Sometimes when people ask me quite ordinary questions I am amazed at the kind of crap answers I can come out with�V
My girlfriends sister asked me ��How old is your sister?�� and I replied ��She��s your age.�� Actually there is a difference of seven years. Obviously my brain was disconnecting the age of a person with the time that they have spent alive, leading me to a comparison in ��age�� that had nothing to do with the concept that you thinking people call ��age��. How did this happen? Is there a circuit in my head switched off? Was I distracted? Was I even there? Do I even care about the sharing of accurate information? Yes, I do care about this, deeply in fact, as I am a fully paid up member in the Sharing of Accurate Information Society (see www.sharingofaccurateinformationsociety.org.uk , or email for details �V Iwouldliketoknowmoreaboutthesharingofaccuratinformationsociety@sharingofaccurateinformationsociety.org.uk ) but obviously there was what the experts call ��an inhibitor�� at work which inhibited me from giving the correct answer to the question. I have become rather an expert with dealing with these inhibitors, as I experienced a plague of these during my GCSE exams �V the highest grade I got was a U. see my grades �V
Maths �V W
English �V Z
Science �V U
Science2 �V U
History - ��
Geography - ��
Design and Technology - ��
Lunch Break �V A*
So what forces were at work when I blatantly lied to Leanne, Shelley��s lil sis? Was I trying to make her cry? You my laugh but telling someone the wrong age is responsible for 89% of all the crying cried in central Brighton, especially when a woman of say 29 years and 6 months of age asks you how old you think she is�K and you tell her�K well, you know, I don��t need to spell it out to you, but my advice is next time a 29 and a half year old woman asks you how old she is and you say something ��yeah well, babe, you don��t look a day over 33, 34��, make sure you aren��t in the kitchen, and definitely not naked. I used to be a real man once.
That made me cry.
Still does sometimes. When the nights are long. And dark.
Poor Billy.
I miss you.
Yeah, so anyway. She said How old? And I said Your age, and it was a split second before I realised that I was wrong, and that was probably because Shelley hit me again. She always does that. Still, her mum tried to stab me, so I should be quite thankful. Was I confused about Leanne��s age or Amanada��s age? It could be Amandas, as I haven��t seen a lot of her since 1998 when we still lived together, and that was six years ago but if you take into account the feeling of the passing of time and it��s variation of fluidity through times of stress, the wind velocity and the gravity of the situation you get a deviation of 7 years, 2 months and half an episode of Coronation Street.
Or it could be that I was concentrating on smiling too much, and speak in a pleasant canary-like voice to make them all think I was a nice guy (but little do they know about the unpolished silver in my bedsit, rah haha hahhahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! ) to also think about the content of what I was saying. So I just gave her the shortest answer and hoped she would accept it and carry on grinning. I also suggested that one day we could play Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, but I think I WAS thinking then, as it is such a good idea. I know why�K! I wasn��t smiling! I had a paper bag over my head, so I didn��t have to concentrate on smiling, so I could think about what I was saying. Thus I had an epiphany �V playing of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons! Woo Hoo!
Why do I need to concentrate on smiling so much? Well, when I was born I was quite severely disfigured. They say I looked like my dad. And then one day I was playing in the road and a car reversed over me, and because it was going quite quickly and backwards, it made my face look NORMAL. Well, almost normal. My chin is buried next to my dick in the body part cemetary. Along with my real left ear, but don��t tell Shelley about that. She doesn��t know I have a fake left ear. That��s another story. We were playing Reservoir dogs at school and�K well, anyway�K my new one is much better. I can run a lot faster now. I can play poker a lot better, all thanks to my fake left ear.
I have the kind of face that looks thoroughly miserable if I��m not smiling. When I��m at work people keep asking me ��Who died?�� but that��s because I really am miserable at work. Miserable with a capital I HATE YOU ALL YOU YOU HORRIBLE PEOPLE YOU. Why don��t you grow a personality you BRITISH PEOPLE!!!
