The Rusty Gate

I'm writing this on my awesome shiny laptop I got today. Thought I'd let you know.

I can't figure out how many credit points I need for this next semester or how many units need to be at 200-level or 300-level. I hate numbers.

I wish I wasn't still living at home. If I could find a decent studio apartment somewhere half close to things I need, or find a house or a unit with multiple rooms in a rather convenient location and someone who I could stand to cohabit with for more than three days, and if the aforementioned studio apartment, unit or house was affordable, then my problems would be solved. Until new ones arose. Like termites. Or bills. Or homicidal thoughts. Mind you, I've got all those now. Except the termites.

I bet Roger Federer doesn't have these problems. In fact, I know he doesn't. He's too awesome.

Oh, and I think the guy next to me in the uni library poses a national security risk. Stay tuned.

I just wrote a large thing about me being in a bad mood and Michael Jackson and my awesome behavioural profiling skills and the fact that if the dude next to me at the library doesn't get some fucking water or something and stop coughing pretty damn soon I'll help him with his cough by tearing out his lungs. Then I wrote more about dogs and The Closer and arse-licking sports journalists and my twenty-six dollar library fine and expensive petrol Then the internet deleted it.

But at least I feel better. Now I'm going to take my dog for a run.

In the last short while we've lost David Carradine, Dom Deluise, George Carlin, Bea Arthur, Danny LaRue, and now Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. And Patrick Swayze's about to join them. I'm pretty damn sure there's some sort of cull of awesome people going on. I better watch out.

I think there are some people who don't know that humans have more than one walking speed.

Am I the only one who's not really interested in seeing Transformers 2?

Anyway.

I should be doing my essay but in the course of my research I found this. This quote is from a paper by Eric Demaree, called 'The Case for Christian Objectivism'.

'This paper also builds on C. S. Lewis and Dostoevsky to provide irrefutable evidence for God's existence: If God is dead, everything is permitted. Obviously, in every person's mind, at least a few things are not permitted; consequently, in every person's mind, a God who demands morality is alive.'

Is Mister Demaree using that silly, circular, eons-old 'prove I'm wrong' rationality that has been failing people like him, and making people like him fail, for millennia? Is he another one of those Bible-waving, banner-flying, finger-pointing, loud-yelling nutjobs who seem so numerous these days? Is Fyodor Dostoevsky rolling in his grave?

These are my issues without even reading the whole paper.

So, a funny thing happened on the way to the assessment. All you technophiles, maybe you can shed some light on this.

There I am yesterday, almost finished writing my essay, when...stop! Ciggie time! I save the document to Word, email it to me as an attachment, then go out for a cigarette.

When I come back, I open the email I sent myself with the Word document of my essay attached. However, when I open the attachment, this and only this is what I find contained in it.



This is very clearly not my assessment on the dispositionalist response to Kripke's Wittgenstein's argument for the absence of meaning-facts in language. Other than that, I am dumbfounded. As far as I can figure, the internet ate most of my essay, leaving me with the critically shorter and sub-par draft version of my assignment. I was hell-bent on world destruction for a few minutes when the hilarity of the situation hit me and I was convulsed with laughter at my chair.

I have never seen this photo or this kid before, though I would like to know who he is so I can tell him that his haircut may well justify DOCS going in and removing him from his parental home on grounds of abuse. I have no clue how the hell it got in my attachment. Does anyone know what the hell happened here?

Just when you think I'm gone, I spring up again when you least want/expect/need it. Like onion grass. Or herpes.

Not much new to report, except for the fact that I have a job. A casual job, but a job none the less. It's in market research. I give people Tim Tams and the like and wait while they answer questions relating to them.

And my Roger won the French Open. Huzzah. He's about as close as you get to being more kick-arse than me.

I can't check out all your scribblings because I want to go home, so tell me;

What have you lot been doing?

I haven't posted in ages.

And I'm not going to now.

Aluminium sighting and something forbitten with teeth.

That is all.

What I meant was;

Everyone has to come see Dylan Moran with me for my birthday as he is here in April.

All the Left 4 Dead aficionados should click the link on the last post I wrote because its funny.

Meanwhile, I'm sure you've all heard Christian Bale losing his shit on the set of T4. I present to you the transcript of it from pollsb.com.

