Procrastination will be the death of my future career.
Oh, and I want to be fluent in irish and spanish.
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Since I’m petty, I want to have a good blog, mainly since other people do. I don’t really see the point in it, except that it lets people hear exactly what I think, and think that it’s very intelligent and that I’m great. Then that part of me that has an ego starts to bounce up and down on the couch in my head and I start to write.
Then I get fed up trying to be ironic or sarcastic or clever or whatever I’m trying, so this is soon to become a hotbed of bad jokes, rants and a few pictures. What do they call that again…? Oh yeah, a blog.
People on the X Factor should usually be shot. Not in a bad way, just… most of them should.
The next time a person tells me I’m an ass for being an atheist, I think I’ll point out to them that thanks to evolution, there is an ass, and, also thanks to evolution, religious fanatics and idiots, “like yourself”, can talk out of theirs.
P.s. Don’t get me wrong, I have every respect for people’s religions, but if the fanatic or fire-and-brimstone ones shove it down my throat, I’ll shove it up their mouths.
"Soddom and Gommorah and all that shiz!"
Not to be too sappy, it’s something that affects everyone that goes there, and since Ben did one, I’ll do one too.
CTYI is, to the outside world, a place for stuck up people who think they know everything to get together and act better than everyone. To those in the know, however, it’s something a good bit more. I don’t like getting over-emotional, and I don’t talk about the soul of the place, but everyone that was there can understand that with or without describing its heart and soul, it’s the thing which makes most of us.
It’s where pale kids come to see if they can take their school life, being without many friends at all and being interested in learning, and since that’s obviously not gonna change, can it be made even more so. But that’s really not what happens. What happens is that someone who’s terrified of people of any kind can turn up, make some real, life long friends, and do things they never thought they’d be able to do. They can be true about whatever they are, especially if that’s something a lot of the world has a problem with, and they can be made so much better for it. It makes them a happier, better person. Sometimes it means they can be a cynical person, but be loved for it by the people who matter. It can mean so many things, but it means that it makes you the person that you’ll be for the rest of your life, and you’re happy with who you are.
That’s the real “magic” of the place. Whatever about other people loving you, you can be true to yourself completely, even if you start off in small increments. It’s the thing that everyone agrees on, but it just isn’t mentioned enough.
That’s all there is, really. I’m not important to the place, I don’t make it much better or worse or anything in between, or do anything special, like being a pirate, or a particularly generous photographer working pro bono, but it made me so much better, and so did all the people there. I thank everyone for that for the rest of my life.
I can’t say much more than that, and most won’t read this, but thank you all.
Colin.
P.S. Sorry this is cringe-tastic.
I have a blog. A blog is made specifically to be public. But if I’m honest, I am a bit uneasy at having it listed on a website. Basically, yes, it’s here to be read, but I’d rather have vague friends telling me they read it when they only look at the pictures, when, ironically, manky skangers are the only ones to read it, specifically to see what a weirdo I am.
I realize that I love reading, but, ironically, the better I am at it, the less time I have to do it recreationally.
I keep doing this, and I keep posting the link to Facebook, but, ironically, no-one reads it in any case. Maybe it says more about me than the non-readers that I see their apathy towards me as “ironic” rather than “suicidally depressing”, or something, possibly more gently, along the lines of the latter.
Now I’m reading “Mostly Harmless” while playing with a tennis ball. The dog just took the “mostly harmless” tennis ball and almost died choking on it. The word irony has now lost all meaning, with the thought behind it is still stinging the labrador.
If my alarm clock can change it’s own time for when Daylight Savings begins, then my €200 mobile phone should too.
While some casualties of weapons are acceptable…
As you may guess, I dislike cats.
They’re usually not okay. Getting kind of sick of war games. Owning something with the purpose to kill actually turns my stomach, whether it be a toy or an actual gun. Only exception is something along the lines of a katana (a samurai sword), for ornamental purposes only.