I hate British people. But this is a bad thing because I was born in Norfolk. My mum is Scotish and my dad is half English half twat. Actually he��s a complete twat and he��s english. Since my dad is Twat and my mum is Scottish I guess that makes me Twatish.
I��m in London. Bollocks.
I have been trying to get to London for years and here I am. Somebody kill me please. I wish I didn��t get what I wished for. I wish I wished for something else. I wish I washed instead of wishing. I wish I washed what I would have washed for. That would make me happier. And less smelly. What if I wished and washed at the same time? Nah, I would be here but just a little bit more hygenic. I smell like Phil. I��m going to have a bath when I go home. I��m going to get out my soap and my shampoo and my little wand and I��m going to wave it around until I��m thoroughly satisfied. I��ll wish for whatever I wish for and wash wherever I wanna wash for, washing away those inhibitors that prevent me from answering questions correctly.
I miss people. There are people I know who I miss. But I can��t write about that now because I��ll cry. They seem so far away, and it is who you think but it��s also other people too. I miss me. Where am I? Where did I go? Am I coming back? Why can��t I answer straight questions? Why do I hate English people? Why am I asking you? Am I feeling OK? I must be feeling fine otherwise I wouldn��t sound like I��m going crazy. I sound perfectly fine when I��m crazy but I do silly things when I know I��m not crazy, because sane people can do crazy things and get away with them. The trick is not to think you are too sane, otherwise people lock you away. People locked me away once. They made me think I was safe and secure and that people wanted to help me, or even not hurt me, which is practically the same thing, right? And they called it London where you can live your dreams. And I am. I��m living my dreams. I��m doing whatever I want whenever I want. Let��s go to Italy. Ok. Let��s be in a theatre show. Great. Let��s make a feature film. Wonderful. Let��s write a book and not sleep. Lets really think outside of the box of what is acceptable art and even try to alter your world by selecting everyone you speak to. Lets wake up for a minute. Where are we? What am I really doing here? I��m locked inside. There is nowhere to go. I know it��s not right but I��ve got nowhere else to be. All I ever wanted was to be here and here I am. And I��m existing in a horrible horrible job where it��s turning my mind into jelly and I have to get out. I��ve been looking on the intranet for jobs to apply for and I��ve found one. It��s more money. It is in a different department, it involves dealing with customers. Phew. I need that job. I need to get out of here. I can��t stand it. It��s the smell. I feel that I��ve somehow been infected by it. I��m not supposed to sit in silence for 8 hours a day. I need something to do!
What is next in the story of Stevi? I��m here. I��m doing what I want to do. I��m making progress. I am a camera operator, like I always wanted to be, just not as often as I would like. It��s very tiring. The wrinkles on my forehead are wonky because I keep looking through a viewfinder with my right eye. My right eye is short sighted and my left is long sighted, just like a lot of camera operators.
If only I could get my career progressed. Ah�K I know what to do. I have to go. I have so many things to do. I��m going to make a few phone calls. I know what to do.
Thanks guys, you have helped. It was great writing to you. Does anyone even read this?
I��m tired. I want to eat lamb with mint sauce. I��m getting old. Phonecall. Cooking. Career. Sod the cooking. I��ll eat tomorrow. Life can wait. Career now.
Oh my God, that��s another one of my hang ups �V my flippant treatment of life. Life is something that happens to successful people, isn��t it? People that are struggling really have to struggle, don't they? And I haven��t been struggling hard enough for months. Since December. I��m lazy. I��m getting fat. Nah, not fat. Just less muscley. Less, whatever it is that I was more of. Or even more of something I was less of, more accurately I think now that I��m heavier, a bit.
What fascinating sentences.
Is it possible to have a life and still be totally dedicated to succeeding? How do I make it balance? Every second my eye is away from the viewfinder is wasted. My pen hand aint got cramp no more. There are no headphones on my head. I am currently wearing a white shirt. This is not me. Where am I? Where did I go? I have to be this person so I can be creative. This person is killing me. I��m boring me to death. I know where my life is going. I��m happy. Everything is just fine. Der er bare lekaert.