Fucking party arsehole neighbours stealing my sleep
12am 1am 1:35 1:45 1:55 3am 4am
I turn on my computer
Surrendering slumber
Computer says it's 5am
What happened?
It was 4am
Just a moment ago
I swear
Oh.
Fucking
Daylight savings.
Sing us a song
Mister Fucking Piano Man
Sing us a song tonight
I'm tired and I'm sore and I'm fucking furious
Oooh, ooh ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Honey came in and she caught me red-handed
Creepin' with the girl next door
Girls just wanna have fun. That's all they really waaaaa-aa-aaa-aaa-aaa
Earplugs
Where are the earplugs?
...WAIT.
It's stopped
It's over
No sound
No fucking
Thank
God
Vishnu
Buddha
Allah
Yahweh
Fucking
Thank you all
So much
No
No
NO
NO
A beat begins
A man charged with drink
Roars
Backstreet Boys
As long as you fucking love me
I don't care...
Oct 28, 2007
Oct 12, 2007
Facebook WAARGH
Facebook Consumer Strategies: Customer Retention Strategies
So I registered with Facebook under the sizzling alias "Wanda Wells" in order to peek surreptitiously at my friends' accounts and ask myself, "wherefore?". This I did, and a delightful ten minutes was spent. Immediately afterward, I located the "Deactivate Account" button. Click and it's all gone! No evidence I was ever there! Yarp?
Narp. Quoth Facebook:
"Please let us know why you are deactivating."
So I replied, by way of clicking the succinct little bullet option:
I nodded. All well and good. But I still wasn't interested. I searched the bullet list for a more compelling reason to leave the site. Maybe Facebook would listen if I selected:
Yet Facebook had an answer. "You can alter your privacy settings to make sure you are more protected."
Oh. Er, thank you. Good to know, I suppose. But still,
Facebook really cared about me. It was so generous, offering me this network of support as I was lost, confused and alone in the webly wilderness. But still I didn't want to learn to use the site. I wanted to leave. How about if I just promised:
Yet my email is still in the system? How could I ever escape? I needed my email address back. And so I told Facebook a lie. This isn't a betrayal. I'm not leaving. It's just that...
I clicked "deactivate". Wanda Wells was no more.
Sitting at my monitor, silently exhaling, in the moments that followed, I felt somehow empty. I had escaped, hadn't I? I had no more responsibility to Facebook. And yet I felt as though I had done wrong. I had turned my back on someone that cared for me.
Facebook's farewell page shone upon my downcast face. "Remember," it said, "to reactivate your account, simply log in with your email address and password."
My email address was still in there somewhere! All could be forgiven! All I had to do was enter my details... all I had to do was repent.
Facebook, I am still out here. Facebook, I am sorry.
Wanda Wells shall return.
So I registered with Facebook under the sizzling alias "Wanda Wells" in order to peek surreptitiously at my friends' accounts and ask myself, "wherefore?". This I did, and a delightful ten minutes was spent. Immediately afterward, I located the "Deactivate Account" button. Click and it's all gone! No evidence I was ever there! Yarp?
Narp. Quoth Facebook:
"Please let us know why you are deactivating."
So I replied, by way of clicking the succinct little bullet option:
- I don't find Facebook useful.
I nodded. All well and good. But I still wasn't interested. I searched the bullet list for a more compelling reason to leave the site. Maybe Facebook would listen if I selected:
- I don't feel safe on the site.
Yet Facebook had an answer. "You can alter your privacy settings to make sure you are more protected."
Oh. Er, thank you. Good to know, I suppose. But still,
- I don't understand how to use the site.
Facebook really cared about me. It was so generous, offering me this network of support as I was lost, confused and alone in the webly wilderness. But still I didn't want to learn to use the site. I wanted to leave. How about if I just promised:
- This is temporary. I'll be back.
Yet my email is still in the system? How could I ever escape? I needed my email address back. And so I told Facebook a lie. This isn't a betrayal. I'm not leaving. It's just that...
- I have another Facebook account.
I clicked "deactivate". Wanda Wells was no more.
Sitting at my monitor, silently exhaling, in the moments that followed, I felt somehow empty. I had escaped, hadn't I? I had no more responsibility to Facebook. And yet I felt as though I had done wrong. I had turned my back on someone that cared for me.
Facebook's farewell page shone upon my downcast face. "Remember," it said, "to reactivate your account, simply log in with your email address and password."
My email address was still in there somewhere! All could be forgiven! All I had to do was enter my details... all I had to do was repent.
Facebook, I am still out here. Facebook, I am sorry.
Wanda Wells shall return.
Happy family
So I really admire my big dad.
When I was small, he told me many things. One that I remember is:
Well he was wrong, but then, that's kinda okay with me.
He also said:
Not yet. Maybe one day. The brother sometimes is, though more toward my mother. But big dad, never. My friends think my parents are cool. Hell, I advertise. Guess what? My dad's an inventor. Guess what? He built his own custom-designed tandem recumbent bicycle. And a hang-glider. He can pretty much do anything. He welds, he designs electronic circuit-boards, he rummages around in industrial waste bins and brings the spoils home to his shed for whatever dark purpose he has assigned to his upcoming weekend. He has his own blog which is part of a small ring of diverse and quirky friends - unlike my own (the address of which I have still not shared with anyone except ma femme).
My mother sells herself, really. It's the humble force of her personality that suctions onto people's hearts. She's a brilliant woman and a great achiever, creative and innovative in the fifty-odd fields she's traversed in her lifetime. But it's her love that overpowers us. She didn't realise she wanted to be a parent til her thirties, but it's hard to believe this when I consider the amount of thought she put into the raising of us. She has encouraged our natural abilities and shown us that the smallest person can make a difference in the world. She has a powerful talent for drawing out the best in people, and I swear I don't see her this way purely because she's Mum. She works in age-care, and the greatest pleasure of her existence is discovering new facets of a person, buried but not lost beneath the crust of dementia that has overtaken them.