'...kick your fucking ass. I want you off the fucking set you prick. No, don't just be sorry, think for one fucking second. What the fuck are you doing? Are you professional or not? Do I fucking walk around and rip- no, shut the fuck up Bruce, do I-no! No! Don't shut me up. Am I going to walk around and rip your fucking lighs down? In the middle of a scene? Then why the fuck are you walking right through? a-tada-tada like this in the background, what the fuck is it with you? What don't you fucking understand? You got any fucking idea about- Hey! It's fucking distracting having somebody walking up behind bryce in the middle of the fucking scene. Gimme a fucking answer. What don't you get about it? ... fuck sake man you're amateur... you've got something to say to this prick? Well somebody's should be watching him and keeping an eye on him. It's the second time that he doesn't give a fuck about what is going on in front of the camera. Alright? I'm trying to fucking do a scene here and I'm going why the fuck is Shane walking in there? What is he doing there? Do you understand? My mind is not in the scene if you're doing that. Stay off the fucking set man, for fuck's set. Right let's go again. Let's not take a fucking minute, let's go again. And let's not have you fucking walking in... You're unbelievable man, you're un-fucking-believable. The number of times you stroll in the fucking background. I've never had a DP behave like this. You don't fucking understand what its like working with actors. That's what that is. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. You wouldn't have done that otherwise. I'm gonna fucking kick your fucking ass if you don't shut up for a second, alright? I'm gonna go, do you want me to go and trash your lights? Do you want me to fucking trash them? Then why are you trashing my scene? You do it one more time, and I wain't walking back to set if you're still hired... seriously man - you and me, we're fucking done professionaly.... fucking ass.'

Prickatry 101. Enrol now.

Sorry, kids. This just teaches you all a lesson.

Listen to me, and hang on my everty word.


I'm going to have fun, while you all try tears of remorse.

Muhaha.

Now if only I could kick the mind out of Roger Federer.

Dammit.

^eddit.; everyone shouyld love dylan moran and come with me to see him in april near my northfay. kay?

his is another edit. for all those including myself who lovbe left 4 dead, look at this video thing. And then laug. i command you.

Poits to ponder because i can' t be bothered.

I'm at nicole's house and saw a bilby. bilby!

hang on, i have to play guitar hero.

later;

i'm stil. at nicoles house and scarsten has left 4 dead! imma shoot me som zombies.

I'm back on it.

I think.

And I don't care what anyone says, Robert Sinnerbrink is the shiznit.

Epic fail is a rather neat phrase with which to describe my current situation. For reasons I choose not to disclose, I really need a dollar. I'm going to have to act like a bum and go around asking poor unsuspecting yet richer people than I am for a dollar. Mind you, that shouldn't be a stretch for me.

I'm at university because someone unintentionally lied to me about which day uni timetables need to be sorted out, and I can't leave until I have a dollar.

I really hate myself sometimes. I can't seem to get my head around the fact that I'm poor, and there aren't always going to be people around to save my arse. I assume someone's going to help get me out of whatever hole I find myself in, and don't make allowances for the fact that they might not. For instance, I remain fully confident that someone's going to give me a dollar. If I were any less of a bitchy cynical narcissist I'd say that this is more to do with the fact that people are generally nice. But since I am, in fact, a bitchy cynical narcissist, I'll go further with that statement to say that I'm going to play on that fact and remain assured that someone will give me a dollar.

Added to this predicament is the fact that I really don't want to go home anyway. All that awaits me there is tedium. Though I'd probably find that anywhere, sharp and discerning mind that I am.

Goddammit. Selfishness can get you a long, long way but there comes a point where it'll careen you straight into a wall, and the only way you can see to get over the wall is to be selfish yet again. You learn nothing. Well, that's not strictly true. Over time you learn what you should be doing (i.e. not being selfish) but since the immediate payoff is easy and it works, selfishness drags you down it a cycle of itself until you find out you actually know far less about the workings of the world than you ought, and can see no other way out of your spiral than to be even more of an egoist.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

Screw this. This livejournal isn't going to give me a dollar.

It's Sunday, and I'm at my friend's house sobering up. I'm nearly all the way there, and Anson hates everything I love.

Which means he hates everything awesome.

Right?

Anyhoo. Maybe Anson doesn't hate everything cool. Anyone heard of Bon Iver? Anson just told me to look at his music, and it's fairly cool. Check him out.

The fuck?

