At work today I, unwilling to leave the break room, had to watch a movie. I fell in love with "The Perfect Man". Which sounds better if you ignore the fact that it's not only a movie, but the kind of movie I normally hate.
I've been less than fanatical about Duff Stuff since A Cindarella Story, although that ball-eyed little cocksmith Chad Michael Murray can go to manicure hell and stay there for all I care. Anyway, tonight sees Hil as neurotic and scampily anxious as ever, perfectly willing to destroy someone else's wedding in order to find a date for her 'mom.' And here's me, completely without a digital photo of a legitimate crush to plaster on my desktop. Woe. Heh.
At any rate, she's better than Scarlet "Letter" Johansson. Man, she gives me the shits. So you've only got a pearl earring and a sushi-chomping crater-face for company? Boo-radly-hoo, biatch. Seeing as I currently have no short term career goals or opportunities, I'm considering making a lot of films about Scarlet Johansson. Something like, "Scarlet Johansson: Young, Fit, and Full of Shit," or even "Pale-Faced at a Snail's Pace: The Scarlet Johansson Film Anthology."
The job itself isn't actually so bad. I mean, the people are so rude sometimes you'd think they'd all flatted with me during my "How cool is Nu-Metal" phase. But I find ways around it, usually. I find the most effective tactic when someone's telling you off is to imagine them all drunk and doing karaoke in front of work colleagues. Sometimes, if they're being truly insulting, I'll go so far as to imagine which songs they're singing. I know one particular little guy who fits the perfect psychological profile for a 'Blondie - Heart of Glass' performer, but that's neither here nor there. The upshot is that one single image of any one of Allora's elderly contingent schlucking down Jager and whooping their petticoats to the Grease Megamix is comedic enough that I can smile politely and fulfill their requests without fear of inducing (another) split personality. But I certainly don't want to be here forever.
The fact is, I can't imagine what else I'd do. I'm not good at life stuff, or anything else. I'm a fairly quick learner, but I don't like the applications of such as they usually bug the shit out of me. and I don't have the self-confidence to hide those traits initially. I love to write, but I've hated the only things I've ever had published. I trimmed and toned and made them more PC than a freakin' Compaq. They were shit because of it. One of my friends once commented that I was an aggressive person, and truth be told, I was really surprised. I do have a loud and filthy mouth, but the last thing I'd ever want to do is offend anyone.
Also, I still think that, while the only incidences of red hair being fashionable in Britain are those which date from the rules of Queen Elizabeth 1 and Oliver Cromwell, it's nice how things have flipped on the opposite side. This could be to do with the fact that politics are being made increasingly obsolete by the endless barrage of more marketable interests in Britain, such as Ewan McGregor or the Crazy Frog ring tone.
Other countries, however, seem to have a history more susceptible to the scarlet fever. Russia went so far as to name itself after a flame-haired Viking, Rurik, who whipped the insolent Slavs away from political disorder and founded the countrys first monarchy. He may have set the standards for redheads in politics, but the concept of drinking mead through Labor Priestess Julia Gillards panties sure raises the bar for redophile porn films.
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Myspace, HotorNot, and other things that bump, date, or rub up against oneself in the night. Everpresent are the pictures that I just can't wrap my mind around. All of these things basically; things that score an automatic rating of 1
- Oversized sunglasses, including but not limited to those with coloured lenses, diamonte studs, or deliberately visible brandname; also, the inclination to wear such sunglasses INDOORS whilst pretending to ignore the webcam warrents a 1.
- Oversized FuBu/Tupac/D12 merchandise/Do-rags on white men. I mean, Vanilla Ice is on a reality tv show about celebrity farmers now, and it's a ratings failure. IN BRITAIN, where Home & Away is popular and Sun Hill cops sleep with their mothers. Y'know what I'm saying?
- Caps made out of that funny sweat-band material Pat Cash wishes he'd recycled instead of his career in that failed Planet Ark campaign from the mid-nineties. They're simply unforgivable, especially when worn backwards, sideways, or a little bit west towards June.
- More than one picture on any submission just looks desparate. So you waterski AND crochet tea-cosy vests AND drive a Falcon wearing a white suit AND still have time to go out to a Thai restaurant with a bunch of people you hope don't look too much like your sisters? Fantastic! 1.
- In addition, squiggling out your (ex)girlfriend's face on MS Paint DOESN'T MAKE HER GO AWAY.
- Holding a bottle of alcahol in each hand doesn't make you look like an amicable fraternity stud. It makes you look like Robert Downey Jr, only he can actually afford that haircut.
- LOOK AT ME! I'M ON A BIG COUCH!
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Not that I should really be conducting this Cert 3 Wankery Workshop just at the moment. I'm no prize pig at the best and most moisturised of times, but today is no ordinary day.
Ever since the "lets leave our children, used to the rain, cold weather and random sunshine of other countrys at the pool in arizona for sixteen hours" I've always been blessed with a Puerto-Rican complexion that's been deep fried to the point that I'm mohogany now. And a humourless self-absorbtion, both of which helped me avoid countless family beach holidays thereafter. And I do tan, or burn quite well. It's like having a patterend red tattoo. I'm going to try a DIY design next time, maybe fashion the words 'Cancer Cancer Go Team!' onto my back with duct tape, then go out wrapped in alfoil and try it again.
