Poker Diary - Day 6

Balance: $0
Ashworths wins: 14
Ashworths losses: 3
Ashworths folds: 6

Today is scrappy, it’s like a dogfight over the channel. I’m still getting badbeats, my AA was taken down by QT (he hit a set of tens) but my balance is still the same. I’m weathering the bad beats, trying to stay afloat.

I’m also actually enjoying myself. There’s no disappointment in not making a million, just the fun of still being able to play. A game usually lasts 35 minutes, this one has been going for 49 minutes, I finish 6th – the worst position to finish. But I don’t mind so much, I’m still on $10.
It has gone. My final hand is AT, and the flop is 78T, a player raises, I 3bet, he goes all in, and shows me his 99. Another 2 diamonds flop out and give him the flush.

That’s me done for now, for a few weeks, I’m a bit disgruntled so I’ll go shoot some people on Battlefield, it’s therapeutic, and then I guess I’ll get back to doing useful things, such as auctioning and actually tidying my room.

I spend nine hours playing Battlefield with my friend, it is fun, we stab it other and laugh about it, as insane as that sounds. This will be my last poker diary entry here.

Poker Diary - Day 5

Balance: $10
Ashworths wins: 12
Ashworths losses: 3
Ashworths folds: 5

Two wins, two losses, irritating that my AK suited is taken down by 77 after my AA was beat by 56. I’ve had AA cracked twice. That’s just damn unlucky. Tilting, I enter two $20 tournaments, I’m annoyed, I shouldn’t do this, it’s a very bad idea, as it’s all of my bankroll on two tournaments, and I’m still going to be annoyed if I only win one. There is a moment of fear as I try and bluff with AT, it is called, a King rolls out, I raise all in and am called. The guy has A9 and is going for the flush draw, which miraculously, he does not hit. The moment of fear is replaced by cheering and whoops of relief: I should have been knocked out by rights.
The Poker Gods right the wrong by knocking me out 6th with AJ against KT, A5T flop, K river.
I melt back into my book, and play some less insane tables, register for the Edinburgh qualifier qualifier (to qualify for the actual qualifier, which usually costs £108 and my qualifier to play in the £108 costs £5) and play a couple of $10 games, with a fresh grin as the Ashworths earn me another set of blinds.
All is lost, I played too big, and now it’s gone.

I throw another £16 onto it, hoping not to tilt and resolving not to play in the $20 games, the % of my total bankroll is too high. My Dad pisses me off more by saying, in a petulant tone “aw you swore, you’re a swearer” after I claim that an A8 hitting a straight against my JK is “fucking bullshit”. There’s always Edinburgh.
Nope, after 2 hours, I am knocked out of Edinburgh qualifiers with QKsuited and the flop as QQA, with the chipleader to roll over AA upon calling my all-in. C’est la vie. I resume normal tournaments, $5. I do not do well. My final $10 goes into a tournament where I am finally rewarded with AA and it is cracked by 99. 3/4 Aces have been cracked today. I am sickened.
I add more money. This is not a good day. On the bright side, I have finally got my USB Poker chip in the mail, it’s very pretty, well worth my investment of nearly a hundred pounds. I don’t see poker as a worthwhile investment, I see it as a challenge now, the bad luck taunts me, and I hug the tilt lovingly.

My 99 is beat my 76 preflop. I am out.
I haven’t had a win in a while, I don’t mind, I just feel really unlucky, like nothing can win. Anytime I am called with an all-in, I minimise the window. I can’t watch more unluckiness unfold. I win whilst sat out, best way really.
Another bad out makes me angry, two pair, he calls, hits two hearts giving him a flush. Dis-fucking-graceful. More and more. I can’t win fuck all and I’m getting sick of it. I have $5 left. I am not happy one bit. The cards hate me today.

I enter one last tournament. A final $5 tournament – this is the last of my money, I have gone through my $50 balance and another £30 today. It’s not like I’ve been playing that badly, just have been getting incredibly bad beats. If I lose now I will stop for a week or two. Go back to Battlefield and put on hiatus my dreams of paying off my overdraft or as a very wise person suggested; actually do something useful such as write my book.

Finally I win where I should have – my JJ beats a TT (ten ten), putting me comfortably into the lead, I have $10, and will finish tonight on it. Tomorrow I will try to survive.

