Friday, December 16, 2011
The house I'm renting is driving me insane somewhat. I'm letting a room in a house with a Chinese family. I don't understand a lot of what they're doing and their English is virtually non-existent so I can't really work it out. I feel uncomfortable around people I don't know so I spend a lot of time in my room because I don't want to run into them in any of the shared areas.
My room is also like that of a serial killer. There is no decoration, there aren't any adornments. Everything in the room is simply a surface for stuff to go on. This is my fault, but I think it ties in with being turfed out of my first sharehouse - I didn't decorate my second room either. I think I don't see the point. I don't think I'm capable of thinking of Sydney as any kind of home.
I spend most of my time on my computer, even though I have nothing to do on it. I'm killing time like the Hitler of the temporal realm. I don't know why this is. I'm living a weird half life, I feel like I've just given up on real life as a whole. I attempted to turn my RSVP page into a massive rant at the cold hearted superficial and above all boring bitches who populate that site but, typically, I got a notification that it exceeded a character limit (how appropriate) and so it languished on my FaceBook as a note too long for anybody to read.
It almost seems like when I go out I get divinely punished for wanting to do something. Last party I went to ended with me locked in a carpark and some friends getting hospitalised. Next one I attempted to go to I was thwarted at every turn until I collapsed virtually unconscious at home.
I feel like I have lost all control over my day to day life, and now I can understand why people believe in God. When it comes down to it our choices only get us so far. For much of our existence we are nothing but corks bobbing on a tide. Of course, you want to believe that tide is meaningful and benevolent. The alternative is to go completely fucking insane, as I am.
In the midst of this rant, I haven't even mentioned the game I was working on. I was grateful to have a project, that invovled working with other people that would keep me occupied in the wake of losing my job. How wonderful then that they kick me off within a couple of weeks of presenting them with all the code I'd written. Just like that. "Oh, wow, great work! This is excellent, we thought this project was dead. Now fuck off!" That was, believe it or not, a big chunk of my life that got torn out. I had something to occupy me, to keep me sane after everything with any meaning got taken away from me, so of course that had to go too.
So, I become addicted to video games. There, at least I have control over what happens. I can kill whatever motherfuckers I want, drive where I want, do what I want. I can play as Commander Shepherd and watch the whole world fucking burn just because I can. I can play as The Dovakhiin and do the same thing in another world. Or I can play Engie and giggle with glee as an army of scouts run straight into my whirling chainguns and missiles...
To this end I must give a big thank you to Childish Things, developers of International Cricket Captain 2005 for possibly saving me from these doldrums by making the most frustratingly bullshit game I have ever played, you cocksuckers.
It's the kind of non-engagement required game perfect for when I come back from work and need background noise to quieten the soft voices imploring me to kill small animals. Because it has no sound I frequently play while listening to a podcast or a full-cast audio drama penned by my vastly talented friend.
The idea is wonderfully simple - you play a County side in the English domestic competition, possibly turning them around from zeroes on the tables into a winning outfit that can slaughter all comers, and if you do so well enough you'll be picked to captain the national side.
I did well enough. I took Yorkshire, who weren't even in the First Division of the competiton, played them to be runner ups in both one day competitions and nearly take the Second Division title, then in my second season took the County Championship without losing a single match!
Oh, how fun (of a sort) it was to meticulously pick and train my electronic bits to scurry out onto the field and kick arse of whatever feeble offerings Surrey and Glamorgan threw my way. We few, we merry few, we band of brothers that did battle, their names, familiar in my mouth as household names - Phillip Jaques, Joseph Sayers, David Wainwright, Adrian MacGrath, Guy and Hoggard, Lumb and Silverwood shall in my orange juice be freshly rembered, unto the ENDING OF THE WORLD.
This portion of the game was nice and pleasant, because it all made sense. I pick the 11 that looked the best, or possibly gambled a bit more, I get results that make sense. I coach and select others and train them to get better results. They follow my batting and bowling plans.
The problem is... I got the England captaincy.
This is where the game proves itself to be, as I alluded, COMPLETE BULLSHIT.
