What's the deal with... crushes?

There are three types of crushes. The first is an unrequited crush which is 100% undiluted, the second is a requited crush which should be an equal 50/50 balance, and the third is a fruit crush which is best served four parts water one part crush.

Having a crush on someone is like wanting to see a film: you've seen the trailer and heard great reviews, but are now ready to go ahead and see it. In a way, crushes themselves are very much like movie trailers; the crush process edits out over 99% of the film, leaving only the ‘best bits’, which can lead to disappointment when you finally view it in its entirety.

The other problem is that most people never get or want to see to the end of the film – it’s usually badly scripted, rife with awkward sex scenes, and filled with bad acting (though the last two often coincide). Bear in mind if you finally get to see the film you’ve been dying to see for weeks, it's unflattering to stare at other advertisements for films. One film at a time.

The next stage is buying a ticket and this can be tricky as they are generally not for sale. If this sounds confusing, don’t worry, it is.  Any tickets that are for sale could potentially land you in legal difficulties as well as societal ridicule. The best place to get your hands on a ticket is to go directly to the box office and ask. With this there’s always the chance that there’s no room for you. Though, you should never take this personally. More than likely this is for the best. Ideally, nobody wants to share a film with fifty odd strangers. Unless of course you’re into that sort of thing.

The bottom line is crushes are healthy and everyone has them. It’s the potential rejection that can lead to negative feelings. In the classic sense, the dictionary defines ‘crush’ as force inwards by compressing forcefully. When your crush rejects you the above definition seems to make a lot of sense. If you have to reject a crush, remember to handle it sensitively and with tact. After all, there’s nothing more crushing than being crushed by your crush.

Q is for Queue

People are always saying that queueing is a terribly British thing, so it comes as no surprise that the very people telling you this are in fact British themselves (and all neatly lined-up in a queue). Queueing is the physical equivalent of being put on hold; you never choose to participate in it and the other 15 people in front of you seem to irritate the hell out of you - despite not knowing a single thing about them. There's a simple reason for this: those people in front of you aren't people anymore, they don't even pertain to our species. They're now a super-evolved life form collectively known as a queue. 

Queues come in all shapes and sizes, but their preferred habitat has been observed as being indoors, generally in shops, and their diet suggests they feed on time and patience.

It appears that despite their sole intention of creating order and fairness, a queue can be one of the most stressful places to be. The simple fact is that queueing irritates us. This may explain why you never feel like you're in the queue yourself; rather, the queue is in your way. An obstacle that you must overcome or defeat (depending on how heroic you're feeling when paying for your weekly shop). 

So, why do so many of us get so agitated, annoyed and frustrated when queueing? It's like we suddenly feel the need to rush, even when we have nowhere to rush to. Some people, on the other hand, have found queueing to be a rather relaxing/therapeutic process, and take on an almost meditative state when all hell appears to be breaking loose around them. They use this pocket of time to reach for deep/inquisitive subjects - the universe; its creation; our existence; our creation, when all the people around them insist on thinking about one thing and one thing only: QUEUEING.

Next time you're in a queue, no matter how close you are to the end of your tether, remember that for every queue there is a poor shop assistant trying desperately to dissipate it as quickly as possible. Stay calm. Breathe. And bear in mind that any rash decisions could cost you the valuable time you've invested and, ultimately, prove counterproductive. Never forget that us Brits are also famed for being extremely tolerant, so you wouldn't want to step out of line now, would you?

Crocodile Dream

My dream started off on a jetty in a place I do not know apart from in the realm of my dreams. Well, actually, just this one. The day was fair; not overcast, not bright and sunny. Just average. I came to this conclusion as it had no distinguishing features attributed to it. The weather was what it was. I had company, a male, who was a friend of mine. Although, in the waking world he would be no more than a stranger to me. His appearance was as blurry as the sky was blue, or grey. Now, I cannot put this down to time passing; the gradual disintegration of memory occurring, or merely the rough jagged edges of my dream itself. The dream began with us alone on this jetty, talking about three long, transparent packages I had. Two were lamb, filled with whole sections of the animal, bloody and unappetising - even to a meat eater. The other was far more interesting, but equally grim in its appearance. It was a whole crocodile in its fullest form, only skinned of its tough ridges and scales. We were discussing how to gut the things, and which one to gut first. To our dismay, neither one of us had ever performed such a task, so the packages remained intact. Just then, the packet of crocodile slipped away into the torrent of heavy currents and without thinking, both me and my partner dived in pursuit of the hunk of meat. The water was white and fast-moving, but we stayed in control the whole time. I retrieved the crocodile and made it back, swimming against the current, in speedy time too - a fair few seconds before my friend. 