Poker Diary - Day 4

Balance: $50
Ashworths wins: 8
Ashworths losses: 2
Ashworths folds: 2

I’m stuck breaking even, with my time ticking. I’m making the occasional poor call surrounded by decent play, and it’s giving me evens. Until I’m taken down by KT against my weak A5suited shortstacked, now it might be a bit choppy. Especially as my first Ashworths loss hits in, the guy has pocket Kings, I can’t fight that even after hitting a pair on the flop.
Coren is like therapy; she’s having a terrible time. It’s like being shot in the leg and somebody telling you about how they’ve been shot three times in both legs.
As I set up the laptop in the kitchen so I can cook tea and play poker, I finally win a single $10 tournament and go above $30 for the first time - $39 to be precise.
I enter another tournament and start cooking my Bacon and Mushoom Carbonara, suits me, I like being distracted – not too distracted, but distracted. Only a $5 tournament as I want to stay above $30. Tea is delicious, I’ve made a “good’un” and defeat in the next $5 after winning the one during tea does not damage my happiness. $38, tomorrow I go for $80, today I’m going to train in mixed martial arts: I have my priorities set, they just revolve around cagefighting and poker – uncharacteristically manly.
On a side note, I was chopping garlic and a decent-ish hand (A9) came up and I ended up having to move the touchpad mouse with my nose to raise and steal the blind. Who says men can’t multitask?

Well I did my MMA and loved it, my right shin is fucked and my eye and right temple are a bit red but in a masochistic way, the pain proves I’ve worked hard, and I savour it. After a bath where I grab my computer speakers, an extension cord, and an ipod; thus creating the best bath experience I’ve ever had, I get dried, dressed and open up PokerStars, win my first tournament while I eat some of the reheated meal I made earlier, it’s tasty. Two more tournaments; $10 each, I’m feeling lucky. I am not so lucky, I lose one, A6suited versus JK. He hits a straight. Ah well, I win the other tournament. Evens.

Another two tournaments; immediately knocked out with JJ against AA, down to one, fighting for evens. Evens is attained, I enter one. If I lose, I lose, if I win, I win. There is no evens, I prefer these stakes. There are three short stacks and one more to lose before I win, I sit patiently, and read Vicky Coren. End up winning, it’s 4am already, and tomorrow, I will try to qualify for the UKIPT – UK & Ireland Poker Tour, or qualify for the game to qualify. You get the gist.

Poker Diary - Day 3

I had a nice day, a very nice day, but it’s midnight now, I’m a bit tired, and I finally have the money to play a bit of poker. I throw £20 on after checking my auctions on eBay – slightly concerned that my “One Man Hug – Pick up only” joke auction has a watcher – and signing on to Facebook, and start a couple of $5 tournaments. The trick that I use is to play two tournaments, and if I’m playing on form, I’ll always win at least one, meaning I never lose per hour. Now I just need to get on form.
There’s a hand I play that in my brother’s poker games on a Friday we’d refer to as the Ashworths. The Ashworths is 79; not a good hand, but seems to win at least 50% of the time. Whenever I get the Ashworths (named after a player called Graham Ashworth who’d play them every time) I use them very aggressively, raising until the player folds, or unless he presents an actual hand. I love the Ashworths, they are a crazy hand.
Meanwhile, I go out of a tournament my QA not hitting against 88, c’est la vie. If I win the other tournament I’ll be 40cents down, mostly even. Very presentable. I will distract myself with Buzzcocks. The thing about breaking even is, I like playing, so I don’t mind not gaining, it’s better than losing. Also, you get frequent player points, of which you get around two per tournament, they can be converted into prizes like USBs and hoodies, or at least that’s the level I’m at, they do cars and plasma screen TVs too but they cost more points than I’ll get in 4 years.
Ah, my lower pockets just got beat by QA; I’m seeing a pattern emerging. Best not to think negative. QA for me, I bet big and stole the blind.
Another QA for me, out of position, stack not too healthy, I raise it big and am called by a lower stack, he has 77, I hit nothing on the flop and it looks grim, and then a bullet flies out, only a Kevlar seven can save him, and he doesn’t find it. Boom. That felt good.
That’s a win! It means so little to my balance, but to me it means a lot. I’ll play on now until I finish for the night, in a couple of hours; expect a head in hands update tomorrow.

Poker Diary - Day 2

I don’t sleep well, not without Nightol anyway, my mind likes to think, and it takes a while to circumnavigate that issue. Eventually, we negotiated and after two hours lying in bed, I popped a Nightol and told my brain to go fuck itself.
There’s a rotation of thoughts – mixed martial arts, how I’d block, duck, weave, try a move (which never happens the way I plan it) and then there’s poker, how I’d block, duck, weave, try a move (which also never happens the way I plan it) as well as various bits of my social life and other things. After a while the Nightol kicks in and I have some more fucked up dreams, this time about cannibalism. I now am wary of a large man with close to his skin purple hair and little neck. If he turns up – shit’s going down.

