I am a culinary sex god for the day. I have made and consumed 3 bacon and egg English muffins and I plan on having nachos. That is to say, I plan on mushing up an avocado, slicing some cheese, opening some salsa and sour cream and drowning corn chips in it. I've some how reverted to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle. I'm resisting the urge to piss all over the kitchen in a bid to mark it as my own.
I've never realised that your hands are so much more than just tools for shoveling food into your mouth. They are creative kitchen utensils that have the magical ability of combining ingredients into fully fledged meals (all involving cheese). I'm marveling at my hands as they place egg, upon bacon, upon cheese, upon butter, upon muffin. They are like architects.

People who call themselves writers but haven't written anything are like people who have an excellent taste in music but aren't musicians. Because being able to explain the cultural complexities and colour scheme of a painting doesn't make you an artist, and enjoying all that our consumerist democratic society has to offer means you can not legitimately call yourself a communist.

Fucking spare me your ideas and your tumblr.

I've mentioned this girl before. She's getting a lot of air time in my life. Last week we saw a Ron Mueck collection and the newest Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Tomorrow we'll be seeing the Sex in the City 2 movie. (We always do terrifying things together.) I hope she brings that burger.

It would seem I only blog when I have exams the following day.
On the brighter side I've single-handedly bought, made and ate the ingredients for a bacon and egg English muffin. You know... a 'Mcmuffin.'
I've had 2 thus far. Probably going to make a 3rd within the next 10 minutes. The relationship between a processed slice of cheddar cheese and a piece of bacon is truly the most beautiful thing to behold.
How many more hours to that oral exam/ cheese induced pulmonary artery attack? Not enough.

Finally!

Before the car got to the end of the street, as if to say "goodbye" she popped her tiny head out of the window just in time to see me flip her the finger.

I can remember seeing this movie in cinemas with my parents. I can remember being so into it that, mid-screening I stood up and started fencing with my chair, in the cinema. Parrying and thrusting with an imaginary sword against my arch nemesis: cinema chair.

I remember thinking that because it was dark no one could see me. I vividly remember my mother quietly averting my father's attention from the screen and onto me.

"Don't look now darling, but our son thinks he's a musketeer. This kid is a joke"

Is what I imagine she said at the time.

Although both tried to be discrete, I noticed immediately that they had both started to watch me. At which point I sat down and pretended nothing had happened. To this day, I'm still embarrassed about it.

What is your beard a metaphor for? You fucking retard.

This is called "getting everything right and accessing godly powers". This intelligent foxtress right here is the only person I can ever truly trust. Hair that right just stockpiles trust! Her hair repels crime it's so right. She should marry Batman.

This stupid little girl got the forehead to fringe ratio all wrong.

I wrote this today and is in no way connected to the previous post

Today I woke up after broken sleep and hallucinatory dreams, feeling as if I was about to feint from the pain in my stomach I diagnosed to be: hunger. I had a bite of an apple and then ran to the toilet to throw it up. Not hunger.
I decided to not go to class and instead get my dad to chauffeur me to the doctor for a check up. Felt fine at the doctor's and for the rest of the day felt and ate as per usual. I'm a healthy boy!
I decided to lay down outside while wearing a jacket, jeans, a beanie and a scarf, on towels I placed out onto the lawn, and soaked up the sunshine while every possible inch of skin was fully covered and protected from the sun.
Then I had a bubble bath, only refilling it once with hot water.
Then I had a shower to rinse those disgusting bubbles off me.
Then I wrote this blog.
The assignment that is due tomorrow is, at this stage, incomplete. The linguistics assignment I fully intend to do... incomplete. The Backstreet Boys had a 2005 hit called Incomplete. This is, in many ways a lot like that song.

I wrote this 2 days ago

Sometimes I imagine linguistics as a massive, burly, heavily-tattooed convict who is bending me over. And at other times I imagine it as a tiny insidious spore that has settled itself in my bowel and releases a toxin that makes me feel as if my internal organs are being sliced to pieces with a rusty fish hook.
Linguistics is good in that it's such a broad and varied field that makes so many people feel so many things. So many things.