I could pick the All-Time XI of Wisden Almanac, on a fucking concrete pitch in the sunniest day of an Australian Summer and they'll be all out for 65. Logic doesn't factor into it, other than the computer saying "I have a brain the size of a planet, fuck you meatbag".
I honestly feel more than any other time, the computer is a malicious cheating bastard, glad that it holds the die and the rulebook for this game. I just tried to play the same Test match three times, and every fucking time I get rolled. The reason I replayed the first time is I assumed that I misunderstood the conditions, as it looked like a good batting day but apparently the weather suited the bowlers a lot more. Okay fair enough, I won the toss and bowled.
Ha-hey, Windies all out for just a hair over 300. That's good. My first two batsmen make 115 before anybody's out. Awesome! I'm going to roll these... then every other batsmen gets out for minimal scores, I'm all out for 275. The match goes on to the last day, I need 245 to win. Damn, that's a lot but I give it a go. Strauss gets out for 150 eventually, I need a hundred to win with ninth man Hoggard but bowling all-rounder Swann who's looking damn good on 28 and might just win me the game. I specifically tell Hoggard not to score singles so that Swann is kept on strike.
Hoggard hits his first ball for a single. His next ball he is bowled out.
THEY DIDN'T EVEN GIVE ME A CHANCE! Yeah, I would've lost anyway but the game just IGNORED MY INPUT ENTIRELY!!!
Out of protest, I play it again and this time pick a better team because my two spinners approach went badly. Good, good GOOD first innings. I bowl Windies out for 270, however there's just one over left in play. Obviously I need my batsmen to survive, I tell Strauss not to play at anything.
He plays. He's out. 1/0. Of course.
Ah, well, I send in a nightwatchman, he survives the day, how bad can things get.
Next morning, second over, nightwatchman gets out. Fair enough, that's what he's there for. Then.... Pietersen gets out first ball. Fuck. Then FLINTOFF gets out first ball. I told all of them NOT to play.
What the FUCK computer??? You can just give yourself a hat-trick whenever I'm in the game? Where's my 'bowl a hat-trick' button? I don't fucking see it! I mean I'd like to get your three best batsmen out for fuck all but I actually need to use strategy and patience to fucking do it!
It's like.. the fucking script was written for me to lose the game and the computer was just bending the game's reality to make it happen. Jesus Christ! It's meant to work off statistics in-game. So how come the game says my bowlers and batsmen are better but they can never ever EVER play better than YOURS?
This isn't just griping about one match. The game went even further into 'fuck you' territory before this. England's one-day team was ranked 5th. India's 2nd. I was playing them in a triangular series with the Windies, I'd lost all my games against India but then won the last one before the final. Haha, I think, now I get to go into the final with good form and might just steal away their trophy...
No... the games telling me that I'm not playing the final. Hmmm. I got a test match. Okay, maybe the final's scheduled later...
I look up the calendar. The final has already been played. But not by me. And what do you know, India won by 22 runs.
...WHAT THE FUCK COMPUTER? When I start to win, you don't even let me play the game???
Then before THAT, when I was in The Cricket World Cup. I was third in the Super Eights, so I was going through to the finals. Awesome. I see my next match is against New Zealand, and because they're a team I've beaten three times by then I think "That's cool, I can play a second string team so I have players match-ready in case of injury".
I lose the match. Ah, well, that was always a chance and... yo, what the fuck. I pretty much get a pop-up message saying "Way to lose the World Cup, dumbass."
See, that game was the first in the knock-out matches. It was the quarter-final. Only absolutely nothing in the game told me that.
... please, computer, in the name of all fornication help me understand your motivation.
If I have a child, I should lock him in a room with nothing but this game and a hammer for days. When he gives in and smashes the game with a hammer, I set him free and tell him "You have passed the test. For sometimes, the obvious test IS the right one."
Then get arrested for child abuse.
Anyway, guess what's getting uninstalled right after I press the 'post' button?
EDIT: Sadly, the uninstallation wizard doesn't have a "KILL IT WITH FIRE!" option
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Aaaanyway, would you say the mid-season gap is doing it's job? I'd say if the idea is to make me not give a fuck, then it is definitely working?