Anyway, that’s off topic. Day two. I wake up quite late – 2pm and have a list of things to do around the house, so I go to it. My security deposit still isn’t in, so no poker, but I still think about it as I put some more auctions on eBay, about how this time I will be patient, reserved, bide my time, don’t make any unnecessary raises. It’s a mantra I should have tattooed on my arm.
I cook the tea, have a quick shower and go to Cobra Martial Arts Association (CMAA), where for an hour and a half I am choked, punched and kicked – and pay to do so. Later, I had a couple of mashed up eggs. A relatively poker free day: due to a relatively money free day.

Poker Diary - Day 1

I went to my bank today, with the £7.20 I had scrounged, and deposited it in my bank. On the way home I bought a chicken pasty, with the promise to myself that I’d hit the gym again in a couple of days, can’t be slacking. Once at home I immediately opened up my laptop, and was straight onto PokerStars and slamming in that $15 faster than my mum could ask for a cup of tea.
I decided on one game at a time, $5. Double or nothing games are the best to make money on, there’s less risk, you can sit back, chill out, have a drink and watch the carnage unfold. Of course, this is unless you get involved. First hand; KK, second hand; crap, third hand; crap, fourth hand; AA. Game on. I raise a little, enough to scare off the mavericks with the 98 of hearts which can flop out to knock you out in the same way a hired assassin can choke on a cheeseburger. It’s humiliating. Anyway: The hand. I had two biters, and a king flopped out, two low cards, good. I raise 500 (we start on 1500) and we have a fold and an all-in. He has a king. I double up, job done. So I sit out, and make that cup of tea.
I return to Kings again, poor position, a mild raise and a call of the subsequent re-raise leave me in a showdown with a player wielding pocket fours. It’s sods law, but he hits the 4, I am now back to 1500 chips.
More pocket Kings, I re-raise, another heads up: Ace Queen. Shit. Well I’m ok as long as the ace doesn’t hit. In the middle of thinking that the Ace flops out, I’m wounded, the King has been shot. Game over. A fast end.
I run things over in my head about my game-play – don’t get involved, steal the blinds, try not to go heads up, that way luck lies. The easiest way to win in a double or nothing is to do nothing, just watch, live in the shadows, hide from bullets and wait for the pocket rockets.
This logic does not help me in the second game, I’m tilting, and there’s the constant reminder that I have $5 left if I lose. Well, I do lose, quite quickly, 8th; disgraceful.
I decide to wait a little while, calm down, cool off, throw some potatoes in the oven, read some Vicky Coren and relate her early days to my current days, the playing with money you don’t have. Not the roulette though, I hate roulette.
Ever since I went into the bookies and there was a roulette machine which had had the last 9 outs as black, and I put £10 on red, and it hit black, and then £5 on red, and it hit black, and a pound on red, and it hit black, I have hated roulette, there’s too much luck, and if there isn’t luck to screw you over, you have the pre-programmed machines which pay out in the same way the slot-machines do.
Anyway, I enter my potentially last game until I get any more money. It could be tomorrow, I don’t fancy waiting that long; I love poker, it’s too long to wait. I do okay, a little over the start chips, then I get caught with QK of diamonds and two diamonds on the flop, fishing. I’m reduced to 560 chips. Fuck. The pressure sets in.
I claw a little back and lose a little more and end up on 500 chips. One more person needs to go out and everyone else is on 2000 chips and I resign myself to the 72 unsuited hands until I’m blinded out. And then the two chip-leaders unleash hell, I’m rooting for the bigger stack, if he doesn’t win, the other guy’s still on 1100 chips.
Miracles happen, I win, and I’m back up to $10.
It’s going to be a long day.
Another $5 game, I’m unfocused, I half my chips with nothing, then go on to half that with Pocket Fives and a low flop. It’s looking quite grim. 350 chips is a bit of a hill to climb. Fuck that, it’s a mountain, but at least the blinds are low. I get dealt pocket 8’s, my steak churns within me as my feeble all-in is called. My 88 versus his 9K, I’m worried. Flop: K 9 10. Well, thank you PokerStars, I really hate you- an 8 on the turn. I love you PokerStars, thank you. I’m back up to 700 chips. Wahoo, halfway up the mountain, there are discarded animal bones up here, I hope they’re animals. My book keeps me calm, I will have $4 if I lose, that’s not too bad, can come back from that.
JK suited – all in, pot stolen, kapow.
AK unsuited – all in, called, beats A10 with the flop 10 K 6 then a 6, then a 9. Job done: 2000 chips. I folded pocket 9s when the guy in front of me went all in, no point in risk. Then failed to steal with 10 A, the other guy raising minimum raise when a K rears its ugly head. My three bet (three times what he’d bet) caused a fold and I’m chipleader. This game is looking much better, I might even pull out the cigars, some bourbon. No. Focus.
I like playing with the TV on, it means I don’t get too focused on the game, meaning I play less hands. I don’t, however like having mundane conversations while I’m trying to think, but I don’t mind them, as I love my parents, and they are amazing for all the things they do for me.
Oh, while I was typing I had a fight with a guy with slightly less chips than me, I’m down to 1400 chips, my AQ suited did not hit. Never fight the big stacks.
Somebody just finished 7th, one more to go. Carnage. I love it.
I hate carnage. My pocket 10s just got annihilated by pocket 3s because he hit a straight. $4. It’s not promising. I hate you PokerStars.
It’s gone, all of it, got slaughtered on a table. Tomorrow I hope to find my security deposit in my bank account, so I can take £20 of it and convert it into dollars and seek to claim my fortune. For now I’ll just have to be happy with my book. I love Vicky Coren, I can relate.

