I can't take a compliment.
Or a present.
Or a kind gesture.
I don't know what it is but for as long as I can remember I have never wanted to accept something that I didn't think I could justify receiving. And it's not as if this was some deep seated psychological issue stemming from a poor upbringing. I had a very pleasant upbringing actually.
And in actual fact it's usually my dad trying to give me stuff that I feel I can't accept. Every so often Jim would hand me a tenner and say it was for petrol for the car (which he had filled the day before) or for cutting the grass (a chore that I did for free) or even because I was young and needed money (I've never in my life been flat broke. I'm very good at saving).
Birthdays and Christmas are an awkward time for me. I mean I love the events and I love having stuff that people give me and people having things that I give them. But the whole process of giving and receiving that old yuletide tradition makes me squirm so violently I rip a whole in the space time continuum and see the untold trillions of other James's in parallel universes who all coincidentally hate the giving and receiving thing.
Now the Multiverse Theory stipulates that there must be a version of me out there that actually revels in the process. But I looked. He doesn't exist.
I love being a universal anomaly. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling in my belly.
Honestly, my ideal situation is where we lay presents down in an empty room, like a saucer of milk for a stray cat, and open the presents in solitude so we can have our true reactions and practise the ones that make the gift giver feel the best. Okay, yes, that sounds really weird and a touch socially awkward but hey, I'M weird and a touch socially awkward. So it's all good.
As for the compliments thing I'll tell you this. Whenever I get bored or I get a really good idea I start to write a book. I've never finished one and the passion fades quickly but I've written the starting two chapters to 3 different books, only two of which I would ever consider carrying on. So eventually I let some of my friends read these chapters and I got a really good response. Sure, they could have been faking it to protect my feelings and that was good of them. But when they came to me and told me they thought it was really good, I got all shy and looked at the floor and shrugged saying "awwwww it's okay I suppose".
Then I would proceed to point out all that was shit in it. Because no one criticises my works quite like myself.
One day I'd really like to finish those books, even if I just convert them into short stories. Hell maybe someday I'll put them up here. But that's for another day.
Monday, 11 November 2013
Monday, 4 November 2013
The More Things Change
You know how this goes. I'm bored, I should be doing something else and yet some how I find myself with too much time on my hands.
Let's do this!
So let me tell you about the the first few months of university life. I had a tabula rasa, the chance to trick brand new people into believing that I was cool, funny and generally a joy to be around. Boy did I mess that one up.
I'll back up and give you some context. On the first day, the parents were there for a few hours, helping to unpack and whatnot, staving off the moment where they would have to leave their child in a foreign country with nothing but a bank card and a foot that he can fit in his mouth at any given time.
I went to the kitchen, the place various sources informed me that "all the best craic is had". Moving on pure faith I went in and introduced myself, all the while hoping the dark stain on my crotch was spreading slowly enough that no one noticed. Sitting there for around an hour, I realised that this was not my kitchen. I scooped my food from the incorrect fridge and ran to the other kitchen.
Now here's the funny thing. I had spent a year thinking of what to say to people. An entire year to invent the perfect set of words that would wow all of my would-be friends and show to them that this guy that had just walked in the door was going to be the most interesting and funny guy they would ever meet.
This all went down the toilet when I ran into the appropriate kitchen with an armful of assorted Tesco's own brand food items and a stupid grin on my face accompanied by the words "I've just spent the last hour in the wrong kitchen". I got a laugh and apparently tricked one of them into thinking I was cool, confident and an altogether carefree person.
So I at least got the tricking part down.
I also started swimming a lot more than I used to and so I accidentally led people to believe I was sporty. Who would have thought? I also became less uptight about my sleep. I mean I still have to have it at least once a night, but there are so many noises here that I just got used to it. Outside my window, there is a tree. Not just any tree. This tree was evidently planted by Lucifer, lord asshole of the damned because every, and I mean EVERY morning that tree comes alive with the unholy noise of a million crows cawing as one. Never before had I heard such a cacophonous din that made me so angry at a deep psychological level that I can no longer look at a dark feathered bird without clenching my fists.
Does that make me racist?
It's not just the crows. The radiator, for reasons I can't understand, makes a thunking noise at 6 am every morning. I discovered the secret to my blessed silence was to kick it. Hard. The clunk becomes a click. The click gets kicked. The click goes away...for a time. It always returns. But what the hell could be making that noise? Good God!
And then there's the fire alarms. This week there have been 6 fire alarms, most of them in the middle of the night or really early morning. Some funny funny bastards have been pulling the alarms with stupid regularity. Because, as we all know, pulling fire alarms is the funniest thing a person of low intelligence can do. In fact I'd go as far as to say it's ranked up there on the hilarity scale with drowning puppies and having to work for a living.
But I'm not bitter about it.
But as the title of this post suggests, there's a lot that has not changed. I still lift pennies whenever and wherever possible. If people have food they are throwing away because they don't think they'll eat it by the sell by date, you KNOW that I want in on that action. So I'm still a scrounger.
During secondary school at the start of every year I thought to myself "I'm going to really buckle down this year and work right from the get go". This was no different when I started uni 2 months ago. But if you look at my note books you can see just how quickly my notes move from "very detailed" to "quite detailed" to "bare bones" to "notes are gay". Classic work ethic for me.