I'm actually reminiscing about RTD's style. Sure, people make a big deal, and I often did too, about certain crazy aspects that got thrown up - women who like having sex with preserved heads in robot bodies, giant evil ceiling nipples of the Hadrojassic Maxorodenfoe, robot Santas who had highly questionable reason for existing... but the idea was that all this stuff was deliberately bizarre.
In Moffat's Doctor Who, the idea is that the Universe is so random that all this stuff is everyday. I can't think of "A Good Man Goes to War" as anything but 45 minutes of insanity, a strange kind of inverse world-building where the object is to say "You think you know this place but it's more messed up than you could ever understand!" This is also combined with a strange quality where Moff seems determined to show us how clever he is every single episode.
I'll chalk that up as one of the big pros of RTD. A man who gets referred to as part of a 'holy trinity' of TV writers and gets his job due to the fact that the ENTIRE SHOW ONLY EXISTS to ensure that he is head-hunted away from ITV... a man like that is secure with his legacy, his identity and everything else and doesn't need to impress anyone with these scripts. (Also, doesn't need to take any crap from people online which is why he gives us so much shit - it's understandable really)
I'm not saying that Moffat is hungry for that kind of position but, I'm going to put my neck on the line and say that it's safe to say he's using the show to sell his name more - and why not? It'd be crazy to say that Jekyll and Sherlock haven't come off the back of Doctor Who and these sort of projects are where he wants to be. So the barrage becomes endless.
I was alienated massively by the opening of this series because there was no sense of a new adventure, of carefree abandon like we've been used to - he get smacked in the face with a soggy story-arc right off the back which will hang over the rest of the series - WHY??? Why this, right after The Big Bang which was a massive agglutinative ball of Timey-Wimey that coalesced to the point where THE UNIVERSE HAD TO HIT THE RESET BUTTON to recover.
Straight after THAT, the Doctor goes and creates three divergent realities by messing with the past of Michael Gambon. WHY??? Then, after that, he performs a Xanatos Gambit we still don't understand by allowing himself to be executed in front of his best friends by an infant River Song.
...why? WHY? WHHHHHY?
I keep hearing The Doctor's Wife was good. I might actually watch it some time.
Oddly enough, Captain Jack had something of a similar genesis as another time travelling human from the 51st century who was effectively a lot like the Doctor but with slicker tech and a vaster quantity of gadgetry and street smarts and no qualms about popping a neuron ray in yo' ass, along with the smug attitude. I guess the difference is that Jack, being a fellow Alpha male was in contest with the Doctor, and because his name isn't in the title he was destined to either get smacked humiliatingly down or become a villian or BOTH. It wasn't enough for the Doctor to reveal Jack was responsible for the monster of week and turn him into his latest bitch, then RTD and Chris Chibnall devoted 13 weeks into wearing down Jack into a completely irredeemably worthless incompetent fucking buffoon before deciding he was due any more dignity.
Sadly, River Song is now the producer's personal Mary Sue and has annoying contractual immunity due to the fact that she dies in the past of the series, which is her future yadayadayada. So she continues to pilot the TARDIS better than the Doctor does, wisecrack better than the Doctor does, travel through time better than the Doctor does, leave messages through time better than the Doctor does... really, why don't you just save the Universe yourself, you lazy bitch? No? Just want to tag along with the guy who actually wants to but show him up every chance you get? Fuck you."
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
So, this is the big thing from Neil Gaiman? The greatest genius since Carbohydatus, the ancient Greek inventor of sliced bread? The TARDIS becomes human in the form of a Helena Bonham-Carter wannabe being all 'weeeehheeee oi'm stark raffing bonkers!!!' at the author's admission, just so she can say "I always took you where you were needed"
Okay, just to back up... Neil Gaiman felt he had to dedicate his entire story to something the fanbase has been pretty well aware of since, say 1967. I mean, I actually haven't read anything by the guy other than a bizarre Cthulu tribute in a comic fantasy collection he wrote, but I keep hearing about how if I'm in the room I'll be crushed under his brain the size of a planet [OR disgusted at his superhuman efforts to molest schoolgirls by one dubious source...] so seems a bit of a letdown.
Apparently this is reason enough for DWC to dedicate fifteen minutes to letting him read out his own stage directions in a stately monotone - he's just THAT bloody good!