Running around perpetually shooting arabic men in the face because they’re terrorists isn’t fun for me, it’s ridiculous. I won’t force what I believe on anyone else, but I do share this sentiment with the best of intentions in mind. Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty (whichever one we’re up to now) – they’re all the same over-the-top violent crap. Is it really a good idea to raise your kids learning that it’s fun to shoot things? Especially when it’s often doing so by subconsciously inciting a bias against arabic people or Islam through hating terrorism, without actually telling them what it is.
Agus, na nGaeilge. I had a conversation about this last night, almost entirely in Irish. Admittedly, it started out in Japanese, and with a different person, but I’ve now got a new resolution to become fluent in Irish. Tá cinneadh agam ansin. (Y)
Let’s be honest, Facebook is a fickle mistress. When I really only want to use it to contact those who live exclusively through its over-exaggerated medium, I find myself strangely drawn to the interesting statuses and mildly hilarious photos.
Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy pointless distraction which actually has no merit in it whatsoever as much as the next average “chap“, but it has become slightly ridiculous. When the comments on a certain piece degenerate into a two-person conversation, which dwindles endlessly on the point of death, I often wonder where I went wrong in my so-far short life.
Coincidentally, in a maths test today, I look at the page and see that it’s two-thirds covered in questions. I see the massive blank gap at the bottom of the page. End of the test. Five minutes before lunch, voice from across the room: “Oh shit, I just realized there’re questions on the back too!” Fuck my life.
I post this now excited about going up to my room to listen to my new radio-alarm clock-iPod dock, which I received for my birthday. Cheerfully, I also received a Batman leather bag, a Batman t-shirt and a Batman hoodie. None of it was coordinated. The power of Batman. Fuck yeah.
Oh, Scully, how many points is Batman in Scrabble?
And so it was… I think.
It’s all a massive conspiracy.
Prince is still Prince. Madonna is still a useless publicity slapper. And when a girl says that everything’s fine, nothing’s wrong and isn’t upset about something, it means completely the opposite. These things all must learn.
However, in this world of moral and social mind-numbing repetitiveness, there are a few lights. POetry being one that has cropped up for me recently, look up Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130. It’s my favourite, and of course I’m an EXPERT, just like the girls near you who have their opinion on everything. And it’s always “Ah, jaysus, now I don’t tink dat’s how dat’s sposta woork. Dat’s not righ’!” Those ones. Aren’t they charming?
Also, the song ‘Replay’. For his own sake, could he not think of something a LITTLE more poetic? For instance, I had a small rant about this in Biology yesterday:
Being in love with you is like a song on my iPod stuck on replay. It’s a great song, and I love to keep hearing it, always, constantly. But then I start to like the song a little less, and a little less. Then eventually I realize I don’t like the song at all. But it’s too late. I’ve already married the song and had a lot of baby singles. It keeps going though. Just keeps going. On and on. Incessantly. Naggingly. It just won’t leave me be, it’s mocking me, killing me inside. Then one day I wake up, already standing, out of breath, and… happy? The song has stopped, but why? Then I see it. The iPod, on the ground, in front of me, with its head beaten to pieces. The mallet, covered in my deceased iPod’s blood, is still in my hand. The screen, which had mocked me for so long, is dead now. And there is no replacement parts. Or charger. And as I hear the police pulling up outside I realize what I’ve done. And what do I think? Totally worth it.
Apparently, this was quite funny as improvization, but Cliona had a question: How did I get the brutal murder of a wife by her husband from an “iPod stuck on replay”? My reply:
Well, he does seem to be quite a ‘bitches and hoes‘ type chap. I can see him doing it.
It was an alright Biology class, as they go.
Also, seeing Scully blogging so much (http://conorscully.tumblr.com/) has inspired me to use this in a more frequent and readable way. Should be good. May be crap. But no-one’s gonna read it anyway, so it’s all good.