I adapted to the new diet fairly well. I mean I could always make breakfast and lunch. The secrets of dinner time regularly confused and angered me. However pasta is so easy to make and its makes me feel like some sort of culinary super hero whenever I have the ingenuity to put bits of cooked sausage or bacon into it. My diet will always have pig. I can't always afford cow, but pig is easy to come by, thank the gods.
And on that note I think it's time for me to go and do this work I've been avoiding for quite some time. Wish me luck, or a swift and painless death. Or if you're feeling really generous, a non-fatal excuse as to why I don't have to do work.
The real world is going to kick the crap out of me and leave me a bloodied mess on the floor.
Let's do this!
So let me tell you about the the first few months of university life. I had a tabula rasa, the chance to trick brand new people into believing that I was cool, funny and generally a joy to be around. Boy did I mess that one up.
I'll back up and give you some context. On the first day, the parents were there for a few hours, helping to unpack and whatnot, staving off the moment where they would have to leave their child in a foreign country with nothing but a bank card and a foot that he can fit in his mouth at any given time.
I went to the kitchen, the place various sources informed me that "all the best craic is had". Moving on pure faith I went in and introduced myself, all the while hoping the dark stain on my crotch was spreading slowly enough that no one noticed. Sitting there for around an hour, I realised that this was not my kitchen. I scooped my food from the incorrect fridge and ran to the other kitchen.
Now here's the funny thing. I had spent a year thinking of what to say to people. An entire year to invent the perfect set of words that would wow all of my would-be friends and show to them that this guy that had just walked in the door was going to be the most interesting and funny guy they would ever meet.
This all went down the toilet when I ran into the appropriate kitchen with an armful of assorted Tesco's own brand food items and a stupid grin on my face accompanied by the words "I've just spent the last hour in the wrong kitchen". I got a laugh and apparently tricked one of them into thinking I was cool, confident and an altogether carefree person.
So I at least got the tricking part down.
I also started swimming a lot more than I used to and so I accidentally led people to believe I was sporty. Who would have thought? I also became less uptight about my sleep. I mean I still have to have it at least once a night, but there are so many noises here that I just got used to it. Outside my window, there is a tree. Not just any tree. This tree was evidently planted by Lucifer, lord asshole of the damned because every, and I mean EVERY morning that tree comes alive with the unholy noise of a million crows cawing as one. Never before had I heard such a cacophonous din that made me so angry at a deep psychological level that I can no longer look at a dark feathered bird without clenching my fists.
Does that make me racist?
It's not just the crows. The radiator, for reasons I can't understand, makes a thunking noise at 6 am every morning. I discovered the secret to my blessed silence was to kick it. Hard. The clunk becomes a click. The click gets kicked. The click goes away...for a time. It always returns. But what the hell could be making that noise? Good God!
And then there's the fire alarms. This week there have been 6 fire alarms, most of them in the middle of the night or really early morning. Some funny funny bastards have been pulling the alarms with stupid regularity. Because, as we all know, pulling fire alarms is the funniest thing a person of low intelligence can do. In fact I'd go as far as to say it's ranked up there on the hilarity scale with drowning puppies and having to work for a living.
But I'm not bitter about it.
But as the title of this post suggests, there's a lot that has not changed. I still lift pennies whenever and wherever possible. If people have food they are throwing away because they don't think they'll eat it by the sell by date, you KNOW that I want in on that action. So I'm still a scrounger.
During secondary school at the start of every year I thought to myself "I'm going to really buckle down this year and work right from the get go". This was no different when I started uni 2 months ago. But if you look at my note books you can see just how quickly my notes move from "very detailed" to "quite detailed" to "bare bones" to "notes are gay". Classic work ethic for me.
I adapted to the new diet fairly well. I mean I could always make breakfast and lunch. The secrets of dinner time regularly confused and angered me. However pasta is so easy to make and its makes me feel like some sort of culinary super hero whenever I have the ingenuity to put bits of cooked sausage or bacon into it. My diet will always have pig. I can't always afford cow, but pig is easy to come by, thank the gods.
And on that note I think it's time for me to go and do this work I've been avoiding for quite some time. Wish me luck, or a swift and painless death. Or if you're feeling really generous, a non-fatal excuse as to why I don't have to do work.
The real world is going to kick the crap out of me and leave me a bloodied mess on the floor.
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
What's the Opposite of a Film Buff?
Okay so here's the thing. I am by no means well versed in the land of big screen moving fiction. I've never seen Jaws, Rocky, The Goonies, Hocus Pocus (whatever the hell that is), Braveheart, Jurassic Park, the first 3 Terminator films, Titanic, hell I hadn't seen Shawshank Redemption until earlier this year!
I am a movie producers wet dream. Special effects can successfully keep me distracted for the full one hundred and fifty four minutes of a film (I'm looking at you Transformers 3). Plot often comes second. My memory is poor, my attention is lacking and I crave instant satisfaction from a cacophonous explosion of fire and brimstone as debris comes crashing down, missing our protagonist by an unlikely hairs breadth. Witty repartee between characters will have me hooked from the get go. When some kids are young they dream of being doctors or lawyers or even super heroes.
Not me.