I mean, really? Most writers don't even get a mention, but the bloke who wrote Sandman and Good Omens gets this kind of sickening ultra-fellatio treatment? It's nothing against him, but the sycophancy of society today. Say 'Neil Gaiman' to the average person on the street and they will have NO IDEA who you're talking about (especially since we're in Australia) It's similar to 2005. I kept hearing about what a MASSIVE NAME Christopher Eccleston was. Yep. Sure he is. aka that bloke from Cracker. Get real tree huggers!
That was a fascinating argument wasn't it - Paul McGann v Christopher Eccleston for the title of most famous. Cracker versus Hornblower! Whitnail & I versus Elizabeth! Gone in 60 Seconds versus Aliens 3! One of the many things that makes me ponder the cult of celebrity and how many people there are who really, when it comes down to it, care. Outside of the industry and the fringes...
I mean, when it comes down to it, the treatment of Robert Carlyle in SGU by the cast is quite stunning. Yes, he's a great actor... but is he really that massive? Americans seem to either refer to him as 'Begby from Trainspotting' or 'that guy who played Hitler'. They never got the wonders of Hamish McBeth! (Or Gunpowder, Treason and Plot more seriously, which was a mini-masterpiece as far as I'm concerned...)
COOM ON YOU REDS!
Carlyle should have been the Ninth Doctor, actually. By virtue of having once stabbed Ecclestone to death...
So anyway, The Doctor's Wife...
Yeah, I decided to go with binary. Arabic's getting old.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Did I read that right?
Okay... what's happened with Jared? I tell you what's happened with Jared. He got kicked out of a sharehouse that consisted of an English girl who seemed to barely know how to put shorts on judging by daily attire, an unemployed English painter/surfer who left his banking details in my room more than once, a sloshed Kiwi chef who had difficulty following the plot in shithouse Australian police drama here] and a leviathanic intellect shat out of Europe's Nether Regions who deduced it was safe to loudly badmouth me in the kitchen, as we were separated at the time by a wall nearly three millimeters thick.
For the record, Mister Simon Jongenotter, I did not always say hello to you NOT because I am inherently anti-social but because you are a completely worthless cunt with no redeeming values whatsoever and the only regret at you being entirely out of my life is that it has robbed me of any opportunity to enact grievous bodily harm on your not in considerably wide person.
I followed that up with getting led on by a completely psychotic girl for the better part of a year, getting STOOD UP by a girl who appeared to have been Australia's first personality donor - TWICE!!!, getting snubbed by a giantess, getting ditched by a woman who appeared to have no facial muscles whatsoever (or possibly I ditched her, I got confused), denied the existence of said girl to friends inadvertently, then failed to recognize her at all when talking to her at a distance of one foot at work (sorry Rebecca!) and capped off my romantic forays by borderline sexually assaulting a Finnish girl in a G-rated way. FOR SCIENCE!
Leaving that behind me I moved into another sharehouse, where I found it completely in-fucking-possible to get any sleep. None. Zip! AAARHHGHGHGHAGH. This is probably the main reason I'm still out of commission mentally - my sleep patterns are fucked. How many more weeks could I have taken of waking up at 4 am???? .... zero. That's how many. Zilch.
Living on that sleep, I'm amazed I didn't kill a man. Or, to be more accurate, many men. At least the Peruvian couple. Ooooooohhh the Peruvian couple I was sharing with. In a normal, chemically balanced existence they could have been nice company. But this... THIS? I was on edge worse than a HIV-infected junkie at the firing range.
Every sound of them SMASHING their retarded spoons into their retarded bowls of cereal, every weird show they watched, everytime they screamed 'GOOOOOOAL!... and the washing up. My God. The instant they were done with a meal they did a washing up. And look at me pointedly for not washing my sole plate and knife. TWO PIECES OF KITCHENWARE? I'M MEANT TO RUN THE HOT WATER FOR THAT???? Why can't they leeeave anything? I LIKE DOING THE WASHING UP YOU PRICKS!!!
