Thursday, July 08, 2004
I've quit trying to write at night because in the end, you sometimes just want to crash out in your bed and sleep and sleep and sleep.
I need to think of what I'm going to do with the day today. Besides sit under my loft bed and write about the various things computers can do for creative folk. To consider how a neo-mullet's peculiarities can be rendered acceptable but for the grace of Flash and Photoshop. Oh silicon, who art in my processor, hallowed be thy motherboard on my bus as it is in my bedroom. (Or creative studio of course.)
Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Microsoft, I shall fear no PC, for Apple art with me.
Yadda yadda yadda.
Now then. I'm sat here under the loft bed listening to my favourite radio station and in some peculiar way, there's a Dido track on.
I've got this peculiar Dido problem. It's like something about yourself about which you can feel shame. Not dangerous shame; not like paedophilia or something. But it's just that I have a bizarre sexual fantasy about Dido that makes me feel that I not only have lost my mind, but also my taste. There's something peculiar about the way she smiles when she sings, and I'm absolutely captivated by the fact that her name is Dido, she makes these coffee table albums, and she talks like, excuse the horrid turn of phrase, but fuckin' 'ell, a pikey. This rearranges all my wires and the only way I can reconcile is by imagining her in a pair of polka dot granny pants. Yes. Deranged.
Other good things. A conquering of my miniscule tobacco problem. That's happiness. A general feeling of physical fitness, a rediscovered liking for housework, and the ability to let go of all the stupid earthly things that make you miserable. Oh, and my new iBook arrived!
Okay. So now I've done the stupid blogging thing. I've sat here and written about the drivel in my life that I imagine the Web needs to just have a piece of. It really needs to know about Dido and granny pants. Wrong. But on the other hand, the other thing I've decided is a good thing is to say sometimes, who gives a shit?
I need to think of what I'm going to do with the day today. Besides sit under my loft bed and write about the various things computers can do for creative folk. To consider how a neo-mullet's peculiarities can be rendered acceptable but for the grace of Flash and Photoshop. Oh silicon, who art in my processor, hallowed be thy motherboard on my bus as it is in my bedroom. (Or creative studio of course.)
Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Microsoft, I shall fear no PC, for Apple art with me.
Yadda yadda yadda.
Now then. I'm sat here under the loft bed listening to my favourite radio station and in some peculiar way, there's a Dido track on.
I've got this peculiar Dido problem. It's like something about yourself about which you can feel shame. Not dangerous shame; not like paedophilia or something. But it's just that I have a bizarre sexual fantasy about Dido that makes me feel that I not only have lost my mind, but also my taste. There's something peculiar about the way she smiles when she sings, and I'm absolutely captivated by the fact that her name is Dido, she makes these coffee table albums, and she talks like, excuse the horrid turn of phrase, but fuckin' 'ell, a pikey. This rearranges all my wires and the only way I can reconcile is by imagining her in a pair of polka dot granny pants. Yes. Deranged.
Other good things. A conquering of my miniscule tobacco problem. That's happiness. A general feeling of physical fitness, a rediscovered liking for housework, and the ability to let go of all the stupid earthly things that make you miserable. Oh, and my new iBook arrived!
Okay. So now I've done the stupid blogging thing. I've sat here and written about the drivel in my life that I imagine the Web needs to just have a piece of. It really needs to know about Dido and granny pants. Wrong. But on the other hand, the other thing I've decided is a good thing is to say sometimes, who gives a shit?
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