After we clambered back up, we left the lamb on the jetty; knowing it would be safe and decided to leave the bright white yachts in the boat yard and go for a swim. The layout was strange. Behind the jetty lay the boats, and on the other side towards the rest of wide stream - at least 10 if not 15 meters in length - there was a mini water fall. And when I say miniature, that is exactly what I mean. It was a foot drop, but from there the calm placid water vomited aggressively in lively bubbling white water. The transition was abrupt, with no indication where all the speed and energy had come from. 

There were two things we had to watch out for, not that we had spoken about them, but in this dream they were given things that you would already know in the waking worlds (for instance, looking both ways before crossing the road). 

1) That we didn't get right to the end of the stream - if the boat owners caught us on their property, there would be trouble. No doubt.

2) That we stayed close to the edge of the stream. The jetty was on the right hand side, so it seemed appropriate and natural for us to indeed stay on that side.

With those unspoken rules in mind, we jumped back in the water, fully clothed, and began our mission. Within seconds there was already a major problem. The current was getting stronger and stronger and ultimately was a force we could not contain nor handle. We started off by staying within arms length of the high concrete edge, its texture mainly cut out by protruding flints, but the water pulled us out of reach and we were no longer in control. Although the doom felt impending, and there was truly nothing we could do, a few minutes later after been dragged out in the raggedy whirlpool of distress, we were somehow okay. The water had calmed down and spat us out at the other boat yard, marking that the other end of the stream, as it was now clearly in sight, but at a safe distance. Water sprayed mist ahead of the distant boats and assured our safety, comforting both our eyes through aesthetics and our minds through knowledge. No explanation was needed for how we came about to safety. We were fine and that is all that mattered. 

We sat with our backs against the wall, sitting on out new-found jetty, looking across the width of the water. A zebra casually slid past our view. He looked faded, his patterns and stripes that is. And the way he moved through the water was strange to watch. He didn't swim; I was sure his legs, although, concealed up to just below chin height by water, were gliding, sliding, almost, as if being pushed down a a ski slope. What made it rather odd was that the current must've acted as the slope, given that he was moving on a flat surface. He steadily moved on, as did time. Conversation must've been dull, as I can't remember any of the details that followed our wet expedition, but the next memorable fragment of recollection was quite frightful. At least, frightful enough for my two companions to gather their goods with haste and evacuate the area, leaving just me and the jetty. And the crocodile, of course - which for the whole part of our "current" dilemma, just a few unmeasurable moments ago, I could not remember carrying nor seeing. In fact it seemed that its reappearance only served the purpose of complicating the trouble I was already in. The harbour master, or someone to his effect, was walking towards me over a bridge I had not noticed before either. I couldn't understand what he was saying. He spoke English well enough, didn't have an accent I, wasn't talking quietly, yet I could not understand a word he was saying. I tried desperately to grasp onto just a few key words, just something, anything, but came away with nothing. It was like equivalent of blurry vision, but with sound; like he was trying to speak to me underwater. He was talking as he walked closer, appearing calm in both tasks. But it was terribly obvious he didn't want us there and I felt if I did not retreat a once I would be in grave danger. As he drew closer and closer I clambered around trying to gather my belongings, now including two phone chargers plugged into the jetty sockets. He apparently was getting angrier and angrier by each heart attack-inducing step. What was he going do do? I din't care to find out he answer to this question. It was taking me unusually long for me to grab all my things; the phone cables were getting tangled, the plug sockets refused to let go of the plugs. He was at the end of the bridge, now with both feet fully boarded on the jetty. I bent down, trying to jam the loose cables in my pockets, which felt as if they were either full or were rejecting the blasted things with relentless stubbornness. I finally banished them away in my, presumably soaking, trousers. But he was just 3, maybe 4 steps away from me now, with the disturbing appearance that he was learching over me, given the angle that I was bent down at. There was one last thing I had to grab: the crocodile. I scooped it up with no hesitation whatsoever and ran after my two friends, knowing that all would be okay, crocodile in hand.

Interviewing Myself

When there's nobody famous around to be interviewing you have to take initiative, so I took it on myself to.. Well, take it on myself.

1. If you had one wish what would it be?

It would be a wish. You just told me.

2. Where do you see yourself in 10 years time?

I usually see myself in the mirror.

3. What's your biggest inspiration?

Inspiration.

4. What's your favourite dish?

The blue one.

5. What do you do in your free time?

Nothing. Otherwise it wouldn't be free time.

6. What's your favourite film?

Cling film.

7. What is you first ever memory?

I don't remember.

8. What do you want to be when you're older?

Younger.

9. Would you rather be frozen to death or burnt to death?

It depends. How are either going to make me deaf?

10. What's the worst thing about your battery dying?

Going to the funeral a week later. No wait, I can do better than that... Come back to me later.

11. ...what's the worst thing about your battery dying?
They don't always come out the colour you want them to.


