Complaint About Time

If my time were cookies, then the cookie monster would be starving.
I even schedule out my week beforehand and I still cannot even fit in classes.
Of course the re-freezing on the pond may influence some modifications to my pencil-dressed sheet of paper called "Schedule From The Abyss Of Stygian".
I need a sabbatical.
But I'm not burned out.
I'm timed out.

Back in my heyday, I could punctuate time, now time punctuates me.
Dean Moriarty emphasizes that we must know Time. Dean knew it, and he was beatific. I do not know it, and I am glum, and just wanna make my wayward hum.

Lah Lah Lah

When I play Settlers, I am North Korea and my aim is to piss off as many other nations as possible. I do this by making illogical decisions, isolating myself (or if I do trade, I demand excessive resources in return), threatening other nations, and delaying time (slowing down the clock so I may bask in my supremeness). The one major drawback is my lack of nuclear missiles; I lack muscle. Anywhoers, if everyone despises me after the game, I've done my job.

Sometimes I pretend I see everything in film -- and depending on my mood, sometimes it's highly saturated modern era film (when life is beatific), or sometimes it's starch black and white film from the 50's (WHEN I PRETEND I'M 1950'S TEXAN DESERT). Or sometimes it's in technicolour but it's grainy (mundane life)

I'm as busy as a bee; school has been the death of my pleasure time lately.

I'm flying to Toronto to see The Airfields on Saturday. It's like poppier shoegaze, of course accompanied by those penchant melancholic overtones.

On Monday I start the social gospel. I hit up the Hamilton po-lice station to apply for a criminal background check. I must return a month today to pick it up. Remind me, blog; I will tag you as such.

I have nothing to say these days. I need to splash myself with relaxation and wine.

A confusing birthday.

Heath Ledger dies.
Bryan Nagle lives.

When You Wake Up Feeling Old

It has come to my attention that another imminent birthday is looming over my head like a guillotine. But I am not a cake-eating Marie-Antoinette, I am a fit and humble man. Take a moment for the resounding irony to hit. *Splatter*

My greatest fear is to become a victim of ageism, like Michael Scott. Perhaps I will need to revolutionize my wardrobe, style, tastes, and language to avoid this form of hate-crime against the aged. Here are a few examples to colour in my agedness:

1. I do not comprehend text messaging; I have only performed this progressive communicationary technique twice -- and this was under the supervision of a teenager.

2. I nearly have a scheduled napper time to rest my decrepit body.

3. Nearly all the tunes I listen to are as soft as lullabies.

4. My feet are incessantly cold.

5. My memory lapses more frequently than the Maple Leafs.

6. I spray the children with the hose when they trespass on my verdant lawn.

Enough! I cannot continue on any further... Funny thing is: I don't even know what to do with my life.

Orange Juice

"Give me two hours of activity, and I'll take the other twenty-two to daydream." I read something like this recently; I resonated.

My jalopy is ill and requires medical attention from the car hospital; as a result, I now drive a swank Epica and I recieve contemptious looks from envious louses -- you friggers.

Life is awkward.

They let Lisa go blind

Blue is the quietest colour. Blue is the colour of silence.

Blue hues.

*Thrashing through blue*

Today I worked out. No kidding. I straight up hit to the gym and pumped iron. My schedule is such that routine outings to the gym (three times a week) will be realized. And I have a gym buddy -- and we will cap one another if things go awry.

My classes are infinitely boring. Life is terribly insipid. And my curiosity is stifled by shyness.
What the hay? Life should be beatific and gay.

Assertiveness required.

My Own Face Inside The Trees

If you are bored on a sunny Sunday afternoon I strongly advise that you view Juno: An absolutely delightful picture show featuring the witty and sassy lead "Juno" (who knows her real name? Though, I heard through the breeze that she's Canadian) of who after the first few minutes you'll be wishing will walk out of the silver screen and into your chair. Typically, I would be ashamed to admit I enjoyed a flicker like this but, I don't know, the director just got the job done. Moreover, the soundtrack features Belle & Sebastian! Yes, yes! An incredibly pleasant surprise, which enhanced my auditory circulation ten-fold -- but the soundtrack belonged to The Moldy Peaches, who I have never even heard of, let alone listened to. The Moldy Peaches have some really swell stuff but at points is far too boorish and explicit than I am comfortable with. Speaking of music, The Clientele are ace! I have long ignored them on my iTunes, but finally, I have discovered their mellifluous tunes and I am wholly beguiled! (Too many big words in a row: that's a nono; I'm sorry).

Anywhoers, today I return to the arena of academia and I have little desire to return. My life is shrouded in white snow clouds, and I could daydream all day long. Or, until I realize I must accomplish something mildly productive 'else I feel daffy and bad. I hear girlfriends are solid instruments of motivation, but I have yet to find a young lass at Redeemer suitable to my needs (and desires).