Though I've often said that being Spider-Man would solve all of my problems. No, since I was young I wanted to be the funny side character of the show. The main character has way too much responsibility, the spotlight shines too brightly upon them. I wanted to be the buddy of the surly hero who would maintain the spirits of his friend with quick talking wit and insatiable goofy charm. Always having something to say seemed like such an amazing skill to me.
So when I say that I absolutely loathe "Shaky cam" and "Found Footage" movies with a fiery burning passion, you know that I don't say this lightly. I should explain.
I feel like it began with Cloverfield, though it might have reared it's ugly head long before that. Some director somewhere believed he was clever, nay, a VISIONARY in utilising the simplicity of a handheld camera following the events of a story, instead of several cameras on tripods that wouldn't give us a headache and motion sickness. Gone! exclaimed the director, Gone are the days of the Neanderthal and his stone age methods of capturing film. Gone are the days when man can watch a film and feel safe in the knowledge that they would not have to squint to properly see through the blurred movements of the silver screened footage.
On that day that man made a mortal enemy in me. Because you see, here's the thing. While this type of filming may have been a novel enterprise and an artsy retro style of filming that no one else could have possibly thought of, it became something much more.
It became, ladies and gentlemen, a plague! And it was contagious. It spread to more and more films. The term "Film Maker" now applied to any of the thousands of misguided saps out there with a handheld cam corder and delusions of grandeur. Shaky cam told them that low budget need not be a road block to success, but a ramp into the heavens of unsteady glory.
It gave them Hope.
And you know how I hate things that instill hope.
Now even big budget films like Star Trek and Man of Steel use a shakier camera to make it seem more "realistic". I'll tell you right now, if I want to see a film of some guy doing the dishes or hoovering the carpet I will implore that you grab the nearest handheld device with a camera and start making magic. But I when I pay to see a film about an alien, that looks like a suspiciously handsome and buff human being, crash land on Earth, get adopted by some sterile farmers and discover that our air and sun gives him super strength, then you know that I am not there for realism.
Long story short just put the camera of the frigging tripod, okay? Okay.
Final thought, found footage, much like shaky cameras has been done to death. Seriously, it's not an impressive way to tell a story. Are you listening big time movie executives that clearly read this blog?
But then again this is all coming from a guy who legitimately enjoyed the Green Lantern movie...
What?
Superheroes, gooood. Ryan Reynold, gooood. Blake Lively, GOOOOOD.
I am a movie producers wet dream. Special effects can successfully keep me distracted for the full one hundred and fifty four minutes of a film (I'm looking at you Transformers 3). Plot often comes second. My memory is poor, my attention is lacking and I crave instant satisfaction from a cacophonous explosion of fire and brimstone as debris comes crashing down, missing our protagonist by an unlikely hairs breadth. Witty repartee between characters will have me hooked from the get go. When some kids are young they dream of being doctors or lawyers or even super heroes.
Not me.
Though I've often said that being Spider-Man would solve all of my problems. No, since I was young I wanted to be the funny side character of the show. The main character has way too much responsibility, the spotlight shines too brightly upon them. I wanted to be the buddy of the surly hero who would maintain the spirits of his friend with quick talking wit and insatiable goofy charm. Always having something to say seemed like such an amazing skill to me.
So when I say that I absolutely loathe "Shaky cam" and "Found Footage" movies with a fiery burning passion, you know that I don't say this lightly. I should explain.
I feel like it began with Cloverfield, though it might have reared it's ugly head long before that. Some director somewhere believed he was clever, nay, a VISIONARY in utilising the simplicity of a handheld camera following the events of a story, instead of several cameras on tripods that wouldn't give us a headache and motion sickness. Gone! exclaimed the director, Gone are the days of the Neanderthal and his stone age methods of capturing film. Gone are the days when man can watch a film and feel safe in the knowledge that they would not have to squint to properly see through the blurred movements of the silver screened footage.
On that day that man made a mortal enemy in me. Because you see, here's the thing. While this type of filming may have been a novel enterprise and an artsy retro style of filming that no one else could have possibly thought of, it became something much more.
It became, ladies and gentlemen, a plague! And it was contagious. It spread to more and more films. The term "Film Maker" now applied to any of the thousands of misguided saps out there with a handheld cam corder and delusions of grandeur. Shaky cam told them that low budget need not be a road block to success, but a ramp into the heavens of unsteady glory.
It gave them Hope.
And you know how I hate things that instill hope.
Now even big budget films like Star Trek and Man of Steel use a shakier camera to make it seem more "realistic". I'll tell you right now, if I want to see a film of some guy doing the dishes or hoovering the carpet I will implore that you grab the nearest handheld device with a camera and start making magic. But I when I pay to see a film about an alien, that looks like a suspiciously handsome and buff human being, crash land on Earth, get adopted by some sterile farmers and discover that our air and sun gives him super strength, then you know that I am not there for realism.
Long story short just put the camera of the frigging tripod, okay? Okay.
Final thought, found footage, much like shaky cameras has been done to death. Seriously, it's not an impressive way to tell a story. Are you listening big time movie executives that clearly read this blog?
But then again this is all coming from a guy who legitimately enjoyed the Green Lantern movie...
What?
Superheroes, gooood. Ryan Reynold, gooood. Blake Lively, GOOOOOD.