I've been less than fanatical about Duff Stuff since A Cindarella Story, although that ball-eyed little cocksmith Chad Michael Murray can go to manicure hell and stay there for all I care. Anyway, tonight sees Hil as neurotic and scampily anxious as ever, perfectly willing to destroy someone else's wedding in order to find a date for her 'mom.' And here's me, completely without a digital photo of a legitimate crush to plaster on my desktop. Woe. Heh.
At any rate, she's better than Scarlet "Letter" Johansson. Man, she gives me the shits. So you've only got a pearl earring and a sushi-chomping crater-face for company? Boo-radly-hoo, biatch. Seeing as I currently have no short term career goals or opportunities, I'm considering making a lot of films about Scarlet Johansson. Something like, "Scarlet Johansson: Young, Fit, and Full of Shit," or even "Pale-Faced at a Snail's Pace: The Scarlet Johansson Film Anthology."
The job itself isn't actually so bad. I mean, the people are so rude sometimes you'd think they'd all flatted with me during my "How cool is Nu-Metal" phase. But I find ways around it, usually. I find the most effective tactic when someone's telling you off is to imagine them all drunk and doing karaoke in front of work colleagues. Sometimes, if they're being truly insulting, I'll go so far as to imagine which songs they're singing. I know one particular little guy who fits the perfect psychological profile for a 'Blondie - Heart of Glass' performer, but that's neither here nor there. The upshot is that one single image of any one of Allora's elderly contingent schlucking down Jager and whooping their petticoats to the Grease Megamix is comedic enough that I can smile politely and fulfill their requests without fear of inducing (another) split personality. But I certainly don't want to be here forever.
The fact is, I can't imagine what else I'd do. I'm not good at life stuff, or anything else. I'm a fairly quick learner, but I don't like the applications of such as they usually bug the shit out of me. and I don't have the self-confidence to hide those traits initially. I love to write, but I've hated the only things I've ever had published. I trimmed and toned and made them more PC than a freakin' Compaq. They were shit because of it. One of my friends once commented that I was an aggressive person, and truth be told, I was really surprised. I do have a loud and filthy mouth, but the last thing I'd ever want to do is offend anyone.
Also, I still think that, while the only incidences of red hair being fashionable in Britain are those which date from the rules of Queen Elizabeth 1 and Oliver Cromwell, it's nice how things have flipped on the opposite side. This could be to do with the fact that politics are being made increasingly obsolete by the endless barrage of more marketable interests in Britain, such as Ewan McGregor or the Crazy Frog ring tone.
Other countries, however, seem to have a history more susceptible to the scarlet fever. Russia went so far as to name itself after a flame-haired Viking, Rurik, who whipped the insolent Slavs away from political disorder and founded the countrys first monarchy. He may have set the standards for redheads in politics, but the concept of drinking mead through Labor Priestess Julia Gillards panties sure raises the bar for redophile porn films.
__________________________________________________
Myspace, HotorNot, and other things that bump, date, or rub up against oneself in the night. Everpresent are the pictures that I just can't wrap my mind around. All of these things basically; things that score an automatic rating of 1
- Oversized sunglasses, including but not limited to those with coloured lenses, diamonte studs, or deliberately visible brandname; also, the inclination to wear such sunglasses INDOORS whilst pretending to ignore the webcam warrents a 1.
- Oversized FuBu/Tupac/D12 merchandise/Do-rags on white men. I mean, Vanilla Ice is on a reality tv show about celebrity farmers now, and it's a ratings failure. IN BRITAIN, where Home & Away is popular and Sun Hill cops sleep with their mothers. Y'know what I'm saying?
- Caps made out of that funny sweat-band material Pat Cash wishes he'd recycled instead of his career in that failed Planet Ark campaign from the mid-nineties. They're simply unforgivable, especially when worn backwards, sideways, or a little bit west towards June.
- More than one picture on any submission just looks desparate. So you waterski AND crochet tea-cosy vests AND drive a Falcon wearing a white suit AND still have time to go out to a Thai restaurant with a bunch of people you hope don't look too much like your sisters? Fantastic! 1.
- In addition, squiggling out your (ex)girlfriend's face on MS Paint DOESN'T MAKE HER GO AWAY.
- Holding a bottle of alcahol in each hand doesn't make you look like an amicable fraternity stud. It makes you look like Robert Downey Jr, only he can actually afford that haircut.
- LOOK AT ME! I'M ON A BIG COUCH!
___________________________________________________
Not that I should really be conducting this Cert 3 Wankery Workshop just at the moment. I'm no prize pig at the best and most moisturised of times, but today is no ordinary day.
Ever since the "lets leave our children, used to the rain, cold weather and random sunshine of other countrys at the pool in arizona for sixteen hours" I've always been blessed with a Puerto-Rican complexion that's been deep fried to the point that I'm mohogany now. And a humourless self-absorbtion, both of which helped me avoid countless family beach holidays thereafter. And I do tan, or burn quite well. It's like having a patterend red tattoo. I'm going to try a DIY design next time, maybe fashion the words 'Cancer Cancer Go Team!' onto my back with duct tape, then go out wrapped in alfoil and try it again.