd viewing, I'd rather like it if it buggered orf.
GET AWAY FROM MY FRONT DOOR
Also, children, this -
- will get you a bullet through your still-developing brain. Don't do it.
No matter how adorable your goddamned big brown eyes are.
7) The manner in which my new shoe spikes enable me to zoom across thick sheet ice as if it were a scenic summer field, but the moment I step inside onto a laminate floor I execute a flawless faceplant (true story).
6) The way that every single year, when it snows and ices over, we're all fooking surprised. We as Brits all seem to be horribly flabbergasted and dismayed by it all and we can't cope and the entire country collectively closes down.
"Um, Steve? Hey Steve? What's all this white stuff?"
We knew Xmas was coming, we knew the ice was coming, now quit being bewildered by the fact that you might get iced into your house once or twice and acting like it's uncivilised or undignified. Or summat. IT IS WINTER, yo
*weeps tears of blood*
4) People who blog about things that annoy them at Xmas. Those are the most annoying people of all.
3) Xmas related religious/moral/origination-based debates. Being exposed to sentences such as "Christ is the first syllable of Christmas for a reason." "No it's Pagan/Roman/aliens/wizards did it." "Christmas should be about family, not presents." "If you're not in church on Christmas day, you shouldn't be celebrating Christmas."
We know where X - fine, Christmas came from. And we know that it's been purloined and adapted and edited and even completely bloody rewritten and modernised and bastardised into this batshit barmy ritualistic annual session that excites everyone below the age of 14 and makes everyone else clutch at their hair follicles in exasperation and that it doesn't have an inkling of anything to do with it's origins anymore and and GAH (see link). But..do we really have to argue about it every single year? Like, the controversy is something new?
Christmas armadillo, however, is something I could get behind
The point is, the Xmas that most people engage in today is like the holiday equivalent of that irregular-looking very elderly inbred cousin of multiple ethnicities and faiths who sits in the corner smelling faintly of eggnog and mothballs and smiling oddly at you.
I call him Bob.
I just want to keep my head down and get through it as quick and painlessly as possible. And if you try to engage me in a discussion about the true meaning of Christmas, I will remove, cook, and eat your face.
Merry Christmas, one and all!
2) Getting sellotape in my hair.
Thanks Lu! Grinch out.
Friday, October 08, 2010
I have often wondered what it would be like to die. I think about what it would feel like. Whether it would be like going to sleep, whether it would be blissful like getting really drunk and passing out, whether there would really be a big ol’ white light, and whether your whole life would indeed flash before your eyes like a PowerPoint presentation. But a touch more spiritual, of course.
Wondering doesn’t matter anymore. Soon, I will find out. I don't have much time left. Right now, I am marvelling at how I am lucid enough to type this. And right now, I am marvelling at the fact that I’ve started babbling about nothing before I even get my message across. It’s an important message. If I tell you, it won’t be like I died alone. If I manage to type it quick enough, that is. It’s not that I don’t already feel cold and still inside, I do. I just want people to know what happened to me.
I have a friend from home named Alex. Today, Alex told me a story. He’d been living with his grandmother ever since he was younger, and today, he found out how his parents really died.
They’d been living in Plymouth when one night, Alex’s Dad ran into the police station, screaming about a white woman having killed his wife. The police ignored him, of course. Alex lived in a tiny village were urban legends were rife, and the White Woman was just one of them. After the police tired of his ramblings and threw him out of the station, he went to see the local vicar. But at the first mention of the White Woman, the vicar threw him out of the church and locked up.
No one saw Alex’s Dad after that.
The White Woman, well. The urban legend says that she is just that. A young girl of sixteen, dressed in a long white dress. The dress, like her, has the appearance of something that was once exquisite, before its beauty was destroyed by some unknown trauma. Her black hair is long and lank and obscures her features. No one knows what her face looks like. Rumour has it that her eyes are like pits and her mouth is locked permanently open in a soundless scream.
She moves without moving her arms and legs, gliding across the ground at speeds only slightly faster than her victims can run. Once someone learns of her existence, she follows them home, whether they notice her or not. Once she gets to your house, she starts knocking on your door.