Sunday, 8 September 2013
James' Hundred Days
Day 1
I'm sick. My head hurts, my throat is making it difficult to eat, my nose is making it difficult to enjoy what I do eat and the mucus I'm coughing up has the collective surface area to create my own country. An amazing start to the countdown isn't it? Sure beats Napoleon's countdown I'll tell you that much.
Where his men were slaughtered and defeated at the end of his hundred days, I will have left to enter third level education. So you know, they have their differences and similarities...
Day 2
An egg fell off the counter top and before I could stop myself, I turned to my mother and said "Well, I guess the yolks on me". I'm homeless now. The next 98 days are going to be tough. The situation wasn't helped when I went to work later on and my middle aged, teeny manager threatened me with a shovel.
Day 6
The heat is unbearable. The walls of poundstretcher are closing in around me. I won't last much longer. The faces of my co-workers melt and distort into some sort of freakish living Picasso's. Hell is breaking loose from beneath the super affordable display bed frame, only £99.99. Buy now while stocks last.
Day 16
Today I applied for my first debit card. A big day for most 16 year olds. However being 19, my attitude toward money has already been set in stone. Online shopping remains an outlet I will only utilise with the help of amazon vouchers I earn doing surveys for a faceless corporation on my laptop lying on my bed in my underwear sobbing and wondering where my life is headed.
Day 27
After arriving in my friends house in Donegal, a group of my friends and I proceeded to drink until we saw Sol rise in the sky. This morning we were not so jubilant. We decided the beach would be an excellent place to recuperate. Too bad it was raining and freezing. Regardless, we proceeded to use Poseidon's palace to cure our hangover. As it turns out the ocean is an unforgiving mistress. Her chill robbed the breath from our lungs and her waves forceful enough that we sought to drown ourselves to end the pain.
Good times were had by all.
Day 33
While the ocean was indeed challenging, she was manageable, if only briefly. The ice offers no such mercies. Today I entered an ice rink. Truthfully at this point it was just to kill time, but a small part of me wished to convince those around me that i was a graceful swan and not the uncoordinated oaf they believed me to be. I hate that part of me and wish it would die. The words "like Bambi on ice" were passed around like a bong at a frat party as I stumbled and inadvertently twirled my way around the icy floor. Small children would pass me and laugh. A little girl who couldn't have been more than 4 slid into my path. Steering was a skill I hadn't yet developed and so, in an act of pure desperation, I dived to the floor on my side in an effort to dodge her. Picking myself up off the ground I noticed that she had drifted away and some part of me wondered was she ever really there?
This is the same part of me that thought ice skating would be a good idea. Of course she was there you idiot. I don't just randomly drop to the floor. God!
Day 50
I have passed the halfway point. I take solace in this fact yet in my heart I feel great anguish. I have come so far to reach my goal and yet I must cover this distance once more. Pray for me dear children. I feel I am not long for this world.
Day 62
As a wise man with various facial deformities once said "I've stood all I can stands and I can't stands no more!" I have handed in my notice of resignation to Poundstretcher. No more will I scrub dust older than myself from my hands. No more will I wipe so much sweat from my brow to my shirt that it saturates my clothing. No more will I endure the wild and rampant sexual harassment. I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT DAMN YOU! Freedom... I am free. I. AM. FREEEEEEEE!!!
....two weeks from now, but...you know...whatever.
Day 83
This unbearable wait has robbed me of who I am. I have become a husk of a man. I am dead inside. My journey has purged my emotions from my body. Food is bland. Having friends is an inconvenience. Television no longer excites me. The Sun no longer warms my body. I await the day with indifferent curiosity when I can leave this accursed place and experience joy, love, acceptance and the excitement of the new series of Doctor Who. Though I fear that such a day will never arrive.
Day 91
So close yet so far. The Darkness that has descended upon me will soon lift, and I will feel the return of my humanity. Though my pragmatism tells me I have not the financial security to survive the year. This darkness may yet latch onto my destitute life and never release me. I will be, suffice to say, an interesting year...
Day 100
Arriving in Scotland I find that it is ridiculously similar to Ireland. And apparently they love the Norn Iron accent...I know! I don't get it either.
The majority of the students here have softer Scottish accents than I was expecting and yet every so often I find my face slacken and look blankly at a person talking and think to myself "Laugh, nod, wince? What the fuck do I say"
In the end I usually choose honesty and proclaim "Uh huh, uh huh I don't know what you just said"
The only other Northern Irish person on my floor is a girl called Nina from belfast and she and I began chatting. Suddenly we realised the other conversations had died off and every one was watching us. One girl, who's name escapes me looked at as with a strange mixture of fear and admiration saying that we spoke at the speed of light and she couldn't understand what we were saying.
So speed talking isn't just something my family does. Interesting...
I'm sick. My head hurts, my throat is making it difficult to eat, my nose is making it difficult to enjoy what I do eat and the mucus I'm coughing up has the collective surface area to create my own country. An amazing start to the countdown isn't it? Sure beats Napoleon's countdown I'll tell you that much.
Where his men were slaughtered and defeated at the end of his hundred days, I will have left to enter third level education. So you know, they have their differences and similarities...
Day 2
An egg fell off the counter top and before I could stop myself, I turned to my mother and said "Well, I guess the yolks on me". I'm homeless now. The next 98 days are going to be tough. The situation wasn't helped when I went to work later on and my middle aged, teeny manager threatened me with a shovel.