JW

As my blistered fingers pluck broken strings.

Hours spent, but not
paid for. Who'd buy them?
Nobody, which is what
it's all about because
Nobody's here, and he's
keeping quiet, so I
wouldn't count on him -
buying some of your time.

Is the guitar even tuned?
Who knows, sounds nice,
pulling on those wires,
alone, for a few hours.
And then you look at the
time and it means nothing.
Because time is relative
and what's the point of looking
at it when you have nothing
to be late for?

Sensitive?

If I go blind, I won't be
getting pissy at blind jokes,
even if I can't literally see
the funny side. If it's a hoax
laugh at yourself don't rage
at those who wanted to laugh
at your expense, a name on a page
but you laugh back and you
don't have the last laugh:
you share it.

Jordan's Big Day Out!

Well I haven't done much lately except raised ChigacoTown's stock levels by 4, so today I thought it was time to sort my life out. As I hadn't slept the night before I was up this morning at 6:30; 14 hours sleep is nice, resulting back pain: not so much.

Anyway, had my Bran Flakes, waited a couple of hours, then set off for a nice jog to Hartshead Pike. For those not aware of local geographical points of Ashton, HP (Hartshead Pike, duh) is one of the highest if not the highest. It's also around 2-4 miles away from my house. Today is also absolutely molten. None of these factors did I consider when I left my house.

There's a bit in Black Hawk Down where they're sprinting to a safe area after spending the whole night fighting off the city, and they're being sick and collapsing and stuff. Well that was me. It took me 38 minutes to get to the place, by which point I was knackered, first time I've done any exercise in a month. Had a nice sit at the top though, in the shade, then tried to run back.


Deceptively dark view above.


My feet started bleeding about 1 minute after setting off, carried on for a bit until when I finally did stop I had to ball my toes to stop my trainers eating them. Anyway, had a shower, got clean, had a couple of chicken kievs and crumpets, wrote my CV and dispatched it to the appropriate parties and helped my dad rip apart more of the decorating as he's well into his latest refurbishing of the house, as he's lost his job.

And that's me here, waking up when I usually sleep and as usual wishing for a downpour. I'd like to give a big shoutout to Niki...a huge prestige, especially on this highly established and well known blog. She'll no doubt have come at the mere elevation to fame and be changing her pants before I can say

laters.
JW

Hello?

Yes, hello! I'm not going to lie and say I've been busy, instead I've been stagnating. I have done pretty much nothing since I finished uni nearly a month ago. My ankle is much better, I can do everything but kick with it. I'm trying to keep eating relatively healthy but that's not going too well as my Mum keeps buying healthy snacks such as Oreos and Galaxy bars, but I'm not complaining... much.

I'm back home in Ashton, it's pretty dead here as lots of my friends (yes, I have some) are still at universities dotted across the country, so I'm stuck in my house most of the time. I get nagged to find a job relatively often, and I am signed up at an agency, so work is apparently the focus.

Getting nice little patches of paranoia mixed in with the boredom, it tends to happen when people ignore me or I'm alone for long periods of time, I'd like to get out more, but the opportunity isn't really arising. I can't even afford to pay for gym membership, which is getting on my nerves, and leaves me with a ridiculous amount of pent up energy.

Ah well, this is only a general update.
JW

Exist

And there it is, in all of it's splendor. Not the meaning of life, but a purpose to do so. It's as simple as that; there is no grand idea, no cryptic message from the God(s). All you can do is exist. Even if nobody knows you're there, you are there and that's what's important. To indent yourself upon something that isn't yourself, to fill a space previously filled with nothing. That is all you can do, the least you can achieve and the best you can ever hope for.

Cheerful as always.
JW

What I Handed In as Coursework.