At the same time as this is going on I find out that I'm losing my job, and a certain poisonous voice in my ear gloatingly tells me that she knew for MONTHS, but didn't tell me because I once allegedly looked at a co-workers amply displayed mammary glands while she was juggling them about in my face like a surreal act at Cirque Du'Solei.
WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? I LIKE CIRCUSES! AND THE FRENCH!
Circuses? So weird it isn't circii. What doofi came up with that pluralization?
So, yeah, get this I get asked what the single most program I use is prior to the interviews as my boss has no idea what the fuck I actually do, and tell her. The successful applicant, who I get to train in the space of THREE DAYS, has NEVER heard of it. The program? Microsoft Access. How does he describe it?
'A simpler version of Corel Draw'
Well that's barely legible. Glad I put the fucking effort into that. Way to fuck up a punchline.
I was thinking of a complicated gag where I zoom in on the impossibly-large mouth of cult rapper Wax to reveal that logo with a banner underneath saying "Insanity - Sneak Preview" but put the kibosh on that as too much effort from the guy who does all his work in MSPaint. Also, enjoy another cameo from 2004 Fat Jared? By god would I trade this dearth of lard for that fine of hair, though...
So anyway, yeah, no job. The farewell where it's illustrated that people don't care about you THAAAT much but enough for a cake to be involved and while a few complain about you leaving status quo is quite clearly god, like a terrible TV series. I'm so keen to escape my sharehouse I actually arrange to move out the morning after my last day at work as if there's a fucking zombie apocalypse in the area. Though, now I think about it if I could text all the women I went out with in that period and they all miraculously showed up I could stage a pretty good fucking zombie apocalypse OOOOHHH
(Barring one or two shining examples of ladyhood. Phew. Will that keep me covered? Okay, what if I specifically say 'Not Letitia'? Wouldn't mind some more of that white-but-kinda-polynesian-around-the-eyes sugar.. Otherwise I got RSI from typing on shitty dating sites for NOTHING)
Since moving back in with my parents.... man. I moved a piano. Kinda tried to learn the drums. Bizarrely stopped writing altogether even though I've got tons of time on my hands. Did more work on my adventure game project I'm not allowed to talk about and definitely look like getting kicked off any day judging by the fucking massive wealth of passive aggressive remarks directed towards me. Applied for a few jobs. Watched pretty much all of the Venture Bros and devoured Portal 2 with BBQ sauce and a side of chips. Got some kinda YouTube addiction going on.
Frankly, the questions of whether my brain's entirely burnt out I had from the last post still stand. I don't know if I just need sleep, if I need focus... what. I feel almost like going to a monastery. I feel like... thinking anything I'm trying to divine from a bowl of custard. And not the good kind, lumpy custard.
Where has Jared been? He's been waving from the other side of the brink of insanity while the OTHER Jared rapes the life preserver instead of throwing it to him. Who IS the other Jared? I don't know but I want to beat the shit out of him.
Hoped that writing a blog post about it venting wildly like a shot spleen in a Sam Peckinpah movie would help. Did it? NO IDEA.
Leave your creative or funny responses in the comment section BEEEEEEEELOW. I'm Jared Peter Hansen and I approve this message HAHAHAHA
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
I find driving a remarkably stressful activity. It was humourous that I was reading Hunter S. Thompson's incredible Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas at the same time, as I could see some parallels between our sociopathic behaviour. When driving every day, the sole expedient matter of importance becomes time. And therefore speed. For this reason you never, ever want to follow the Pacific Highway to the Wahroonga exit as people have continually been telling me to do. The road appears to have more traffic lights then there are grains of sand in the ocean (humourous slip - I'm leaving it in!) and nearly fucking destroyed my car. There's nothing like seeing 8 km distance on the GPS next to the next turn signal, and see this tick down by a matter of meters for the next half an hour to settle your frame of mind..
So to actually get home it's a matter of a rabbit warren of bad and good small jumbled roads through St Ives to Mt Colah, that it is an undying joy to navigate. Well, it's become straightforward enough now but there's always SOMEBODY who doesn't get the idea, that we should always endeavour to FUCKING MOVE. Road rage has always been surreal to me, as a passenger. But as a driver, it seems to be the ideal substitute for sanity. Every thought becomes absorbed in getting into the correct lane in time, overtaking this arsehole, what time is it, how many ks, speed up here, how much fuel - thousands of small anxieites piled on one another.