Day 6
The heat is unbearable. The walls of poundstretcher are closing in around me. I won't last much longer. The faces of my co-workers melt and distort into some sort of freakish living Picasso's. Hell is breaking loose from beneath the super affordable display bed frame, only £99.99. Buy now while stocks last.
Day 16
Today I applied for my first debit card. A big day for most 16 year olds. However being 19, my attitude toward money has already been set in stone. Online shopping remains an outlet I will only utilise with the help of amazon vouchers I earn doing surveys for a faceless corporation on my laptop lying on my bed in my underwear sobbing and wondering where my life is headed.
Day 27
After arriving in my friends house in Donegal, a group of my friends and I proceeded to drink until we saw Sol rise in the sky. This morning we were not so jubilant. We decided the beach would be an excellent place to recuperate. Too bad it was raining and freezing. Regardless, we proceeded to use Poseidon's palace to cure our hangover. As it turns out the ocean is an unforgiving mistress. Her chill robbed the breath from our lungs and her waves forceful enough that we sought to drown ourselves to end the pain.
Good times were had by all.
Day 33
While the ocean was indeed challenging, she was manageable, if only briefly. The ice offers no such mercies. Today I entered an ice rink. Truthfully at this point it was just to kill time, but a small part of me wished to convince those around me that i was a graceful swan and not the uncoordinated oaf they believed me to be. I hate that part of me and wish it would die. The words "like Bambi on ice" were passed around like a bong at a frat party as I stumbled and inadvertently twirled my way around the icy floor. Small children would pass me and laugh. A little girl who couldn't have been more than 4 slid into my path. Steering was a skill I hadn't yet developed and so, in an act of pure desperation, I dived to the floor on my side in an effort to dodge her. Picking myself up off the ground I noticed that she had drifted away and some part of me wondered was she ever really there?
This is the same part of me that thought ice skating would be a good idea. Of course she was there you idiot. I don't just randomly drop to the floor. God!
Day 50
I have passed the halfway point. I take solace in this fact yet in my heart I feel great anguish. I have come so far to reach my goal and yet I must cover this distance once more. Pray for me dear children. I feel I am not long for this world.
Day 62
As a wise man with various facial deformities once said "I've stood all I can stands and I can't stands no more!" I have handed in my notice of resignation to Poundstretcher. No more will I scrub dust older than myself from my hands. No more will I wipe so much sweat from my brow to my shirt that it saturates my clothing. No more will I endure the wild and rampant sexual harassment. I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT DAMN YOU! Freedom... I am free. I. AM. FREEEEEEEE!!!
....two weeks from now, but...you know...whatever.
Day 83
This unbearable wait has robbed me of who I am. I have become a husk of a man. I am dead inside. My journey has purged my emotions from my body. Food is bland. Having friends is an inconvenience. Television no longer excites me. The Sun no longer warms my body. I await the day with indifferent curiosity when I can leave this accursed place and experience joy, love, acceptance and the excitement of the new series of Doctor Who. Though I fear that such a day will never arrive.
Day 91
So close yet so far. The Darkness that has descended upon me will soon lift, and I will feel the return of my humanity. Though my pragmatism tells me I have not the financial security to survive the year. This darkness may yet latch onto my destitute life and never release me. I will be, suffice to say, an interesting year...
Day 100
Arriving in Scotland I find that it is ridiculously similar to Ireland. And apparently they love the Norn Iron accent...I know! I don't get it either.
The majority of the students here have softer Scottish accents than I was expecting and yet every so often I find my face slacken and look blankly at a person talking and think to myself "Laugh, nod, wince? What the fuck do I say"
In the end I usually choose honesty and proclaim "Uh huh, uh huh I don't know what you just said"
The only other Northern Irish person on my floor is a girl called Nina from belfast and she and I began chatting. Suddenly we realised the other conversations had died off and every one was watching us. One girl, who's name escapes me looked at as with a strange mixture of fear and admiration saying that we spoke at the speed of light and she couldn't understand what we were saying.
So speed talking isn't just something my family does. Interesting...
Friday, 31 May 2013
Small Talk
Small talk is all code.
By asking about the weather, schools, jobs etc. we can determine everything we need to know about a person. For example, imagine you go for a cup of coffee or something and there's a queue. As you're waiting in line, you strike up a conversation with another caffeine enthusiast. You can't make the usual jokes or use the usual slang and tone you would with friends and family, so you adopt a more soothing and a more generally acceptable version of yourself.
This is Step 1: Assimilation
Step 2: Research begins at the actual interrogation. "Where are you from?/what do you do for a living?/What's your blood type?/At what exact time of the day will you be home alone?". The usual routine.
Their answers reveal the darkest recesses of their mysterious and often terrifying personalities. "It's windy out today isn't it?" you'll say.
"I held a wedding ceremony for my cat and its favourite scratching post this morning. I can't wait until the kittens are born" they'll reply.
Step 3: Reaction Is where you decide whether or not, as a result of your attempts at small talk you can continue the conversation and potentially make a new friend or quietly and subtly dissuade them from talking to you, pay for your coffee (or not, I'm not a cop) and leave knowing you might have just escaped from the clutches of a serial killer.
Alternatively, you might have made them realise they're going to die alone and thus forced them to take out their pain, abandonment and subsequent aggression on the world, birthing a mad man of untold potential into society.
