inertia:
I have the world's slowest nosebleed, which has lasted for three years and counting. Single-purpose and lack of movements: but what are they? I've been told that I can't function without sleep. I tested this over the weekend and found it to be true. It's a been special couple of days: birthday greetings going out to the freak, neuro and my best friend JT. Apparantly I talk in my sleep, too. And had a conversation with Dol that consisted of: 'did you say something?', 'no'. Obviously the solution to all of my problems is to train myself to take lecture notes/do assignments/socialise with friends, etc. while asleep. I should also take this opportunity to apologise to anyone who I may have offended during the weekend's festivities. I displayed an alarming lack of tact. And continued to do so today. It's my one talent. And one day I shall take over from this great man.
Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness
As you may have noticed BLTC has had a change of title. The explanation for this is quite simple; for the moment I am not taking any kind of medication, so it would be misleading to continue with the '... Chemistry' title. So why 'Better Living Through Cleanliness', you may ask? As a child I used to wash my hands obsessively, would refuse to touch doorhandles, etc. I was utterly terrified of having any contact with other human beings and terrified of those horrible germs, which I didn't want to have in contact with my skin. I was a bizarre, neurotic child. These days I've gotten over many of these strange obsessions. Though not the all-consuming paranoia, obviously. Nowadays I'm quite happy to sit on any public toilet, without caring about the risk of infection. Yup, all I do is sit on public toilets all day long. Why, you've probably contracted an infection just by reading this.
To reiterate: Cleanliness is next to Godliness, so wash your fucking hands! Or we could all sit around like an eighties sitcom family tackling issues. If you need me, I'll be on the roof with one of my brother's golfing sticks that I borrowed. Tomorrow's thursday, and you know what that means: UFOs! Remember, if you see a UFO be sure to tell the nearest adult, especially if you are offered a lift, sweets, etc. Just time enough to big up Dol's rather swell webcomic Tales Of A Receptionist, and Teragram's new blog, both of which contain your recommended daily allowance of calcium, riboflavin and vitamin B12. Now would you PLEASE go wash you hands?
(Blank to facilitate page turns)
Sunk In Walls Of Tape Hiss
Watching television, like viewing internet porn or participating in organised religion, is a lot like being punched in the face repeatedly. I have a theory that if one were to be punched in the face enough, one would actually begin to enjoy it. Although this would undoubtedly be somekind of side effect of the brain damage that would result from that many impacts to the head. My point is that they are almost completely without reward and ultimately cause damage of some form. I also have a theory that engaging in study will result in hair loss, overeating, diabetes, paranoia, anxiety and general ugliness. But, of course, ugliness can also be genetic.
Another recurring theme in my dreams is that it may be night time indoors or outside viewed from a window, but upon leaving the house I find that it is daytime outside. I see remarkably detailed images from the window of a friend's house, other houses, etc. but viewed as though through a puddle of purple and black. Or, from the window from the ground floor of my own home I see intense light emanating from where there should only be wall. UFO? I go outside to investigate only to find that it is day time, and my Dad is sitting in the garden wondering why I am so panicked and confused. Perhaps there are no answers. Who says that where there is a question there must also be an answer? Things shouldn't make sense all of the time; see lyrics to Ursa Minor by ATDI. Oh, apparantly I'm self obsessed now. Which is okay, I have to constantly reaffirm my existence by making myself the centre of attention. Otherwise I might well cease to exist entirely. I am your imaginary friend after all.
Oooohm
Is it wrong to take money from Kildare County Council if I'm planning to drop out still? MY mind just isn't functioning I remember Elvis COstello(the poorman's Elvis) saying that ROCK doesn't go anywhere, it just sits there. All of those wide-eyed staresfrom the young and naive. But I wasn't allowed to be naive. Which is a shame, really. My mother told me that as a baby she used to put me to bed in a pink cardigan. If I could pinpoint the exact moment where things started to go wrong in my life it would have to be there. Then there are the looks of jaded cynicism, of which I became an authority in my teenage years. Mostly, though, I do frightened the best. I had a temporary job in the kitchen in the K-Club when I was seventeen. A Scottish chef asked me if I was alright. He said that I looked terrified. I was. Feeling like the sky was about to fall on me. It's wet and grey and as usual I can't concentrate. Signals, variables, opcodes, etc. I need a hug. I've been exposed to laddish cynicism from a young age. And those cruel vicious eyes. Those boys that hated me because I just didn't fit in. They've got jobs now. And cars, with no insurance, but GIGANTIC engines with big thick exausts, and spoilers, Eminem, 50 Cent, white label dance music, baseball hats, beer and weed and football. Things that I was supposed to care about, but didn't. If my tears fall away and sink into the soil, nothing will grow.