Sixteen slow, deliberate knocks on every door she must pass through, and every mirror she must pass by. She does this until she finds you, and then, you die. And so does anyone else who sees her or is unfortunate enough to otherwise learn of her existence. Sometimes it can take days, even weeks, for her to get to you. But she never stops. She won’t stop.
This is the story that Alex told me in a choked up voice over the phone, not five minutes ago. I listened first with incredulity, which turned into derision, which turned into amusement, right up until the ambulances sped past my window and Alex told me that his grandmother was dead.
“Why are you calling me?” I asked. “Call the police, get out of there!”
And then I heard the knocks. The slow, methodical, calculated knocks, audible even over Alex’s panicked breathing. Sixteen in all. “It’s too late.” He sobbed.
That’s when I heard the door splinter, followed by Alex’s screams. I heard the phone fall, and I stood paralysed for the silence that followed, my knuckles turning white from gripping the receiver so hard. I didn’t snap out of it until a female voice rasped one word into my ear. “WITNESS.”
Then the connection was severed.
This was ten minutes ago now.
Eight minutes ago, I heard a knock at my front door. Feeling sick with fear, I stood and listened. I waited for about twenty seconds, and heard nothing more. Relieved, I told myself that I was hearing things, that my frenzied mind was suffering from auditory hallucinations, that this was all some horrible horrible joke and –
There was another knock. A further twenty second pause, and another. I didn’t need to hang around to know that there would be thirteen more.
I ran into the bathroom and ripped the medicine cabinet off the wall, placing it in the hallway outside my bedroom. I then ran into the spare room and dragged the full length mirror out into the hallway, and placed it next to the cabinet. Finally, I ran back into my room, and tore drawers open and flung the contents onto the floor until I found the hand mirror that I knew was in there somewhere. Placing that next to the other two, I stood upright and listened. The knocking at the front door had stopped. Suddenly, the temperature dropped by a few degrees and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I ran back into my room. I had bought myself minutes. I collapsed at my desk, and began to type.
Since I placed the mirrors outside, my only goal has been to type this as clearly and coherently and as quickly as possible. I will not listen to the knocking at my bedroom door and I don’t know how many have passed and it’s so cold in here and my heart’s turned to ice and my only solace is that I am using my last minutes to telllllllllllllllllllllllllllll;kg
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
My Mother VS Technology Part V
I tried to plug in the wireless router so I could connect to the internet. Mum happily hands me the mains plug.
Me - "That is the plug for your laptop. I don't need it."
Mum - "Yes you do. You need these two plugs."
Me - "No thankyou, I only need this one here." *waves router wire*
Mum - "I always have to use both of these to connect to the internet. Now don't put it on the furniture. I don't want it to catch fire."
Me - "Yes you need both when you want to connect to the net, because your laptop needs a power source. Mine doesn't. For me to connect, only the router needs to be turned on. Not your laptop too."
Mum - "But -"
Me *plugs both wires so as to end conversation*
Me - "Woooww, this thingie has Windows 7! How fun!"
Mum - "Oh yes, mine is still on Windows 6."
Me - "Mum, you are on XP."
That night I slept an uneasy sleep.
Day 2, 17:44
Mum - "Could you please take a look at a new toy I bought for the kids?"
Me - "Sure, what is it?"
Mum - "It's a massive red remote controlled truck. I bought it second hand. The lady said it just needs charging."
(here I am overcome with a familiar kind of fear that always makes me want to start drinking immediately)
I went to look at the toy. It almost comes up to my knees, and has a snazzy ergonomic remote control with a wheel. A quick glance shows that the control requires two AA batteries. Whoop, no problem.
I turned the car over, and was confronted with a massive removeable black recatngular battery. Identical to those old kinds of batteries in remote controlled cars (I used to have one) that require a unique charger that you place the battery inside, then connect to the mains. So I checked the rest of the bag. There was no such plug in place. I went back to deliver the news.
Me - "We can power the controller, but not the car. We need the plug that came with it when it was purchased."
(Mum looks blank)
Me - "I don't suppose the lady who sold it to you mentioned that."
Me - "..."
Mum - "The lad across the street owns a motorbike with a battery. Do you think he could charge it?