Never give up on your dreams I guess

Do you think the creators of this horsecycle could have made it a little less terrifying?
That terrifying shade of blue, the terrifying ghostly white eye. What kind of zombie horse was this modeled on?

(Spell check's trying to tell me horsecycle isn't spelled correctly.)

Book reviews with Liam in hats

Wilbur Smith's "Three Novels of Ancient Egypt".
It's a ballin' adventure about love and war, and the gelding of slaves. The middle novel- The Seventh Scroll is set in "modern times" and follows two sexy and single archaeologists who find the remnants of what was introduced in the first novel - River God. The 3rd and Final Chapter- Warlock goes back to Ancient Egypt and continues on a few years after River God finished.
There are several battles and a scene featuring attempted rape and premature ejaculation (the same scene).
The collection of River God, The Seventh Scroll and Warlock as a whole is awarded the black and white semi-military looking cap of goodness.


White Ghosts was on sale for $5. After reading the blurb I was expecting lush, detailed scenes of exotic Hong Kong as a murder cryptically unraveled. Instead what I got was a poorly written tale about a bunch of losers you neither empathise with or remember amid unexplained flashbacks to the homosexual antics at a British Catholic Boys School.
Author Will Rhode goes on to devote entire pointless chapters to a man jerking off to porn with an unnecessary amount of written detail. (We've all watched porn, we know how it goes.)
Then another scene where some guy gets anally violated at a Massage Parlour.
Clever literary terms such as shit stain, toilet water and willy also get thrown around.
I tolerated about 20 crappy chapters of nothing happening before skipping to the last page. I will never get those few hours of my life back.
The boring crap fest that is White Ghosts gets the zebra print cowboy hat because it's cheap and could have been created by a monkey with a sewing machine in a Vietnamese sweat shop.

James Clavell's fictional tale of Early colonialism in Japan is fun. I'm barely a quarter of the way in, but it's complex and rollicking. I hope it has the stamina to remain interesting and fulfil the potential it set in the first few chapters.
Gai-Jin gets the pirate bandana because I'm unsure of it, but I like it never the less.


I'm not wearing a hat with this book because I bought it in Japan and left it in Japan. If you're ever at the Gifu University International House it should be somewhere on the bookcase in the lobby.
The Historian was a real page turner that kept me up when I should have been snoozing. A curious story with varied and interesting settings, well-paced and well-written. It was an excellent read right up until the last few pages where its abrupt anti-climactic ending spits dog balls all over you. So disappointing. Like, imagine the minute Froddo gets to Mordor he pegs the ring and it flies into the volcano and that's it. All settled, all over.

It all leads up to nothing. The easiest and quickest resolution like the author Elizabeth Kostova just ran out of ideas.

May I be excused to freak out!?

I'll give $5000 to the first person who figures out how to inject the personalty of Clarissa from Clarissa Explains It All into a LIVING 19-26 old year woman. Then an extra $5 if you get her to fall madly in love with me.

Face to palm

This is more or less the worst selection of interests a human being can have. Moreover, singling out these particular interests in summary of 'what you like' is a sure fire way to ensure I never want anything to do with you.

On their own I guess all these things are fine... I guess. Apart from literature spelled with two 't's.

But collectively... ugh, fucking spare me, nerd!

She's been present at all the milestones in my life, from my birth, to forging my name on university attendance roles, lending me her perfume to hide the scent of my own vomit down my jeans, to buying me a priceless piece of Beverley Hills 90210 memorabilia. She has been a constant fixture in this rag-tag world of late nights and non-existent mornings. A 'rock' or pillar of support, if you will. She almost always wears black, doesn't even come from Brisbane and recently discovered a dead body in her shady southern suburb.
Her name is Nikki and she turned 21 on Wednesday. Naturally we celebrated over pancakes. This is us in 2008.