This must be why I don't have any friends. Too many serial killers about. Do I put out some kind of mass murderer victim vibe?
Ever since I was really young, I always loved it when you were in class and you were divided up into groups to do a project or something. Everyone would groan because they didn't get to pick their groups they could stuff with their friends. I would be disappointed as well, at least ostensibly. But really I was excited that I would get to work with someone that I usually didn't speak to so i could make a new friend.
That makes me sound horribly lonely and friendless. I wasn't and am not today, I swear (*sob*). I just enjoy making new friends. I'm good at it too. But unfortunately I have an intense hatred of small talk. I'm what you might call an acquired taste. I get a little uncomfortable when I meet a new person because I don't really know what to say. I just open my mouth and words I hadn't planned to say come crashing out like a tsunami of awkwardness and bad jokes.
Usually I say the bare minimum and get straight to the point. "Where do you go to school?" "Stirling" ...*silence*. When I realise I'm socially obliged to say something else to fill this void, I make a joke that is either terrible, unrelated or simply has no basis in reality.
It gets worse when they ask about my course, which is Psychology by the way. They ooh and aah in all the appropriate places and ask what I hope to do with that.
As it turns out vague questions about my goals in life are my kryptonite. That and light to moderate pain.
Yet when they are forced to be around me for a length of time they come to see that I am likable (sometimes),charming (eventually) and funny (no). This is why I will be just fine in halls come September.
These people will have to come to like me.
They have no choice...
By asking about the weather, schools, jobs etc. we can determine everything we need to know about a person. For example, imagine you go for a cup of coffee or something and there's a queue. As you're waiting in line, you strike up a conversation with another caffeine enthusiast. You can't make the usual jokes or use the usual slang and tone you would with friends and family, so you adopt a more soothing and a more generally acceptable version of yourself.
This is Step 1: Assimilation
Step 2: Research begins at the actual interrogation. "Where are you from?/what do you do for a living?/What's your blood type?/At what exact time of the day will you be home alone?". The usual routine.
Their answers reveal the darkest recesses of their mysterious and often terrifying personalities. "It's windy out today isn't it?" you'll say.
"I held a wedding ceremony for my cat and its favourite scratching post this morning. I can't wait until the kittens are born" they'll reply.
Step 3: Reaction Is where you decide whether or not, as a result of your attempts at small talk you can continue the conversation and potentially make a new friend or quietly and subtly dissuade them from talking to you, pay for your coffee (or not, I'm not a cop) and leave knowing you might have just escaped from the clutches of a serial killer.
Alternatively, you might have made them realise they're going to die alone and thus forced them to take out their pain, abandonment and subsequent aggression on the world, birthing a mad man of untold potential into society.
This must be why I don't have any friends. Too many serial killers about. Do I put out some kind of mass murderer victim vibe?
Ever since I was really young, I always loved it when you were in class and you were divided up into groups to do a project or something. Everyone would groan because they didn't get to pick their groups they could stuff with their friends. I would be disappointed as well, at least ostensibly. But really I was excited that I would get to work with someone that I usually didn't speak to so i could make a new friend.
That makes me sound horribly lonely and friendless. I wasn't and am not today, I swear (*sob*). I just enjoy making new friends. I'm good at it too. But unfortunately I have an intense hatred of small talk. I'm what you might call an acquired taste. I get a little uncomfortable when I meet a new person because I don't really know what to say. I just open my mouth and words I hadn't planned to say come crashing out like a tsunami of awkwardness and bad jokes.
Usually I say the bare minimum and get straight to the point. "Where do you go to school?" "Stirling" ...*silence*. When I realise I'm socially obliged to say something else to fill this void, I make a joke that is either terrible, unrelated or simply has no basis in reality.
It gets worse when they ask about my course, which is Psychology by the way. They ooh and aah in all the appropriate places and ask what I hope to do with that.
As it turns out vague questions about my goals in life are my kryptonite. That and light to moderate pain.
Yet when they are forced to be around me for a length of time they come to see that I am likable (sometimes),charming (eventually) and funny (no). This is why I will be just fine in halls come September.
These people will have to come to like me.
They have no choice...
Monday, 13 May 2013
Anti-Explanation
Oh hi there. I did just post a while ago and not mention the fact I didn't write anything for a year didn't I?
What has it been? 5...6...1 year 31 weeks and 6 days?
Time's just flown hasn't it?
So what's happened in all this time? What changes have there been in my day to day life, in my ongoing existence on this planet, in my very core and fundamental beliefs?
...not much.
In all honesty I can't really remember. It's all a bit of a blur. Of course you can't take my word for it. My memory of this morning is a bit of a blur. There was definitely cereal involved...or was that toast? Did I have breakfast?
Sidetracked. Some things never change.
Myself and 10 of my friends went on holiday to - shock horror- Magalluf. Can you believe it? 11 teenage boys threw a dart at a globe and managed to hit the most popular destination spot for those who find themselves in the limbo that is the year between secondary education and university. A place where morals and supervision go to die. What are the odds?
But don't let that fool you. We were responsible mature adults who looked out for each other and didn't cause a stir to the local populace...mostly.