I have been here approximately 22 hours. I will be here for approximately 10 days.
I will update this if and when I need to. If you see any typos, it means I've become wasted in self-defence.
Day 3, 19:10
Raevyn was asked to scan in a photograph. I would have to borrow my Mum's laptop, because my one doesn't have the HP scanner files installed. Mum's computer is in one room, the scanner is in another. I'll just take the comp to the scanner. Easy peasy. It worked like a charm.
Me - *sneaks off with borrowed laptop to the room housing the scanner*
The battery life on the old banger is minus 7 minutes. It conks out before it even recognises it's hooked up to a scanner, and being bossed around by me. Dammit. I sneak back out again to grab the mains plug for the old banger. But alas. I am caught with my paws reaching to unplug the wire!
Mum - "No"
Me - "What?"
Mum - "Don't unplug that!"
Me - "Why?"
Mum - "Because it'll never be the same again!"
Me - "..pardon?"
Mum - "If you take that plug out, you'll never be able to put it back in again!"
Me - "But..the laptop dies before I can scan the image. I need to plug it in."
Mum - "Don't take it out, you won't be able to put it back in again!"
Me - "It's easy. I'll put it back where it was again. I promise."
Mum - "No!"
Me - "Do you want me to carry the scanner into this room, instead?"
Mum - "Nooo.."
Me - "So I need to unplug this."
Mum - "But it'll never work -"
Here I literally grabbed the plug and ran out of the room.
Me - *scanscanscan*
Mum - *pops head round door* "I brought you this!" *waves the wireless router wire*
I am not wasted. Yet.
Day 4, 14:58
Me - "Since your computer is running so slowly, I'm going to try to clear up any unecessary files on it. For example..it's still got photoshop installed on it. That takes up like 10 gigs, and you don't use it, so I'll uninstall it."
Mum - "I use photoshop all the time!"
Me - "You do?"
Mum - "I use it to buy photos."
Me - "Okay."
La la laa
Day 5, 18:30
Today we did a bit of role reversal and Mum taught me how to turn on a Samsung phone. Oh dear
Monday, June 28, 2010
Why did the spider buy a car? So he could take it out for a spin!
Half the people reading this will have just experienced a cold shiver. Some of which will have then gone on to close the window. But I implore you, please don’t close the window. I promise to give fair warning should I decide to involve anything that might scar you for life.
Now. Why are you all so scared of spiders? I criticise you not, we all have our phobias. Heck, I will happily take on an eight-foot tall spider, but if you show me a wasp I will flail about in an embarrassingly effeminate manner. I will probably shriek and run away too. It’s terribly bad for my image.
It’s also horribly confusing. I have known people who jump out of aeroplanes, but cannot capture a tiny spider. I have known people who do extreme sports, but will leap onto the counter should a spider scuttle across the floor. I’ve even known people who can deal with anything life throws at them..except that scene in Harry Potter II when Aragog appears.
Gentle reader, I am here to try to soothe your fears. I am here to tell you, that when you think about it, we really have very little to fear from the eight-legged ones. I am inspired by/am blatantly ripping off an entry I saw in a fellow blogger’s..blog, the witty Skellyton.
Arachnaphobes, this is why spiders are not so bad. Here is a list of things that spiders cannot do to you.
1) Read your mind.
2) Walk through walls.
3) Hold a knife.
4) Hack into your email account.
5) Hold a gun.
6) Impersonate your mother down the telephone, thus deceiving you into walking into a trap specially designed to capture and kill you.
7) Mow you down with a combine harvester.
8) Force you to watch The X Factor.
9) Drop a motherfucking piano on your head.
10) Remove themselves from the bathtub.
..that last point is the most important point I wish to make. Now, spiders are actually pretty cool when you think about it (‘booo, hiss’). They poo out a material that is stronger than steel, using it not only to capture prey but to FRICKIN’ ABSEIL too. They are capable of killing anything from flies to people, walking across the ceiling, terrifying billions of women worldwide, but are physically unable to remove themselves from bathtubs.
I shit stronger than steel! I reduce your women to tears at the mere sight of me! I can KILL PEOPLE! I can grant people superpowers if I've just scarfed something radioactive! My cousins EAT hobbits and wizards! I can defy gravity! I ca - wait. Is that a bathtub? Nnooooo! Not the bathtub! Anything but the tub!!