Here the 2 of us re-enact Saving Private Ryan. It was a stellar performance and at just over 170 minutes, we busted out this jazz number. I'm super smiley and she's being all "I'm an artist" and not even looking at the camera.

Other than the basics ( She's a single[kinda] white[sorta] female[by default] ) she's also a student majoring in Indonesian language and that subject where you insult people at an audible level. Utilizing these skills she hopes to one day meet Terry Richardson and ask him to "suck my big black cock". And who are we to step on such dreams? It is after all only 3 days after her birthday.

That makes no sense. But, if a baby wants all those tattoos and is positive it won't regret them later in life, then I guess it's a mother's duty to take her baby to the tattoo parlour. It just is. That's science.

I find this too funny. TOO FUNNY!

I started piano lessons when I was in the 4th or 5th grade. My mother paid this 90 year old man to come to our house once a week to instruct me in the ways of the piano. He was literally 90. I remember because some time after a lady replaced him as my teacher. She was his protégé, his former student and I suspected, also his lover. She told us that he was so old he could no longer drive anywhere because he was so old he couldn't be trusted behind the wheel of a car.
Anyway, I digress. It all started with the 90 year old man.
I remember the very first lesson.

"What's two plus two?" he asked me as we sat side by side in front of the piano.

"Four" I replied a little unsure of whether it was a trick question.

"And what's four plus two?" he continued.

"Six" I stated, more confidently.

"Yes. Yes! Then you can play the piano!" he said mystically.

Yeah, he was a freak. And yes, he is definitely dead by now. But he had created this method of teaching people to read sheet music and play the piano by some mathematical code. It made no sense to me then, so I can't try to make sense of it now. But it was like, if there's a note on the bar, and the next note is two spaces higher on the bar, then a quaver is equal to two, and those two spaces make it four, so you play four notes higher, and hit four keys for every two quavers.
That was how it sounded to my young innocent ears. And those young innocent ears also died that day. From then on my ears were jaded, bitter and cynical. Because I could not process the information on the sheet music into fluid hand movement over the keys, I sat there solving complex mathematical equations in complete silence. And that was when I started to hate the piano. And I still hate the piano. To this day, I cannot fathom the sheer mass of available keys translated to tiny dots on a piece of paper and then delegated between two hands that must move simultaneously yet independently to form music.
I played the trumpet in primary school. That was simpler. But the piano had already poisoned music for me. And to this day, I swear that I will never play a musical instrument. And if I ever have kids and they dream of someday composing intricate concertos and playing toe-tapping melodies in the school band, I will punish them. I will tear their dreams from them and sew the stolen dreams onto a dead rat, then flush that rat down the toilet. I will protect my kids from music at all costs.

I can see the headlines now

Housewife kills himself by jumping in front of speeding Shinkansen.
Online bullying may be involved.

House guest: Oh my!!!

Me: Yes! That is real marble.

House guest: A real marble kitchen bench!? With an elevated glass serving table!? With a naked woman!? It's exquisite.

Me: It's Italian marble. The proper way to clean it is with the butt cheeks of a woman. It's decreed by the Pope that this is Italian heritage listed marble and we must clean it as per proper custom. I'm going through women's butt cheeks faster than I'm going through ordinary paper towel and Ajax Spray 'n' Wipe. But when you see the sheen on this marble, you'll agree it's worth it.

Do these even make sense anymore? Tell me they do.

House guest: I love your computer chair!

Me: Thanks! It's ergonomic.

House guest: It's so hard to get good quality ergonomic chairs these days.

Me: Tell me about it! I got this one when it was just a baby. It was the runt of a litter of 10. LuckyI saved her because the mother would have probably eaten her.

House guest: So you don't just base your furniture purchases on ergonomics or aesthetics, you actually think about what kind of effect your purchase might have on the world.

Me: Basically.