Current Punchline: 'You hold him down, I'll take his Mars bar!'
Downer
I've stopped taking Cipramil, at least for the time being. Why? Because I'm curious to see exactly what kind of an effect it has been having on my life. It's been a few days since the last time I took any. It might've been four or five, I'm not entirely sure. The main difference I've found, at least in the short term is that my moods have worsened. For no apparant reason I will often find myself feeling very down. I've been lacking in motivation for about six years, but this recent downswing in my moods certainly doesn't help in this respect. The medication doesn't seem to help all that much, it's more a case of smoothing out the curve, and one way or another the curve is sloping downwards. On the advice of a friend I spent the day stomping on earthworms. It's a fun diversion, but it probably won't lead to any kind of lucritive career. Computers have become the bane of my existence. My teeny, tiny brain tries to understand what's going on but it's fairly futile really. I'm tempted to begin anew with an all-natural existence, where I live rough in the countryside and subsist only by eating hedgehogs and small rodents. Either that or try harder drugs. Crack, maybe. Wakka wakka!
Q. What do you call a chauffeur who is exceptionally short in stature?
A. Mini driver.
Q. What do you call the talented actress/singer, with an exceptionally prominent jawline, who featured in the movie Sleepers?
A. Minnie Driver.
Q. What do you call a woman who performs oral sex for other women?
A. Muff diver.
Q. What did Adrian say to former South African President Nelson Mandela?
A. Bzzzrt!
Q. How many theologians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. That would be an ecumenical matter!
Q. How many repressed homosexuals does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. One. YOU!
Listerine And PostModern Cuisine
The concept of time is a strange one. It's really just a question of numbers changing. Incrementing by one at a fixed interval. So what impact do these numbers have on Adrian's life, you may ask? Well a surprisingly large one actually. Last year a friend told me that she felt that she was a slave to the clock, and that when she finished her degree she would throw away her watch. She finished her degree at the same time as I finished mine. And I know for a fact that she hasn't thrown her watch away. A shame really, but a nice thought.
I received the results of my clarinet exam: 'passed with merit'. Granted this was the lowest possible merit I could attain, but still I'm rightly chuffed. Grade 7 is my bitch, who I smack around just for kicks. Note the casual reference to violence against women. The examiner it turns out was not one to mince words, and each and every comment she made was spot on, including that she noted my slowing down 'as a result of technical difficulties'. Yes, it's true. Damn fingers!
To Fiddle Or Tinker With In An Experimental And Sometimes Haphazard Manner
This concludes the hiatus, during which absolutely no retooling took place. Sorry. In other news Subway have created a new sandwitch in honour of this very blog. It's called the BLTC. Bacon, lettuce, tomato and, um, chilli.
My own recipe too! I'm quite the gourmand actually. By way of an explanation for this hiatus, the grim spectre of examinations loomed over Adrian's head and I feared that I would have to curtail by blogging activity, at least in the short term. My first exam was yesterday evening. Acoustics and Psychoacoustics, which was actually quite a reasonable paper, and I would've done better if not for the fact that I actually don't know diddly about acoustics. Oh well. My exam preparations were sadly lacking y'see. However I did spend the night before staring at the same set of lecture notes until 2.30 in the am, while nothing sank in. So I set my alarm for 6am the next morning, put down my notes, turned off the light and after about an hour or so of laying in the dark I eventually fell asleep. The next morning I awoke full of piss, vinegar, etc. ready to take on this damn exam if it's the last thing I do! I arrived at the library at about 8.30 ready to get down to some serious work. I went upstairs, found myself a seat and took out my notes, and just decided to lay my head down for a minute, just to get comfortable... so of course I woke an hour or so later feeling quite panicked at the thought that I might well have been snoring and disturbing the other students around me, who were actually working hard and refraining themselves from talking for once. I wasn't exactly happy about the time I'd wasted either. Perhaps the universe does balance itself out with regard to these matters, when I finally got to the lecture hall to sit my exam, it turned out I had misread the timetable and had been an hour early.