Now I leave you with the potentially scarring conclusion. I used to live in a veryvery old house that was full of holes. And spiders. And mice and the occasional newt and toad, but that is another story. One day, I ambled across the hallway and saw a beastie on the floor. So naturally, I bent down til I was nose level and took a photo of it.
Do I even have to give a warning? ---- > Link
Aww. He’s smiling!
Edit: I have just been informed by one of my friends that when she opened that link, her roomate came and looked over her shoulder. He is now in his bedroom crying. But he was being a nightmare housemate, so it's okay. My friend wonders whether or not chasing him down the corridor with the laptop screaming "Spidey's gonna get yooouuuu." was a good idea or not.
The Raevyn makes full grown men cry. What a bitch.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Saturday, June 05, 2010
I'm new and improved and multicoloured
Listening to: Penduluuuuuummmm
Reading: Books about books
Watching: Britain's Got Talent
Playing: GTA Chinatown Wars
Drinking: Coke. It's bad, I know
Those weird coloured things are my arms.
How did this happen, gentle reader? Allow me to explain.
The route to town from here is about a mile and a half. It consists mostly of one long main road. I walk this route, there and back, almost every day. The road runs north.
When I walk in in the morning, the sun has just risen and is therefore in the west, and since I am walking north it is on my left. It beats down on my left arm while I walk.
When I walk back in the evening, the sun is setting, in the west. And since I'm now facing south, the sun is on my left, while I walk, again. My right arm never faces the sun.
NOW LOOK AT ME
Throw in the fact that the bracelet that my sister gave to me for my birthday is making my skin green, and the fact that I always wear wristbands, and you've got one white right arm, and a left arm that's brown with a green bracelet and a white wrist. I hate you, sun.
I'm gonna start walking backwards.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Listening to: Avantasia
Reading: Piss-poor novels
Watching: The Last Action Hero
Playing: Road Rash
There is a great evil taking over our country that must be stopped.
'David Cameron!' I hear you cry. But this menace is worse. Far worse.
It's a recent phenomenon that has secretly been devouring proudly seperate and diverse aspects of our culture like a labrador that's stumbled upon a buffet merging them and making them as one a la the Borgs from Star Trek until it finally manifested in one massive terrifying tangible entity that we didn't even see coming until it was just THERE and we all went "..well where the fuck did that come from?"
It is called Dark Romance.
In case any of you don't read/have never ever walked into a bookshop, Dark Romance is a new 'genre' of literature.
[information] for the rest of this entry, whenever I use inverted commas on a word, please do imagine me saying the word in a smarmy voice.[/information]
Everything's got a genre. Films, TV, theatre, an' books. And they generally don't change very much. Horror, Crime, Romance, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Thriller, and so on.
Until recently. Now, literally shoved rudely and inelegantly somewhere between Horror and Fantasy, is 'Dark Romance.' Wait, where the heck did you come from? What is 'Dark Romance' anyway? Sex with the lights off? Kinky fetishes? Kinky fetishes with the lights off? For anyone still scratching their heads, here is an abridged history. Wiv' a picture.
[Pictured - SOMETHING THAT WAS NOT THERE A FEW MONTHS AGO]
March 2007 - Stephanie Meyer spews out Twilight.
September 2007 - Stephanie Meyer spews out sequel to Twilight, New Moon.
October 2007 - Teenage girls gain an awareness of Twilight and New Moon. Become ravenously obsessed.
July 2008 - Stephanie Meyer spews out Eclipse.
August 2008 - Stephane Meyer spews out Breaking Dawn. STEPHANIE MEYER OWNS THE BOOK CHARTS, ALL OUR WOMEN, AND ALL OUR SOULS.
September 2008 onwards - Twilight spreads. Women everywhere go batshit crazy for Edward. Numerous relationships dissolve due to the lack of boyfriends that sparkle.
December 2008 - Twilight the film is released, thus finalising Meyer's global domination and putting the final nail on the coffin. Men and women everywhere try to run and hide. But there is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide.