It's 11:30 pm and I'm re-enacting having lunch with 2 of the greatest people I have ever met. It's on facebook but I'm having enough fun to kill a whole swarm of dolphins.
It's that laughter you let out when your alone, but still conscious of how you're laughing. It's reduced to a hushed yet smooth barking like that of a leopard seal, as somewhere, there are people sleeping in this household.

Reminiscing and giggling like a retard are 2 of my best talents.

Futuristic insight/ flattering compliment

Priorities

"Remind me, if I ever have kids, to dress them in fur!" - Nikki

I've watched my fair share of Judge Judy. And I don't mean to brag (but I do), but I've watched heaps of Judge Judy and I'm basically an expert in the field of justice. And that's why this infuriates me. This disgusting tatoo is a disgrace. It doesn't even look like Judge Judy.
Also, the angle of this photo makes it look as if it reads "Only Judy Can Judge Mel".
Well who the fuck is Mel?
Judge Judy would be spinning in her grave if she ever hears of this.

Does anyone remember that week in highschool when I actually rented out someone's face and lived there!? But those jerks down at the real estate agency had leased it out to some other guy. And I would always see this guy and he'd be like "Get out of my face!" Which I thought was just him being sassy. Turns out it wasn't and I was literally taking up lodging in his face.

I felt like such an asshole afterwards.

" It's like a cinnamon roll or apple pie wearing an authentic robe at home."

Have you wondered what Jesus really smelled like? Like, Jesus' personal scent?

I'm baffled as to why scientists haven't tried to reconstruct the fragrance that Jesus would have unleashed during his physical existence. It seems like gross negligence on behalf of science.

Okay, so Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and ugh, possibly lived there? Well, Bethlehem is modern day Palestine.

This is where I typed "Palestine smells like" into Google.
Results: Palestine smells like home. Roughly the smell of four walls fitted with some kind of roof type structure.

Also, Jesus regularly wore robes. It's what he was famous for.

This is where I typed "robes smell like" into Google.

Results: A robe should smell like an authentic robe. If there's one thing we can agree on 2 million years after Jesus' death, it's that he would have worn authentic robes. Imitation robes just wouldn't have been his style.

Finally, Jesus was also known for Miracles. In fact, after wearing robes, it's the other thing he's most famous for.

This is where I typed "miracles smell like" into Google.

Results: A baked miracle would smell like cinnamon rolls or apple pie. Logically an un-baked miracle would smell like unbaked cinnamon rolls or raw batter and diced apples.

Sometimes miracles may smell of herbs, however it is essential that they not smell of rotted flesh. Nasty rotted flesh. Nice rotted flesh is probably still okay.

Furthermore, miracles should not smell like dead cats. Something that can slip even the best of our minds on occasion. Am I right?!

Our lips can touch here...

I've never met Ringo Star (who.what.ever), but I guess he really was shorter in person. Or maybe this is some play on the word 'beetle'. Beetles are tiny, I suppose. But realistically, like all black and white photography, this is a vivid reflection of life.
It's that moment during pre-dawn when you finally start to feel sleep taking effect on your haggard body. You meander off to bed, relieved that you will finally be able to rest, yet reviled to find your sheets feel like slouchy, scratchy boulevards of dust, smothering your feeble self in an equally feeble yet omnipresent cradle you can't derive any back support from.

It is not your sheets. There is no dust. You're delusional from lack of sleep.

Is it your pyjamas; the crinkled, discarded gum wrappers you are wearing?

You check. You're not wearing discarded chewing-gum wrappers.

Or is it your bed; the veritable ashtray of your life you extinguish yourself into every night? Rub yourself out into a dreary haze. The day has dragged on you and puffed you away, then smeared you face down into your own pillow. Later you'll find the sunlight will relight you. Albeit, already burnt and with all your rich tobacco-y goodness sucked from you during your post-adolescent years, you wonder what cruel god incessantly relights the butt you have become.


I doubt Ringo McCartney ever felt like that though. He's probably too rich to care about pretentious black and white photography anyway.

Tokyo Dandy is an example of the life I'm not living. A confronting, in my face mockery of my life.