A moan broke the silence. In the room the bed lay in the middle, double bed. There was a metal barred headboard and white sheets. Around the room were various candles, providing a dim light. A beam of sunlight passed through the gap in the closed blinds, illuminating the deep red carpet.
‘Open,’ said the man, the woman obliging. He roughly stuffed her own knickers in her mouth, causing her to moan again. The bed rattled lightly as she pulled on the ropes binding her to the headboard. They were tight and the harder she pulled the more they dug into her wrist, but she revelled in the pain and constriction. He gently caressed her exposed breasts; she arched her back, other senses accentuated by the blindfold over her eyes. Next he sharply pinched her nipple, satisfied by the moans of the woman.
Smiling to himself, the man slowly kissed her breasts then moved down, kissing a line down her body until he reached her clit, where he toyed with it with his tongue, to a series of moans. He did this for another minute, her moans becoming more urgent, until he slipped a finger into her and she screamed as she came, the finger an unexpected stimulus which pushed her over the edge.

He noticed how wet she was, and smiled as he slid his dick into her whilst sliding himself up to meet her face. He pulled out the gag and kissed her, his tongue soaked in her juices. She hungrily ran her tongue over his, yearning for further degradation. He thrust into her, hard, she groaned. ‘Harder.’ She begged.
‘Beg me.’
‘Please,’ she said urgently.
‘Please what?’
‘Please fuck me hard in my pussy,’ she said, cheeks burning into a deeper shade of red as she did so. He obliged, thrusting hard. A fast pace built up, she came without permission after a few minutes so he stopped. ‘No!’ she cried as he slid out of her. ‘You came, clean my dick.’ He said this whilst moving up her body with his knees until his slick member was centimetres from her face. He bent it to meet her searching lips, and she greedily forced it into her mouth. He grabbed the back of her head and thrust, she gagged on it as it hit the back of her throat.
He pulled out and she gulped air in, then he thrust it in again. She choked on it again but this time rolled her tongue over the surface of it as he thrust, saliva running down her chin. ‘Much better,’ he said coldly. He moved back down her body, noting as he slid back in the considerable increase in wetness.
The man resumed the thrusting, harder each time, until she was screaming in ecstasy and pulling the ropes binding her ankles and arms so firmly the bed threatened to crumble in the wake of such force.
The man was close now, he quickened his pace, moving in fast bursts to make her climax repeatedly; he’d been with her for so long that he knew what she needed to come now. As he came he kissed her and they lay, bodies slightly slick with sweat and kissed, tongues playing with each other lightly as they both shared a satisfied grin.

He quickly untied the ropes on her hands and slipped off the blindfold, her eyes shining brightly at him as he looked into them. They lay for a minute, holding each other. ‘How was that?’ He asked.
‘Top three.’ She answered.
‘Hmm, good, we really splurged out with the candles,’ he said, gesturing round the room. ‘I’m surprised we didn’t set something on fire.’
She laughed, ‘can we go again?’
‘I need to recharge,’ he joked.
‘You’ve got 10 minutes,’ she warned, scooping a magazine from under her side of the bed.
‘That’s fine,’ he agreed, closing his eyes and letting the post-sex drowsiness take him. When he blearily opened his eyes a few minutes later, she was still there, hair obscuring his view of her face. Texting on her phone.
‘Who’re you texting?’ He asked curiously.
‘Just a mate,’ she answered without betraying any emotion.
‘Ah ok,’ he said, smiling.
She didn’t smile; she flipped her phone shut and put it under her pillow. ‘Again?’
‘Definitely.’ She rolled onto him and kissed him, he didn’t wonder why she was already wet. Later he’d check her phone for the time and she’d snatch it from him, defensive of what was there. But for now, she wanted sex again.

Politics and Landmines: This title is deceptively interesting

I'm not voting, thought I'd say that. All the banter is funny enough and the posters, but at the end of the day it's all politics, and I think I actually care more about the specific shade of cream my wall is painted: In fact, I actually do because I took a chunk of it off and I need to repaint it or I lose my security deposit. Anyway, choosing a prime minister is like choosing the best way to be executed, or the best skin affliction to contract, or the best Lil Wayne album; whatever you choose, it's awful anyway. So although I may say I support the Lib Dems, I actually don't give a shit and he's not getting my vote.

In other news, the ankle I fell on got X-rayed, and I was told I'd ripped all of the tendons in my ankle. Except for my Achilles, I'd only pulled that. So now I'm limping found like Captain Blackbeard after the nurse decided she needed to ensure I knew my tendons were fucked by doing the nursing equivalent of gagging me and punching me in the ankle. Now I can't walk again, after going to A&E. I walked to A&E and limped back. Bonjour, Irony, ca va?