WWhy the hell isn't anyone on this journal thing anymore?

What, you lot too good for this shit now?

Got too much self-fucking-esteem to broadcast your thoughts?

What, are you too fucking precious?

Meh, pay no attention. I'm just bitter because I've got no money or vodka left.

Goddamn shame.

I'm going to keep a journal from today until this date next year, and I'm not going to date the entries. I'm going to try to display a continuous stream of consciousness and see if it makes any sense in three hundred and sixty-five days (and about twenty minutes). My only New Year's resolution.

Meh. See you all at a later date. Puh-haps.

No, not abstinence. Apart from the lack of gonorrhea and related disgusting things people get, abstinence would be a rather boring thing.

Rather, I wish to discuss abstention and in doing so avoid the silly immature stigma that comes with a word such as abstinence. I am talking about not doing something, not necessarily sex. I speak of things relating to abstaining from voting.

Now, I'm almost all for compulsory voting, the reasons for which you may ask me at a later date. What I am not for is fascism.

This is news. A scoop, you might say. I've got it even before the party in question has a chance to release it. Get your pen out, Mr. Dunne.

My friend didn't vote in the recent Australian federal election, and was subsequently fined. He received a notice today instructing him to either pay the fine or give an adequate reason for not voting or paying said fine. One of the options for not voting was (not verbatim but close enough), 'I believe that abstention from voting is in accordance with my religious duty.'

What?

I find it absolutely heinous and disgusting that one of the only acceptable reasons for abstaining from voting apart from being dead or overseas be a religious one. Is it not possible that my friend did not agree with any policy or policies put forward by any party or candidate, and therefore felt he could not make an honest decision? Why do only the religious get this exemption?

Personally, I think that if someone does not vote because they either do not care or do not support any party, then there are further steps they are obliged to take, but as I said before, that is another matter. What is the matter here is that religion is seen as the only viable means of abstaining from voting. Not morals, not point of view, not even apathy. Is this tolerance gone way, way wrong? Is this a fear of offending grown far out of proportion? Is this civil liberties being restricted? Power hunger? A miserable attempt on brainwashing?

What in the fucking fuck is this?

Pearl Harbor (which as every English speaker worth his/her salt knows is spelt entirely wrongly) was a shitty, shitty movie. Wanna see a good war film? Watch The Guns of Navarrone. Or The Great Escape. Or any other movie that is not Pearl Harbor (which as every English speaker worth his/her salt knows is spelt entirely wrongly).

What do you say to the stockbroker who comes to your door?

'Thanks for the pizza.'

Anyhoo, I have nothing to say and it appears none of you do either. So on that note I'm going to shoot more zombies. After I go out for a smoke.

^edit: Haven't shot zombies yet because Charlie's making a tikka masala which by the looks of it is going to be tasty. That, and the government is trying to censor me. Don't look so smug, they're censoring you, too. And if you don't collaborate and defer to their ridiculous rules created by their own misguided notion that they alone know what is best for you, you're obviously in al-Qaeda.

Waah. I really want to hear back from this job I went for. They said they'd call today. The suspense is killing me. Although, that might be the cigarettes. But then if I die, maybe I will turn into a zombie and that would be awesome.

In the course of the last two and a half says I have spent approximately nine hours watching people shoot zombies. Now I want to shoot zombies. When Pike's bloody computer works, which shouldn't be too long away unless the chronic disturbance in my electromagnetic field plays up again. I hope I am a reasonably intelligent zombie, not just some idiotic reanimated corpse.

Stop!

Ciggie time!

I've got to wait until Saturday to see if I get this job. But it's V and Cait's going away thingy tomorrow so that should ease the pain.

Sigh.

Remember that show Man-O-Man? Hilariously funny. It might be on YouTube but I can't be bothered to find out.

I have nothing to say, but I wish all you retards would stop driving stupidly. I shall not elaborate because, again, I can't be bothered.

Anyhoo.

I've got an interview for my dream job tomorrow. It's a part time job at a dog boarding kennel. I'm even willing to start at seven in the morning if I can get it.

I really really hope I get it. There's no reason why I shouldn't.

I've got an essay to do on mental causation and multiple realisability to do in which I can back up my dualist views. I hope.

But I really hope I get this job.

Money money money for doing something I'd freaking love.

Must. Get. This. Job.

Argh.