Of course an hour before I thought I was to sit my exam I was sitting at this very PC in the studio looking at awfulplasticsurgery.com. It's just addictive, like watching a car crash through the gaps in one's fingers it's impossible not to be enthralled at the idea that people are so insecure with their appearances that they're willing to disfigure themselves voluntarily. Probably best that I'm not rich or famous, then. I also note a significant change in approach taken in the freak's blog which now features lengthier entries and pretentious quotes from Japanese filmmakers. Good work fella! Oh, in other news I am now the proud owner of a brand new girlfriend: you are now entering the zone where normal things don't happen... very often. This means that I'm now 67% less of a dork than before. Hurray!
BLTC has been put on hiatus for retooling.
Adrian Vs. The Entertainment Industry
Seeing the error of my ways, I've decided to give up on this University lark and go out into the world and follow my dream. That's right I run away to join the circus, which is where Anonymous assures me all music students ultimately end up. In order to increase my appeal for the partrons of the freak show, my employers arranged for a procedure where my eyes are plucked out and my genitals torn off in a most painful and gruesome manner. Being a blind, horribly scarred eunuch is apparently more appealing to the subhuman parasites to whom these kinds of shows appeal (see also The Swan), than my normal, if perhaps slightly odd appearance. I seem to be having more luck with midgets than Sterling Morrison; the midgets in this circus seem to be quite friendly, except for the paranoid schizophrenic one. He tends to keep to himself, y'see. Here are some more of my favourite things: human anatomy, Salvador Dali, nebulae.
I'm Very Bored
Maynard James Keenan, singer with pretentious metal band Tool, named his son Devo H. in homage to the New Wave band of the same name. He is an idiot. However many other musicians engage in a similar practice of giving their children butt-thrustingly stupid names, that will result in them being bullied 'till their bellies can't get no pinker. Here are some of my favourites:
Ahmet Emuukha Rodan Zappa (Frank Zappa)Betty Kitten, Harvey Kirby and Honey Kinny (Jonathan Ross)Blanket (Michael Jackson)Dweezil Zappa (Frank Zappa)Zyon (Lauryn Hill)Tron (Rozonda 'Chilli' Thomas of TLC)Seven Sirius (Erykah Badu & Andre 3000)Shith'ead (Art Alexakis from Everclear)Ireland Einesse (Kim Basinger & Alec Baldwin)Jaafar and Jermajesty (Jermaine Jackson)Moon Unit Zappa...Phoenix Chi Gulzar (Mel B)Woody (Zoe Ball)
Whooosh!
Today is a better day than most. This New Year seems to be starting on a positive note, and while I still have some minor concerns, there'll be significantly less self pitying from now on... oh, who am I kidding? I'm crouching under the mixing desk right now sobbing my little heart out. About this.
A Life Of Quiet Desperation
I've always wondered what goes on in other people's heads. I've stopped asking. I get strange looks.
*May Contain Traces Of Nut
More strange happenings within my sub-conscious this morning. Less coherant than usual. For some medical, though not urgent, reason I was advised to get a certain procedure done to my foot. A close family member gets it done first, only to find both her ankle and her heel splitting, in an exceptionally painful manner. Despite this I go ahead and get this procedure done against her advice. The dream ends with me walking around, waiting, as I can feel my right foot beginning to split.
I would wish everyone a happy new year, but I'm really not in the mood. I'm crouched on the floor of my bomb shelter awaiting the imminent nuclear war. I'm in my happy place. The giant neon enigmas that are BOB DYLAN and JONI MICHELL will drop atom bombs from there fingertips onto the homes of countless millions. You can cry if you'd like, but really, the best thing to do is close your eyes and pray to whoever you think might be listening. Or perhaps live inside a structure that is lined with lead, to save you from radiation and from prying eyes. I thought there might be a cosmonaut on the roof listening. Who else would think to look up there? Do you think he'll answer my prayers? Oh, my sea monkeys have finally come to life, as if by magic. My heart swells with love. I might never own any real monkeys, but surely this is the next best thing. They're chugging along happily. JOY!
I'd like to make perfectly clear that this is a blog and not a journal. Tabloid-style chunks of dumbed down, paranoid histrionics. BLTC should not be read by anyone with an intellect. Also: BLOGGING ISN'T SAFE!