We stole tables from various hotel rooms to give us one large one, the centre of which was reserved for our salad bowl which we periodically filled with random assortments of alcoholic beverages as per the rules of the glorious game "Kings" or as it's also known "Ring of Fire"
This game actually led to the expansion of my vocabulary with words such as "chunder", "chundering dragon" and "oh my god please help me my insides are on fire I'm going to die" making new and interesting additions to my dictionary.
Now, the law and my pride prevents me from discussing any further details of the trip. Any enquiries you have can be addressed to my lawyer who will swiftly use many technical phrases and legal jargon to confuse and disarm you with the ultimate message being "shut up and go away".
What else...oh yes
ALL OF MY FRIENDS HAVE LEFT ME
Well okay that's not strictly true. They went to university. Most of them are in Belfast, some went to Derry, hell some of them are still in Ballymena. But it leaves me with little chance to distribute my dangerous habit. A habit that is detrimental to both myself and those around me. A habit that could lead me to an early grave. Something I got hooked on when I was 15. One day everything was normal and then BOOM. Addiction hit me like a freight train.
When I was fifteen years old I got addicted to talking. Not just talking mind you. But producing unhealthy amounts of bull shit and terrible jokes that proved to be detrimental to my health and the patience of those around me.
I like to think I'm pretty good at it too. But of course that mightn't be true. It could be my ego. Or my penchant for bullshitting. Or it could be my ego AND my penchant for bullshitting teaming up in a super villain-esque tag team to rid the world of any remnants of my virtuous nature still in existence.
This gift of the gab will eventually cause everyone around me to leave. Oh they'll say they tried to help.
They'll say
They'll say
I will bear this burden until the end of my days. And by "burden" I mean "blessing". And by "end of my days" I mean until September when I will move to Scotland for university and meet new people who's patience meters have not been tainted and forever damaged simply by being in my presence.
It's fun to bother people.
What has it been? 5...6...1 year 31 weeks and 6 days?
Time's just flown hasn't it?
So what's happened in all this time? What changes have there been in my day to day life, in my ongoing existence on this planet, in my very core and fundamental beliefs?
...not much.
In all honesty I can't really remember. It's all a bit of a blur. Of course you can't take my word for it. My memory of this morning is a bit of a blur. There was definitely cereal involved...or was that toast? Did I have breakfast?
Sidetracked. Some things never change.
Myself and 10 of my friends went on holiday to - shock horror- Magalluf. Can you believe it? 11 teenage boys threw a dart at a globe and managed to hit the most popular destination spot for those who find themselves in the limbo that is the year between secondary education and university. A place where morals and supervision go to die. What are the odds?
But don't let that fool you. We were responsible mature adults who looked out for each other and didn't cause a stir to the local populace...mostly.
We stole tables from various hotel rooms to give us one large one, the centre of which was reserved for our salad bowl which we periodically filled with random assortments of alcoholic beverages as per the rules of the glorious game "Kings" or as it's also known "Ring of Fire"
This game actually led to the expansion of my vocabulary with words such as "chunder", "chundering dragon" and "oh my god please help me my insides are on fire I'm going to die" making new and interesting additions to my dictionary.
Now, the law and my pride prevents me from discussing any further details of the trip. Any enquiries you have can be addressed to my lawyer who will swiftly use many technical phrases and legal jargon to confuse and disarm you with the ultimate message being "shut up and go away".
What else...oh yes
ALL OF MY FRIENDS HAVE LEFT ME
Well okay that's not strictly true. They went to university. Most of them are in Belfast, some went to Derry, hell some of them are still in Ballymena. But it leaves me with little chance to distribute my dangerous habit. A habit that is detrimental to both myself and those around me. A habit that could lead me to an early grave. Something I got hooked on when I was 15. One day everything was normal and then BOOM. Addiction hit me like a freight train.
When I was fifteen years old I got addicted to talking. Not just talking mind you. But producing unhealthy amounts of bull shit and terrible jokes that proved to be detrimental to my health and the patience of those around me.
I like to think I'm pretty good at it too. But of course that mightn't be true. It could be my ego. Or my penchant for bullshitting. Or it could be my ego AND my penchant for bullshitting teaming up in a super villain-esque tag team to rid the world of any remnants of my virtuous nature still in existence.
This gift of the gab will eventually cause everyone around me to leave. Oh they'll say they tried to help.
They'll say
"how can we help someone who doesn't want to be helped?"
They'll say
"James for the last time you aren't funny. You're annoying"To which I will reply
"For god's sake I made one pun about Thursday and thirsty! Put the knife away!"My mother has quite the temper.
I will bear this burden until the end of my days. And by "burden" I mean "blessing". And by "end of my days" I mean until September when I will move to Scotland for university and meet new people who's patience meters have not been tainted and forever damaged simply by being in my presence.
It's fun to bother people.
Friday, 3 May 2013
127 Days
I want to take a moment right now to talk to you about Father Time. Because I have nothing better to do and a lot of time to do it in.
Which is all his fault.
For the seven years I attended secondary school I have wished and begged and pled for more time - more time to finish assignments, more time to study for exams, more time to catch up on my reading and of course more time to sleep my lazy ass back to enthusiasm.
And that crotchety, night-shirt wearing paedophile beat me in the face with his "be careful what you wish for" clock and cursed me to live at home for another year while all my friends get to move on to university.
I have to wait an agonising one hundred and twenty seven days until I can finally experience true independence, when I will leave the country and make a fantastic plethora of mistakes that will haunt me for years to come in ways I can't yet fathom.