Anyway, I went from Ashton to Ormskirk again, 4 hours of train service based molestation involving "on time" meaning 30 minutes late, and Liverpool Lime Street meaning Stairway to Mount Olympus. Once home I'd forgotten that my room floor was not a clear space to hobble across, rather there were pan-lid landmines on the floor for me to hurt my foot on and clothes strewn so much a fel-runner would pass on the opportunity.

Also, I left my hair-straigteners in Ashton. Whilst fully aware that saying that sounds incredibly feminine, I'm going to stand by it, because, well... fuck you. Only three weeks left in Ormskirk and I don't want it to end, but I do need to get all this work out of the way. Work to do.

Will post more when I've done work.
JW

All Is Well

I woke up today, after 16 hours of sleep. Well, mostly sleep. There must have been about twenty occasions where I woke up and had to painfully position my foot as I rolled over. But I don't mind. at 7pm when I woke up, the pain had mostly gone, and I was able to limp around merrily chair-crutch free. I mainly just say around and ate remains of last nights pasta from the pan by my bed, but I feel much better. I can even move my toes.

Tomorrow (Wednesday) I'll tidy my room and maybe even take down a couple of pieces of work I need to do. Certainly I feel much better, I may even limp down to the gym and do some upper body stuff, even though I've had to take ibuprofen which is poison when you're developing muscle, but my ankle being the size of a tennis ball, I had to do it.

Thursday will be busy. I'm meeting some class peoples for some food and then heading to the class, maybe slot in the gym in between end of class and Alpine (a bar). That should go well; Alpine. I don't fancy dancing in this state, plus in the extremely unlikely event a woman wants me to penetrate her my right foot still won't bend very well.

Ah well, I can dream.
JW

Man Down!

I am wounded; my foot is dead to me. That's right, worse than stepping on a land-mine, I have twisted my ankle. I was playing football, and went down on it like a ton of bricks. The same ankle I sprained a couple of months ago which wasn't fully healed. Excellent, that will only take 2 weeks to heal up.

At the moment I'm stuck in bed, as I can't move my foot in any way or even move my toes for that matter. I can only hope that tomorrow it's better or I'm going to the hosipital to complain over nothing.

It's funny that when you have a pain, you yearn for the times when you were fine, when there was no agony, but when you're fine, you don't feel any happier for not being in pain, or at least not for long if you do.

Anyway, I'll stop complaining. Actually, no, I won't, I don't have to. That's the glory of the blog. I just want my foot back, I can't do anything, the pain is making me irratable and snappy and I'm getting the urge to rip my drawers out and go Hulk on my room. It's not just the pain. I'm incapacitated, unable to do simple tasks like cooking a meal, (although I managed to cook a carbonara, hopping around the room cursing) even just going to the bathroom I have to hop, or use my chair as a makeshift crutch.

On the upside, I'll be stuck in bed all day tomorrow which gives me no excuse not to complete my work. Although, let's face it; I probably won't get my work done anyway. Such is the refined art of procrastination.

I'm going to try and sleep soon with the hope that I'll be able to limp to the gym sometime this week. Also with the hypochondriac side of me thinking my ankle is broken or I'm going to lose my foot. Excellent.

JW

People

Fortunately for nobody, I am socially inept. This creates much humour when I meet people, because I have absolutely no clue what to say beyond "hello" and "my name is...". Having no idea what to say, I usually just wing it, and spew forth a garble of words which make a nice little collage, which spells out "Mental". Decent people seem to be able to get around this, but it's not a brilliant first impression. If I was to rate it on the scale of first impressions, I'd put it below soiling oneself and above BO.

It gets better: smalltalk. Unless it's funny, I don't do smalltalk, it's horribly dull and I'm uncomfortable asking such menial questions. It's a shame it's needed really, there's no in between gap from familiarity to friend, or there is, but involves being stuck in the Andes in a crashed plane. Without events happening it's hard to make conversation with somebody you hardly know.

Even better than that is the obliviousness of whether or not somebody wants you around, I take everything as a hint to shuffle away to a dark corner, which is probably right, but I don't know. I hate imposing myself upon people, because I do garble, in some random direction, sometimes about nothing, or at least the hope is I say nothing.

I'm rubbish meeting people, take today for example; a respectable woman whom I had just given the finger to for shouting abuse from her car caught up with me and I forgot to say hello. Damn. She wouldn't even hit me, I called her bluff, just stood there. In fairness I had just been running, it's hard to be sardonic when blood is diverted elsewhere. This is handy in other areas of course, but not when somebody is trying to make you look foolish. Didn't help I was fighting the urge to laugh in her face at the pettiness of it all, I did not fight that urge too well. Ah well. Who cares? Ooh, but I did think of the line "You just want me to sit there and take it? Well usually I do just sit there and take it when there's a woman involved, but we're in public." Unfortunately, I devised this (debatably) witty anecdote an hour later.