12. They say you either love Marmite, or you hate it. Where do you stand on that?

I don't stand anywhere on that. I'm sitting on the fence with this one.

13. What socks are you wearing today?

The ones on my feet.

14. How would you describe yourself?

I would quote the dictionary for accuracy.

15. Describe yourself.

The dictionary defines yourself  as being: Used to refer to the person being addressed as the object of a verb or preposition when they are also the subject of the clause.

16. CD of the year?

2011.

17. What's on your list of thing to do before you die?

Number 1 on my list of things to do before I die is to finish the list of things (to do) before I die.

18. Do you have any siblings?
I wasn't born an only child; I was only born a child.

19. Tell us a secret.

I was born a virgin. It's nothing to be ashamed of.

20. What do you think about religion?

I don't think about religion.

21. What's the naughtiest thing you've ever done?

Lived in the naughties.

22. What's your ideal pet.

On the lips.

23. What's your favourite quote?

This one.

24.What's your dream job?

It's only part-time, but I get paid to sleep.

25. What would you spend all your money on?

A rainy day.

26. What would you tell us so that you would have to kill us?

That I was going to kill you.

27. What's your favourite colour?

Multi-colour.

28. What's you favourite car?

Probably the one seagulls make.

29. What's your star sign?

This one *

30. What's your favourite sounding word?
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia. *RESPONDS IN SIGN LANGUAGE* 


31. I didn't know you knew sign language?
I don't.


32. Isn't it a bit sad you're interviewing yourself?

It was your idea.


33. 33's an odd number to end on, isn't it?
Yes. Odd numbers follow even numbers.

List of the Things/People I Hate...

Because I'm such a jolly soul, I decided to put together a short list of the things, but mainly people, I hate... Enjoy! :)




1. People that write on their 'about me' section "I like spending time with my friends." Well, duh. Who doesn't, you morons?

2. Adverts on YouTube. They actually seem to countdown the time remaining like: "Don't worry, you only have to endure me for another 17 more seconds." And for those of you doing the math, yes, that is enough time to load a revolver and pull the trigger. In loading time, on the internet though, that's like a lifetime. For those of you also wondering, no, that's not enough time to make a cup of tea or check your em@ils. It's just enough time, however, to hold your attention to their crummy ads, but, annoyingly, never enough to really do anything constructive. Sorry to bark on so much about this, but it really gets my goat!

3. People who stash horrible biscuits in their tins. Truly worse than having none whatsoever.

4. Gossip. I wish word of mouth would shut the fuck up.

5. When you pack a banana with your sandwiches and they end up tasting like banana. If I wanted a banana-tasting sandwich, I'd make a banana sandwich. Duh.

6. People who join groups (on Facebook) and actually appear to BRAG about knowing the difference between 'your', and 'you're'. I learnt that in primary school. And don't even get me started on the 'there', 'their' and 'they're' people. They're even worse. They seem to have some kind of superiority complex over the 'your' people for knowing one more word than them. I mean really, how thick are these people?

7. Small Talk: It's not big and it's not clever.

8. People who think liking your own status is unacceptable. Liking your own status must be Facebook approved, otherwise you wouldn't be able to do it.

9. When I can hear my neighbours having sex. Hearing them argue is far more entertaining.

10. Negative comments on cigarette packets. I'd much prefer positive messages like: "If you don't smoke you will live a long prosperous life."

11. The fact that downing cold, fizzy drinks - to a certain extent - actually hurts.

12.The idiot that forgot to write on the box how long you're supposed to pre-heat the microwave for.

13. That liking (Facebook) groups is like putting on weight; easy to gain, missions to lose.

14. Whoever did all the washing up in the house. You missed a bowl in my room. Gawd. 

14. Myself for writing 14 twice.

16. ...and thinking it was funny.

17. Anyone who didn't have the time to get to here.

18. Anyone who didn't even get to this page.

19. People that take themselves too seriously. 

20. Lists listing things people hate.

Go On, Humour Me

I really couldn't decide whether or not to open this piece with a joke or a definition. The problematic disposition of a writer: open with a joke and they don't take you seriously, open with a dictionary definition and they think you take yourself too seriously. Well, after many (brief) seconds of hard thought, I decided to go with the joke. Only kidding, here's the definition. Hey, that was quite funny.

The dictionary states that : a sense of humour, is the ability to appreciate or express that which is humorous.

Now, I know what you're thinking, starting an article on humour with a dictionary definition is far from humorous, but, in this case, I felt it was necessary to give a solid meaning, and, thus, ultimately expressing a strong sense of clarity and direction towards the rest of the piece. Either that, or it's just my feeble attempt to sound mildly academic.