It's going to be amazing. But there is still this massive wait before I get to travel off to unseen lands. And by unseen lands, I mean Scotland. Which I suppose isn't exactly unseen. I mean on a good day you can see Scotland off the coast of Ireland (where I live), which is only like a 12 mile gap. But there's all that water in between. So my family can't get to me. Thank sweet Christ for the Irish Sea.
Now I should maybe preface what I'm about to say with the fact that I love my family. I really do. But I've spent a lot of time with them already in my life and I firmly believe that a person isn't supposed to spend more than 18 consecutive years with their families or their primal instincts will force them to tear each other apart. I don't want to fight my family! There are five of them and I know I could take at least four of them. My dad has a bad hip and my mum and two of my sisters aren't quite blessed in the muscles department.
The main problem would be my second oldest sister, Eimhear. She has rage on her side. Plus she does sports! How am I supposed to compete with that? She would kick the ever loving crap out of me, and my religion prohibits my crap being outside of me in any other fashion than pure and simple defecation in one of Armitage Shanks pristine whites.
So obviously I can't stay with the family too much longer, but I don't have much of a choice. I've had to busy myself. I could get in shape! I could learn a language! I could get a jump on my Psychology course for next year and do some independent learning!
Because, as a great man once said:
I want to kill time, I really do. But he's a tough bastard and I've been saving my energy for the post-apocalyptic wasteland science fiction novels and movies have assured me is bound to happen sooner or later
"But James" I hear you say "why don't you just get a goddamn job and quit whining". Well aren't you just a lovely little thing. You see, I do have a job. I stock shelves in a budget supermarket type place. I'm pretty sure my official job title is "stock bitch". So, unsurprisingly, like 70% of the world, I hate my job and thus time is eternal during my shift.
Another way Father Time has screwed me over.
But I guess there's not much I can do but gnaw off my arm trapped between the rocks of time and make a movie about it. The arm in this metaphor being my laziness, the rocks of time being the time I have to wait to leave this godforsaken hell hole and the movie being...I don't know, a colourful spin on my "tragedy" which I can use to make money?
I'm bad at writing...
Which is all his fault.
For the seven years I attended secondary school I have wished and begged and pled for more time - more time to finish assignments, more time to study for exams, more time to catch up on my reading and of course more time to sleep my lazy ass back to enthusiasm.
And that crotchety, night-shirt wearing paedophile beat me in the face with his "be careful what you wish for" clock and cursed me to live at home for another year while all my friends get to move on to university.
I have to wait an agonising one hundred and twenty seven days until I can finally experience true independence, when I will leave the country and make a fantastic plethora of mistakes that will haunt me for years to come in ways I can't yet fathom.
It's going to be amazing. But there is still this massive wait before I get to travel off to unseen lands. And by unseen lands, I mean Scotland. Which I suppose isn't exactly unseen. I mean on a good day you can see Scotland off the coast of Ireland (where I live), which is only like a 12 mile gap. But there's all that water in between. So my family can't get to me. Thank sweet Christ for the Irish Sea.
Now I should maybe preface what I'm about to say with the fact that I love my family. I really do. But I've spent a lot of time with them already in my life and I firmly believe that a person isn't supposed to spend more than 18 consecutive years with their families or their primal instincts will force them to tear each other apart. I don't want to fight my family! There are five of them and I know I could take at least four of them. My dad has a bad hip and my mum and two of my sisters aren't quite blessed in the muscles department.
The main problem would be my second oldest sister, Eimhear. She has rage on her side. Plus she does sports! How am I supposed to compete with that? She would kick the ever loving crap out of me, and my religion prohibits my crap being outside of me in any other fashion than pure and simple defecation in one of Armitage Shanks pristine whites.
So obviously I can't stay with the family too much longer, but I don't have much of a choice. I've had to busy myself. I could get in shape! I could learn a language! I could get a jump on my Psychology course for next year and do some independent learning!
Because, as a great man once said:
When life gives you lemons, be glad it was just lemons and your parents weren't mugged and killed in an alley way
- Bruce WayneAs I write this I am surrounded by various objects that represent the different hobbies or interests I've adopted over the last year in order to kill time. I see the weights I bought to get into shape, which I then put down when I realised weights are heavy. I see the psychology text book I bought because I thought it was really interesting when I flicked through it in the shop and have since not opened. I see stacks of books waiting to be read which I haven't since I discovered the joy of Pirate Bay and Game of Thrones.
I want to kill time, I really do. But he's a tough bastard and I've been saving my energy for the post-apocalyptic wasteland science fiction novels and movies have assured me is bound to happen sooner or later
"But James" I hear you say "why don't you just get a goddamn job and quit whining". Well aren't you just a lovely little thing. You see, I do have a job. I stock shelves in a budget supermarket type place. I'm pretty sure my official job title is "stock bitch". So, unsurprisingly, like 70% of the world, I hate my job and thus time is eternal during my shift.
Another way Father Time has screwed me over.
But I guess there's not much I can do but gnaw off my arm trapped between the rocks of time and make a movie about it. The arm in this metaphor being my laziness, the rocks of time being the time I have to wait to leave this godforsaken hell hole and the movie being...I don't know, a colourful spin on my "tragedy" which I can use to make money?
I'm bad at writing...
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