It probably doesn't help that it was only in this fortnight I discovered that my car is terribly uncomfortable to drive in. Oh, sure, it's perfect for a 25 minute jaunt to the train station or shops. But if you drive it for around 2 hours a day. EVERY day. Dear fucking God is it hellish. The seat doesn't sit upright unless you're some kind of reverse-hunchback, so I need to be leaning backwards. So I need to lean forward to check my mirrors, use the gearstick etc then lean back to be halfway comfortable all throughout the trip. By the end of the week my back was in agony, another little fire burning away at the cauldron my brain was in.
I need my iPod on at all times to anaesthetise the rage and stress, but it can only do so much. Hence the peculiar scene that could often be seen at the merging lane of Forest Way to Warringah Road, where a young man with his earbuds in sings like an angel in his car...
When the night, has come
And the land is dark
And the mooon isAWWW COME ON YOU CUNT! YOU COULDA FUCKING GOT INTO THIS LANE 20 MINUTES AGO! I AM GONNA FUCKING RAPE YOU! I AM GONNA MEMORISE YOUR PLATES, HACK INTO THE POLICE SYSTEM, FIND YOUR FUCKING HOUSE AND I AM GONNA FUCKING RAPE YOU AND ANY WITNESSES YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!
Just as long as you stand
You stand by me
Oh darling, darliiiiin'...
I was most worried by two incidents in my last trans-coastline adventure. Firstly, the freeway - I'm going along at 115 in the slow lane, as I like it, and need to slow down because somebody is actually going slow. Fair enough, it happen- no wait, this guy is going really fucking slow. Really. Fucking. Slow. He's doing 50k. Why the fuck is he doing 50k. He could fucking kill me. Middle lane is fucking packed because people don't move back once they've overtaken. Not a single gap. I need to slow down to 50 too.
On the fucking freeway.
Good, there's a gap in the middle lane. There's some shitty range rover a few ks before me and then a solid wall of cars behind that. I can do this, I just need to accelerate like fuck. I get my car to 80/90 in a matter of seconds into the middle lane, right where I need it and at a position where I can actually get back to "Do this and you don't get killed" speed and get back into the slow lane soon ahead of that stupid truck doing 50 what an arsehole, best bit of drivi-
The fuck. Range rover beeped his horn at me. Shitty range rover beeped his horn.
I fucking floor it, soon I'm doing 160 and weaving between cars wildly, even though my exit is up in a matter of minutes, so I can catch up to those old farts in that range rover, just for the brief pleasure of screaming the absolute loudest tirade of abuse at them that my lungs are capable of, which given my voice is actually pretty fucking loud. Sadly, there was no witticism on this occassion. If you were to program a random word generator that used "Fuck" "Cunt" "Maggot" "You" "Arsehole" "fucking" "stooge" "arseclown" "the fuck" "what" "why" "where" "your dick" "belgium" and "grand rape reprobate" you would come up with something much better I assure you.
I was quite stunned at the violence and sheer insanity of my behaviour, even when I did it. This is why I question my sanity. That is not something I would sit down and decide to do. I mean, if that was part of the RTA test and option c) was "exceed the speed limit by 50 km/h in order to drive parallel to the vehicle and accuse him of being the worst human being since Chris Lillee" I would not be clicking c in a million years. It's fucking dangerous and stupid.
20 minutes later I nearly managed to drive through a red light but slammed on the brakes just in time to shear whatever rubber was left on my nearly-bald tires.
Then broke down crying.
That was now precisely two weeks ago... but it hangs over me. Am I unfit to drive? I don't know. It's possible. I definitely know I'm not the good driver that I thought I was. I'll probably be going to the Coast again this weekend and the prospect of the trip is something I'm silently dreading. The end of the journey is oh-so-rewarding. But to get there is 105 minutes of hell.
Other random thoughts:
* Working in a library as a young man is like getting a dozen-and-a-half surrogate mothers
* When I'm bored with the TV to myself I discover I like more shows than I thought. Miranda and Laid are quite entertaining.
* England you fuckers, you're not meant to win games! Stop it! Stop it right now!