Another day tomorrow: Sunday. Expect ninjas on rollerskates and explosions. Or nothing, it's sunday after all. On sunday all the old people are praying and polishing their Kalishnakovs, so the town shuts down. If the gym isn't open I'm getting my excercise by climbing in through a roof hatch.

JW

War (and religion)

Everything is a constant battle. It's a fact. Well, it isn't a fact, but it should be, because it's true. Think about it, your relationships with your friends are a constant battle, if you withdraw, your relationship can fade. Same logic applies to weight, if I stop excercising for 2 weeks I go tubby mode again, and I don't like tubby mode, nobody likes tubby mode. Tubby mode is the guy at a party who goes around telling people he's drunk and that he's met them before. Not me, the mode. I don't do that, I have some semblance of control and awareness when I'm drunk.

Anyway, back to the title. War. People might disagree, but I think it makes sense, that to do anything, there's a constant battle: money, love (in the sense of relationships, not that hippy crap), health, hygeine, etc. Even your fingernails. Hell, if there was a God, and people argued God wanted peace, I'd be throwing this arguement out faster than they could say "bless you". Imagine that, your fingernails grow, don't cut them, give up, end up in the Guinness World Book of Records and have fun masturbating. I don't think less of people who believe in religion, in fact, I'm a little jealous that they are happy believing that a higher power will always be there for them. The only higher power here for me is electricity, that stuff is cool, lightning bolts too - only if you blow up a power converter or similar, but still...lightning.

Not that I'm complaining, I'm not unhappy knowing there is nothing out there, I'm just saying it must be nice for people to believe in God...and for children to still believe in Father Coca-Cola Christmas.

I did get wondering what happened to the Greek gods, and why nobody believes in them anymore. The Greeks were a highly civilised race, and so there must have been some sort of logic and reason for the worship, at least on par with "the burning bush told me to do it".

I like the challenge of a constant battle though, there's a bit in Rudyard Kipling's If which reads;

'If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

Which pretty much sums up my attitude on the whole thing. Always fight.
And that's my blog about religion... I mean conflict. Whatever.

JW

Emo-mode

I feel awful, this maybe because I've been on a 30 hour drinking session and have eaten 4 burgers and a mini-pizza in 2 days. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's a main cause of why I feel so bad. I don't usually drink to such excess, but there was a pool award thing and I had to go.

Long story short, I'm alone in my room shaking like mad with my heartbeat doing at least 120bpm. It's grim. In the morning (3pm) I'll feel better, but for now I feel absolutely terrible. It's also good that I spent the night chasing phantom friends around and having no idea where people are.

Ah well, I've gone emo for once, in the morning I'll facepalm at what a douché I've been writing this garbled stuff. In fact I'm surprised there wasn't a poem about my throbbing heart (no pun intended, although chest pains have started) or how I'm a sheep who's lost its flock or some crap.

Hopefully I'll go to the gym tomorrow, that's always a pick-me-up. It's also a brilliant reason to justify paying that £21 a month to the gym. I'm not donating it, give me some services, mother-lockers. Mother-lockers? Oh god, that was awful, I'm so ashamed I wrote it I'm not going to remove it as a prime example of how unfunny I can be.

JW

Wake Up

No, not the song in the Matrix by Rage Against The Machine, just the actual act. It's 3pm, and my alarm went off at 1pm. I have snoozed it since then, that's 2 hours of snoozing once every ten minutes, 12 snoozes. Christ, why is it so hard to get up? And no, that's not a quotable erectile dysfunction admittance.

I hate waking up, sleep is just too much fun, it's pure escapism. I lack the willpower to actually wake from my slumber to the extent that I'll have conversations with people and still be asleep, because I'll say things like "I'm putting my pants on now" and have no memory of saying them. Clearly my autopilot knows the score. Lie and you sleep on.

Because I wake up at 3pm most days it's sort of bad that I never attend my 10am lecture on a monday, this happens often, I've been to maybe four seminars since january, and it's hitting me now when I have work due in and NO IDEA WHAT TO DO.

It also helps when you're lying in bed, and your flatmate comes in from work with her loverboy (for want of a better word) and breaks the silence with undeniably unrestrained moans, coupled with the bed touching her radiator leads to what sounds like a massacre on a construction site. Well at least it's brief, the 40 minutes of pillowtalk afterwards is irritating, as these walls are clearly not two bricks thick.

