Uffie

Redeemer has screwed me over yet again.
I abominate this school more than anything.

Sharp Piano Key

Fyodor Dostoevesky and I are very much alike. Well, not really, but I resonate profoundly (with what I irrationally and erroneously) determine his magnum opus -- Notes From Underground. We both spit upon utopians and superciliously oversee their construction of the Crystal Palace, and yet we are unable to elevate ourselves from this ridiculous society and thus feel strangely inferior. Further, our feelings and ideals trap and oppress us, rendering us into idle anti-heroes.

Part One of the novella babbles on metaphysical philosophy, which demanded me to re-read a few a parts and become mildly confounded. Part Two -- while carrying the same existentialist themes of Part One -- is narratively focused and structured as such. Two parenthetical notes here: 1. Dostoevesky apparently influenced Jean-Paul Sartre -- notably, Nausea -- a favourite read of my dear confrere Kowalski. 2. The read has eerie similarities to Taxi Driver, with, you know, all the contempt for society and authority, themes of alienation, and a myriad other parallels -- but most acutely with the merciful prostitute jabber. If you are not cultured enough to understand this reference (happyfrappy, Kowalski), we weep for you. [Snaggers] I'm sorry, how obnoxiously arrogant of me.

Notes, in actuality with my academic situation, is a hindrance. I'm performing subpar in Global History (I capitalize with utmost disdain) and so I must jot down some semi-intellectual thoughts regarding the-turn-of-the-century Africa described by the infinitely dry Chinua Achebe and connect that dry story with sordid class themes ad nauseum.

But for now, I peruse the Dostoevesky forums and smile upon my thought: those humans behind their machines are merely keys on a keyboard, pulling their hair in despair, trying to be more.

Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself

My eyes refused to open this morning at the designated time dictated by society. I am conscious, but in no mood to present myself to the my chopped up portion of world. And thus, I allow nature and time -- not artificial clocks -- full interaction with my sleeping/waking waves.
When called upon, I arise, and shamble into the kitchen to prepare a quaint breaky. I catch my haggard reflection in the frying pan and become bored. Languidly, I return to my bedroom to collect Leon with musical intentions. I pour my eggs symbolically on the fryer, and they sizzle and hiss in ecstasy -- The Acorn are best served hot. "Glory Hope Mountain" -- folksy stuff, sprinkled with spasmodic computer beeps -- is rising out of the kitchen alongside the delectable whiffs of my dynamic omelet. This brief bliss is interrupted by a dystopian-toast-burn. I sigh deeply and curse this ominous foreshadow.
Nanny enters the kitchen. Salutations, salutations. He is keen this morning: he notes my stripped shirt is inside out. "Zeut." (I'm distraught not because my shirt is inside out. Rather, the piercing eyes of the world are returning). Further, he inquires, "What is this? He just sang: 'I bit your tongue so hard, and now I can taste your blood'". Ah! Clearly Hundurian romanticism!
Now Steve saunters into my once serene bubble and moans, "Your subpar music is disturbing me." I flip my colourful omelet onto a piece of charcoal and sardonically apologize that I'm not playing Hilary Duff or Hillsong United. He likely calls me a frigger. I stumble for orange juice and tell him how I'll blog about this ruptured morning.

Colourful Man In The Sky

Sometimes in the sunshine my beard sparkles an orange hue. This beauteous anomaly is typically noticed with: "YOUR BEARD IS ORANGE? WHY?" After a pregnant pause, I reply: "Because tangerines are delectable".
Chinua Achebe's narrative has failed to intrigue me, and his writing style is very mundane. I've pounded through two thirds of Things Fall Apart, and I'm like: "Ugh. Just give me Heart of Darkness; it may bigoted and and overtly Western chauvinist-like, but Joseph Conrad was a master of his literary craft and layered enough esotericism and symbolism to satisfy any reader hungry for substance." How Things Fall Apart has become the magnum opus of Africa is a sham; I regard it as a minor work, much like Dickens' A Tale of Two Cites. "What is about high school? You read all the worst books by good writers." -- The Squid And The Whale
The fact that Roland Emmerich is spewing out expensive crap on film and has not even received death threats demonstrates the indolent repose that our society has settled into.
Jacy's Tempest has hit Basia Bulat and she's withdrawn from playing Hamilton. Misfortune is leaning on me but it can't afford the ticket. Bowie actually duets on the Kashmir's track "The Cynic", eh?
We appear to have a stranglehold on a humble abode for next year. I will inhabit this home for the summer, and will take Hamilton's sultry season by storm. I've never actually wandered through Hamilton before (perhaps for good reason) but, surely, between all the industry and poverty, there is a poppin' Beat scene with poetry jams and... Frig. I need to engage in other pleasant fiction; I've been digging this Beat nonsense long enough.
I'll suppose I could emulate Okonkwo and thus excel in wrestling in my youth; become a war hero in my 20's; and become harder than most rocks as an old timer. Oh wait, that's John McCain.

Ashes of American Flags

Starbucks. Economic imperialism has never tasted so good.

There Will Be Blood

We got into a tussle with some local farm boys over a golden pond. Some words were exchanged and some fisticuffs materialized. It was a solid rumble for myself until some dehydrated, blood-thirsty fellow speared me in the chin. My blood sprayed artistically into the cold winter air -- like a Tarantino flicker -- and I fell into the snow with my arms flailing, effectively making a red snow angel. My attacker then vampired me and headed back to Avonlea.
I received several stitches, and my bloody humanity personified Humpty Dumpty. My doctor threatened that he would of sliced me up himself had he been playing hockey with a Toronto Maple Leaf-wearing anti-hero.
According to wiki-How, I can remove these stitches myself and thus defer an annoying journey to Uxbridge to see my family doctor. All I need are tweezers, a small pair of scissors, hydrogen peroxide or alcohol, and a magnifying glass. The latter will be the most difficult to obtain; I am not a scientist, nor am I a sadist who torches ants (for more information on ants see Tom Waits).
There is a warning attached to this page, relating to the danger of removing your own stitches but, hey, Leon does it.