The myriad ramblings, musings, observations, considerations, deductions, thoughts, philosophies, theories and deliberations of a cynical old bastard stuck in a cynical young bastard's body.

Read the Printed Word!

 

So for the third time in my life, I try blogging…

17threasonforfallingoutofthesky:

Oh God, I’ve finally cracked and joined…Tumbling R. That great, vaccuous hole in the internet where screwed-up individuals vomit out their perversions, secrets and social commentary for the world to read and glue innumerable pictures and quotes created by other, more interesting people in the vain hope that someone, somewhere, might care enough to do exactly the same with said media on their Tumbling R.

God help me I love the internet.

Ah, my first post, =’)


It perfectly highlights the state of a website I knew nothing about.

Giving up on immediately defined future potential.

Have decided to bombard numerous publications with my experiments in Observational Gonzo Journalism or/and an unrelenting stream of callous language and demands for money until one or more of them cave and publish me, pay me or both.

Fuck  it, it worked for HST, it can work for me. I’m angrier than he ever was.

I’m a word freak.
I like words.
I’ve always compared
writing to music.
That’s the way I feel
about good paragraphs.
When it really works,
it’s like music.

Hunter S. Thompson

itookthehobbitstoisengard:

 

music-holic:

And the Waltz Goes On - Anthony Hopkins 

Sir Anthony Hopkins Hears The Waltz He Wrote 50 Years Ago For The First Time

Academy Award-winning actor Sir Anthony Hopkins was a musician before he got into acting. 50 years ago he wrote a waltz but was too afraid to ever hear it play. Dutch violinist André Rieu performs it for the very first time. Watch Hopkins’ reaction.

The perfect Waltz. Oh to feel how he must have felt.

Strawberry fingers, daisy chains and tiny spiders. Those were the highlights of that moment atop the funny little hill passive-aggressively rupturing the mindnumbing Cityscape around it. 
As doubtlessly the first of the Tiny Spiders took root upon my bod somewhere, I watched LB wander the hilltop, reaping daisies thereby to crown me Flower-Lord of the Hill and considered, vaguely, that poor malabused sketchbook of mine lying dormant in her bag, lamenting (just as vaguely)the lack of inspiration I found in the cracking horizon that encircled my every view. It’s a frustrating loss, to be so passionate about drawing and so immersed in the vivid awesomeness of the World, yet suffer upon no inspiration whatsoever whereby to draw.
Minutes fall off my awareness and I consider writing this very post as the first of the Spiders comes to my attention.

Miniscule, glittery black dots held up by half-hair measurements mascarading as legs. I let him skitter across the moonscape my pores must present for him until, as I display him to LB and her nigh-crippling Arachnophobia, the Spid is drawn up by the wind and away to somewhere distant and beyond.

LB is grateful at his loss, soon disheartened at the appearance of Spiders two and three in rapid succession, though they never meet as the one is borne aloft on a stiff breeze before the other, a brown, pale, unpleasant beastie, appears unwelcomed upon my shoulder (Quickly despatched). We decide to leave, only to find another shimmering poppyseed of an Arachnid, hitch-hiking aboard LB’s bag. I flick him hence to the unknown and we retire to the nearby street, seeking munchables.

Culminating in a Bacon and Egg sammich for me and a Chocolate Cornflake Nest for Little Bean, our jaunt had (despite Spiders) gone well, whereupon realising this, I dropped Egg yolk all over my trouser leg and ruminated on the matter whilst licking it off sticky fingers. Bodily status? Devoid of Eight Legged Freaks, to the best of our knowledge.

Strawberry fingers, daisy chains and tiny spiders. Those were the highlights of that moment atop the funny little hill passive-aggressively rupturing the mindnumbing Cityscape around it.
As doubtlessly the first of the Tiny Spiders took root upon my bod somewhere, I watched LB wander the hilltop, reaping daisies thereby to crown me Flower-Lord of the Hill and considered, vaguely, that poor malabused sketchbook of mine lying dormant in her bag, lamenting (just as vaguely)the lack of inspiration I found in the cracking horizon that encircled my every view. It’s a frustrating loss, to be so passionate about drawing and so immersed in the vivid awesomeness of the World, yet suffer upon no inspiration whatsoever whereby to draw.
Minutes fall off my awareness and I consider writing this very post as the first of the Spiders comes to my attention.

Miniscule, glittery black dots held up by half-hair measurements mascarading as legs. I let him skitter across the moonscape my pores must present for him until, as I display him to LB and her nigh-crippling Arachnophobia, the Spid is drawn up by the wind and away to somewhere distant and beyond.

LB is grateful at his loss, soon disheartened at the appearance of Spiders two and three in rapid succession, though they never meet as the one is borne aloft on a stiff breeze before the other, a brown, pale, unpleasant beastie, appears unwelcomed upon my shoulder (Quickly despatched). We decide to leave, only to find another shimmering poppyseed of an Arachnid, hitch-hiking aboard LB’s bag. I flick him hence to the unknown and we retire to the nearby street, seeking munchables.

Culminating in a Bacon and Egg sammich for me and a Chocolate Cornflake Nest for Little Bean, our jaunt had (despite Spiders) gone well, whereupon realising this, I dropped Egg yolk all over my trouser leg and ruminated on the matter whilst licking it off sticky fingers. Bodily status? Devoid of Eight Legged Freaks, to the best of our knowledge.

Controversy for the day.

Whether or not you believe reverse-racism is a thing or not, just stop categorizing people and cultural traits by race and skin colour, please?

It’s not beneficial to anyone. So no more “White Boys”, “PoC” or any of that crap (that goes for sex, gender and sexuality too).
As long as you keep pigeonholing people like this you’ll never solve any problem against particular minorities.
- Treat everyone as people.
- Treat all socio-cultural problems as EVERYONE’S problem.
- Shit will get done.

I don’t hate racism because it dehumanises a group that is alien to me, I hate it because it oppresses and abuses PEOPLE.

Get it? No labels, no minorities, all solidarity.

Sleep well little Biscuit, you were the best Cat and a lifelong friend. I’ll miss you more than I can express right now, but it’ll never be the same walking down stairs at night terrified I’m going to stand on you, that’s for sure. Dream well you awkward critter, it was a good 17yrs. Love you kitten. <3

Sleep well little Biscuit, you were the best Cat and a lifelong friend. I’ll miss you more than I can express right now, but it’ll never be the same walking down stairs at night terrified I’m going to stand on you, that’s for sure.

Dream well you awkward critter, it was a good 17yrs. Love you kitten. <3

It never has.

Of all the wonderful posts I see every day and want to reblog but don’t, this one (despite being pink)has more purpose on my blog than anything else I’ve ever posted.

(Source: proteinandtreadmills)