Should I have sex in this last month of uni, I'm making sure it's noisy, whips, ballgags, headboard hanging off touching the radiator. Bon appetite. Also, I'll do it at the insane time of FIVE AM so you lose an hour of sleep too. Thanks.

JW

Post this to over 9000 people or...

Chainmail, the scourge of the internet, the original scourge anyway, now it's like a hookers throat there's that much bacteria splurged across the web. Douchebags still do it, they say "post this to 5 friends and you'll meet your true love on friday...THIS REALLY WORKS!" Yes, although statistically, it could happen, you'd have to be pretty stupid to actually think "OMG I SHALL DO THIS, WAIT FOR ME, MY LOVE, 3 MORE POSTS!" but then again, yes, people on facebook can be utterly fucking retarded to the extent you wonder how they ever managed to swim as sperm.

The better chainmail is the "[Horrible shit] happened to (usually) little girl, she's got mad Jesus skills and came back from the dead, now I have told you this, you will die by her hand, for her underdeveloped 6 year old muscles will allow her to easily overpower you and strangle you in your sleep. Unless you post this to 6 people. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!one!11eleven!" I'll take my chances. Even if it was the Ring video...it's a 6 year old, I'd be more scared if a carebear turned up with a frown on its brow.

Although, maybe it's all a big conspiracy, there is no illness, just fools who did not heed the little loli's warnings and have made the list. The government shit brix and decided they needed to cover up this genocidal little girl, lest the horrible truth get out.

Or not, as the case definitely is.
LULZ
JW

RANT: Celebrities

Ok, I want to be a writer, it's not a life ambition, it's just something I really want to do, say as a profession, I'd be happy doing that for the rest of my life. So it really fucks me off something special when emptyheaded bimbos like Wayne Rooney's barely-older-than born wife. Or girlfriend, I really don't care, I'd rather follow a trail of lava than latest celebrity gossip.

Anyway, what (now) has pissed me off is that Coleen Rooney has a PUBLISHED autobiography, purely for fucking a footballer. I mean, unless she did not in fact grew up in liverpool, instead teaching dance to the impoverished of Somalia, then what the fuck gives her the right to have any of her mediocre life published. I mean seriously, what the fuck is wrong with the world. I'll go fuck Katie Price and use that to get a career selling my own brand of perfume? Where does skill come into it? This is bullshit.

And while I'm here, what the fuck is the deal with Jade Goody? She appears on a reality TV show and goes from a dentist to Princess Diana, her final days sold on film and she gets the ASBO version of a royal funeral, with procession and all. She's done fuck all, all respect to human life and whatnot, but I'm pretty sure that talentless woman deserves the cremation of the middle class, not the war hero procession fitting for the final moments of Star Wars. Seriously, society has gone mad.

Man the tonsils!

I'm full of Manflu, have been for 4 weeks, but it seems the campaign is coming to an end. That's the nice little image I have when I imagine being in, my body having an all out war with the virus. I picture 300, my white blood cells little commandos holding the line against a sea of illness.

A splinter cell heads to the nose, where they block up the entrance, shutting out further virus access. The bulk of the defence gathers at the throat, and prepares for glory. The thousand armies of the influenza empire marches against a few, but they give no quarter.

My Lemsip Max strength aids my little militia, it bolsters their shields and sharpens their spears. The day ends, few fell but each white blood cell is important against such a vast horde. Nobody sleeps that night, I'm coughing like a smoker in a TB clinic.

State of mind is a weird thing. I can feel really horrible, but if I think "When I get sick I stop being sick and stop being sick and get awesome instead" I can feel better, much better, and I feel happier.

Once I get better I can go to the gym again, or at least have one less excuse to miss it.

We will fight them in the nostrils, we will fight them in the throat, we will fight them in the synuses, and we will never surrender.

JW

First!

Bonjourno, as the russians say. I thought I couldn't become a true user of the internet without a blog, so here it is, in all its black and white splendor. [EDIT: Black and Red seemed cooler]

I'm very cynical, but not unhappy, and this is as coherant as I will get, no apologies for that, fuck you.

I don't value money, it's a useless thing on a greater scale of things, possessions are ok, but not paramount, what is paramount is happiness. With that in mind, I don't have much motivation to work, although I know I have to do it, I'm just not money motivated.

Music I usually go for metal or rock, but it all depends on the style of music, I'm a bit picky, I do like 30h3!'s Starstrukk though, just because of the beat.

Films I like Sci-fi or fantasy, anything interesting, nothing slow and boring, same goes for books really, I really like reading too, it's really all about escapism. Escapism is why I do most things really, it makes me happy.

That's me,
JW