* Ireland, though, you fucking rock!
* A fart never sounds louder than it does in the library
* There's a reason I hate posting about relationship stuff. A lot of reasons....
* A corollary to Clarke's law would be "Having enough IT knowledge is indistinguishable from being an accomplished sorcerer". In this case, 'enough IT knowledge' is 'enough to see the monitor isn't connected to the actual computer'. Yes, the bar is set low.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
This not purely by design. I was given, unusually, some vodka for Christmas by my brother. I have no idea why. But tonight seemed as good a time as any to crack it open when I was invited for a drink, but the problem with me and alcohol is that I'm a goody-two-shoes. I never partook until I was of a legal age to do so. The problem with this, is you're left with a pressure to drink but a complete dearth of background knowledge, so when I make a screwdriver from HAMMER UND SICKEL mixed with budget breakfast juice, I have no idea what the proportions are.... save with the power of hindsight I am now applying.
That said, I didn't expect the conversation I got. Which was "We don't like you, we want you to fuck off" worded in a myriad of more flattering ways such as "It's clear to use that you're really not that happy here..." and other blatantly false bullshit. As I point out, I'm suicidally depressed. Where am I going to happy? On the bridge of the Millenium Fucking Falcon when it's been refit as a brothel?
The lies were so disgustingly transparent that for about ten minutes I felt no obligation to reply. I mean, really, what is the fucking point? I know what you're saying, you obviously know what you're saying, what is the value of me saying anything in response? Because of this I did nothing but drink in reply. And hence my brain cells were treated like Soviet peasants. Oh, how the typoes and vitriol flows!
To be fair to my Dutch lease-holder, he then made me join him for another drink so that we could part on more civil terms... which is nice to a point I suppose.
.... I don't know why I figured I'd be able to write a blog entry four sheets to the wind when I've been consistently unable to do it while sober throughout the entire year, but I'm in the middle of it now, aren't I? It turns out that my flow-of-consciousness style doesn't work well in concert with a steady intake of fermented vegetable roots designed to erode at the sensibilites of consciousness. If only I was a Doctor of Medicine I could have worked this out before hand.
The point is... I'm fucking depressed. I guess. In as much as there's a point to anything. I was hoping this would be a good year, what with me going into it with a job, a house, a purpose and new friends - now two of the four has been cruelly and suddenly cut away. What am I meant to think? When things are going well my mind still wanders to "Why don't I just slice them a little and see if THAT improves things?" for shits and giggles. Am I meant to take this as a sign everything else will be bettter?
My contract at work is up in the air. I have no idea where I could be going to live. I have no idea if I can get a job anywhere else.
...but really, the idea that *I* of the Holy Trinity of Complete Arseholes that has occupied this accursed ant-infested domicile is the worst is what wrankles the most. I get told I 'never do any work'. The knowledge that every single fucking fortnight that I cleaned the bathroom, every day that I did the washing up and drying, every time I hung out Simon's fucking washing counts for absolutely nothing, the times I bought ant poison and laid it, that I did the shopping, that I put my money into a party were for nothing and the money I could have saved by doing absolutely nothing during the time.
I mean, where's the award for being a selfless person when you get treated like a complete prick at the end of it all anyway? That's been the problem with the Universe. No fucking Karma.
God damnit, this is why I related to Salieri a frightening amount when I watched Amadeus. You act like a complete prick and you still get the glory. Ergo, I should strart poisoning people I don't like. Logic isn't always your friend, I guess, and especially so when you're drunk off your tits.
Wondering about what I do from here? Do I become the total cunt I'm meant to have been, or keep up my nice guy behaviour, even play it up? Definitely drawn to the former at the moment. I mean, what are they going to do? Kick me out of the house? Oh wait *SINISTER MAWFUCKING LAUGH*
Option c is murdering them all. I haven't been thinking about it that much, really. BUT his ex-girlfriend is co-holder of the lease so I'd get to see her again and she's pretty hot. Plus doesn't seem to mind me. What better conversation starter than "You know the guy who ripped out his spleen and fed it to him? I'm close to him. REAALLLLY CLOSE."
Never rely on the kindness of internet strangers. They're pricks.