November 2009 - The film for New Moon is released. Mass civil war instantly erupts across every country in the world. It's Team Edward vs Team Jacob. And it is serious business.
March 2010 - Bookshops everywhere come to the sadly-correct conclusion that since every time Hugh Grant blinks someone in the world buys a Twilight book, it would be a really profitable excursion to take advantage of the target market. How? By creating an entirely new 'genre' and shoving it in our faces. And it was called 'Hey You Little Twits, This Book Is Really Similar To Twilight. Look, It's Got The Same Black Cover And Brooding Anorexic Teenage Girl On The Front! You'll Love It! Now Give Me All Your Money'
..sorry, I was overcome with a sudden flux of honesty there. It was in fact called 'Dark Romance.'
And I died a lot inside.
'Dark Romance' simply means 'Teenage vampires'. And they deserve their own genre? Why? Capitalism dictates it is so. Look at the symbol, they haven't even bothered to pretend it's not a Twishite ripoff, it's a damn hand holding an apple!
But maybe I'm being a bit harsh. After all, I haven't read a lot of these books. So let's review the most predominant among the genre after its founders, The House of Night series, by P.C. and Kirsten Cast.
I've worked in bookshops before. That was shortly before Dark Romance officially forced itself into our lives. So I've got a good idea of what we sold a lot of, and what we didn't sell a lot of. What we did sell enough of to build a fort out of, was the House of Night series. Linky Seriously. I sold one of these books every five minutes. If you look at this photo, you will see them dominating not only THE ENTIRE TABLE ON THE RIGHT, but also most of the middle aisle.
So I figured that this would be a good series to begin with. Come with me, gentle reader, let us see what this new genre has to offer. If I may bastardise Shakespeare,
O brave new world, O brave new world that has such people in it. Let's start at once.
Here we go.
We made a Brave New World for this?? Did - did she just put the word 'sucky' in the very first sentence? Did - did she just say 'sooooo'? And, perhaps the most pressing issue, did she name her cat Nala?
Every time somebody reads this introductory chapter, god kills a kitten.
So please, think of the kittens.
You know the worst part about this book? It has two authors. It was co-written. Meaning, this passage actually took two brains to think up. No, really. The phrase 'two heads are better than one' is well and truly dead and buried, people.
Fine. Maybe I'm being a little bit harsh. After all, lots of great works of literature have terrible introductory chapters. 'The Shining' by Stephen King, for example. The first chapter was horribly boring, but it progressed into something so much more.
Okay, I'll open my mind again. Let's read a little further.
WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW
Right. One. More. Chance, book.
This book is the leading example of the new 'genre', and it reads like Chris Crocker's little sister's diary. I think I'm going to go cry now.
What upsets me most about this 'genre' is that older, more established and respected authors are all being unfairly placed in the same category. Take Kelley Armstrong for example. The first time I saw her on the shelf in the same aisle as Stephanie Meyer and the tweedledee and tweedledum of literature, The Cast sisters, I almost imploded on the spot. She belongs in horror. With the rest of the grown ups. Looking further down the aisle, I spotted other victims of this plague among bookshops. Laurell Hamilton. Rachel Vincent. Patricia Briggs. Keri Arthur. Kim Harrison.
And the menace responsible for this degradation of the titans in modern Horror?
No, not that woman, this one.
Stop this menace now! *waves fist at the sky* Meyer, you've fucked up all the bookstores forever! All this for the sake of a sparkling metrosexual in a volvo?
This means war. All because of one text, one little text, comprising exactly of -
40% of Bella complaining about the weather
30% of Bella wandering where Edward is
20% of Bella being a bitch to/manipulating people who are being really nice to her
5% of people hitting on Bella for no apparent reason
2% of Bella sniffing Edward's breath
2% of Edward being a fairy
1% of actual menace
0% of ANYTHING WITH FANGS ACTUALLY BITING ANYTHING
With literary highlights such as "His breath blew on my face, stunning me. It was the same exquisite scent that clung to his jacket, but in a more concentrated form. I blinked, thoroughly dazed."
*slams book shut* My case. I rest it.
Stephanie Meyer is the Antichrist! Everybody panic!
I see only one possible solution to this problem.
It's for the kittens.