As someone who dreams of an artistic career, I have despaired of my stable upbringing. But I think I need to review this theory. Does an artist require a tumultuous childhood? Does an artist have to suffer to create? Not everyone was molested. Not everyone has witnessed a murder or grown up in a traveling gypsy van or lost part of their leg in a tussle with a bloodthirsty stray. A lot of people grew up just like I did. And good art reflects life, does it not? The sweetest note is the ring of truth, so I'm told.
Maybe I still have a chance.
When I was small, he told me many things. One that I remember is:
"You'll have all the boys after you in a few years."
Well he was wrong, but then, that's kinda okay with me.
He also said:
"One day you'll be ashamed to be seen with us."
Not yet. Maybe one day. The brother sometimes is, though more toward my mother. But big dad, never. My friends think my parents are cool. Hell, I advertise. Guess what? My dad's an inventor. Guess what? He built his own custom-designed tandem recumbent bicycle. And a hang-glider. He can pretty much do anything. He welds, he designs electronic circuit-boards, he rummages around in industrial waste bins and brings the spoils home to his shed for whatever dark purpose he has assigned to his upcoming weekend. He has his own blog which is part of a small ring of diverse and quirky friends - unlike my own (the address of which I have still not shared with anyone except ma femme).
My mother sells herself, really. It's the humble force of her personality that suctions onto people's hearts. She's a brilliant woman and a great achiever, creative and innovative in the fifty-odd fields she's traversed in her lifetime. But it's her love that overpowers us. She didn't realise she wanted to be a parent til her thirties, but it's hard to believe this when I consider the amount of thought she put into the raising of us. She has encouraged our natural abilities and shown us that the smallest person can make a difference in the world. She has a powerful talent for drawing out the best in people, and I swear I don't see her this way purely because she's Mum. She works in age-care, and the greatest pleasure of her existence is discovering new facets of a person, buried but not lost beneath the crust of dementia that has overtaken them.
As someone who dreams of an artistic career, I have despaired of my stable upbringing. But I think I need to review this theory. Does an artist require a tumultuous childhood? Does an artist have to suffer to create? Not everyone was molested. Not everyone has witnessed a murder or grown up in a traveling gypsy van or lost part of their leg in a tussle with a bloodthirsty stray. A lot of people grew up just like I did. And good art reflects life, does it not? The sweetest note is the ring of truth, so I'm told.
Maybe I still have a chance.
The state of my subconscious on the night of my first anniversary.
We burst into the bathroom and she is crouched in a pathetic little space at the back of the shower, back and shoulders and elbows pressed together and glistening like a frog. Water pours from the shower hose to her forehead and down her nose and gathers at the point of her chin, streaming like a liquid beard to splash on the tiles at her feet. Her skin is blotchy white and purple with broken red blood vessels and thick blue marker lines where all of her veins are bound beneath her skin.
She cries.
We shout STOP, but she's not doing anything. There's not much blood at all, a few unhealthy brown dribbles swirling over the tiles. She was never really going to do it. She just wanted to be found.
So the six of us go to the beach, but even in the car we know we are foolish. Grey wisps pass across the sky swift as smoke from candle you have just blown out. Every cloud is darker than the last. We climb out of the car and march down to the shore, slipping on thongs and loose T-shirts to protect us from the rays of the sun. The sand is grey and barren, but there are dozens of people splayed across it and splashing in the sapphire-sparkling water. As we walk toward the water, a thick mass of black begins to seep from the horizon and into the sky. It spreads like an ink spill, first blushing and then consuming its medium. Below the blanket of pitch, beachgoers flee the water like extras in a zombie movie. Hard rain plummets from the sky.
We turn and return to the car.
My car is parked in a basement carpark. I emerge from the lift with a handful of others and step into the concrete cavern where the cute little girly-blue vehicle awaits me. I suddenly realise that although I am not alone, my car is the only one parked down here, and too late I turn around with a question and find myself facing a grinning man with a Number Two cut. He reaches out. There are others. Even a woman. Blonde, solid. I am pushed against a fat concrete pillar and I scream as my clothes are rejected from my body.
She cries.
We shout STOP, but she's not doing anything. There's not much blood at all, a few unhealthy brown dribbles swirling over the tiles. She was never really going to do it. She just wanted to be found.
So the six of us go to the beach, but even in the car we know we are foolish. Grey wisps pass across the sky swift as smoke from candle you have just blown out. Every cloud is darker than the last. We climb out of the car and march down to the shore, slipping on thongs and loose T-shirts to protect us from the rays of the sun. The sand is grey and barren, but there are dozens of people splayed across it and splashing in the sapphire-sparkling water. As we walk toward the water, a thick mass of black begins to seep from the horizon and into the sky. It spreads like an ink spill, first blushing and then consuming its medium. Below the blanket of pitch, beachgoers flee the water like extras in a zombie movie. Hard rain plummets from the sky.
We turn and return to the car.
My car is parked in a basement carpark. I emerge from the lift with a handful of others and step into the concrete cavern where the cute little girly-blue vehicle awaits me. I suddenly realise that although I am not alone, my car is the only one parked down here, and too late I turn around with a question and find myself facing a grinning man with a Number Two cut. He reaches out. There are others. Even a woman. Blonde, solid. I am pushed against a fat concrete pillar and I scream as my clothes are rejected from my body.
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