Humour is a vital part of our lives. Imagine a life with none whatsoever. It would be a dark, serious world with no right place for jokes, quips, mocking or even friendly banter. I have always embraced humour with open arms and believed it to be essential to our well being and overall happiness in life. From something subtle and amusing, which can make us smile, to full-blown belly laughs that leave you rolling around, gasping for air, we find that humour brings us joy, whether it be fired from the tongue of a witty remark or expelled from the deafening visual CRASH blasted from a slapstick scenario.

As the author, I think I may be excused and allowed my right to indulge in expressing what humour means to me in context of this article - so let's try this without quoting the dictionary this time, eh? Humour is all around us; it's within us, just waiting to escape at any given exit. It wants to be released and exposed, and trust me, it always finds a way. I think the highest concentration that we can source these days has to be through the extremely powerful medium of TV. Humour sells, and, as long there are people who will laugh at jokes, there will be people willing to make money and sell them. This article, however, is about my experience with humour, and, if I'm honest, I have recently found that comedy shows bore me after a while. As funny as they are, for whatever period of time my patience endures, I find them frustratingly limiting - the way they relentlessly constrain the horizons of humour. Let me explain. They don't allow room for creative-inventiveness; they are less of a blank canvas, and more of a finished piece. After years of being told TV is bad for you, I can finally see a glimpse of this truth for myself.

One thing I like more than hearing a good joke (making me laugh) is making my owns little gems and sharing them with the world, thus, sharing happiness (making them laugh). To explain my point better, think about what happens when you smile at someone. You'll notice a rather pleasant domino effect: you smile at them, making them happy, they smile back which, in turn, makes you happy! Everyone's a winner.

As far as a hobby goes, finding and hearing jokes is all well and good, but I, perhaps selfishly, have found a greater deal of pleasure and satisfaction from constructing my own jokes, be they sewn together from the delicate threads of social observation, or just simple and plain fun being had with punderful word play. I've been actively doing this for years now – gathering all the pieces in front of me, in any situation that presents itself with potential, to piece together a puzzle, bit by bit, until I have the the bigger picture. The finished piece. 


The only trouble you find with constantly churning out jokes is that not everyone is a satisfied customer. In fact, in my case, none of them are satisfied customers, as I'm yet to make any money from them! But that's not where my loyalties lie; I'm just here on this this planet learning all that I can and trying to enjoy myself as much as possible. And if I can help others be happy on my quest for this, clearly attainable joy, I will always be trying my best. Now would be an exceptionally ideal time to use a cliché like we're all in the same boat. But in reality, I think some of us are, but the rest are just on the same page. Either way, there is some sense of unity and that is what essentially brings us together: the common touch.

I don't get annoyed or upset, or even offended, when people tell me my jokes aren't funny. A joke works quite easily: you either find it funny or you don't. Even the world's best comedians can't capture the hearts of every audience. So, when they tell you coldly, "That's not funny", kindly remind them that a joke's success is not based upon the frequency of the laughs, but, rather; the presence of the laughs. And if they're too sour to appreciate or understand the concept, the joke's on them.

After that deceptively serious piece of writing, I though I'd lighten the mood with a joke I came up with earlier today:

No matter how small, I'm sure there's a joke in the fact I'm getting penis enlargement ads sent to my 'junk' mailbox.

Why?

This is something that happened to me day before yesterday (Tuesday 19^th April 2011). Thought it was an interesting story, so thought I’d share it.

The flesh from my knee was hanging off. One side dry and scabby, the other wet and bloody. I unhinged the bloody mess off in one swift motion, inhaling through clenched teeth in an attempt to relieve the surging pain. It stang so much my eyes were watering, and new skin peeled the outline of the wound, leaving the flesh red and raw. The pan was hot now, and the knob of butter sizzled furiously as it melted and sent thick smoke up in the air. I tossed the small burger-shaped piece of meat in the frying pan. Instantly it began to make noise. It didn't look like the flesh of a knee; it looked harmless – though this made it more sinister. The smell was something foul too; an indication that it probably best not ever be cooked; a putrid and vile stench. The juices blended with the fat and bubbled in the hot pan, making the meat hiss loudly. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I was about to indulge in eating human flesh, a part of my own body. Just the thought made me sick, and the sight of the fleshy piece in front of me didn't help either, nor the smell of burning human flesh. However, no one was making me do this. I was doing this because I wanted to.

It wasn't too thick, so it cooked pretty quickly. Scooping it out from the pan, I dumped it onto a plate and stared at it from above. It didn’t look too bad now, but I still knew what it was. With out even mentioning a knife and fork in my thoughts, I picked up the fatty, flabby piece of meat and edged it closer to my mouth. The burger dripped with fat, and I closed my eyes before taking a bite into the hellish food. The texture was course, and my teeth struggled to tear through it. It took two or three seconds for the flavour to fully sink in. It definitely tasted familiar, but before I had time to put my finger on it, I opened the cupboard below the sink to find the bin, and spat out the mouthfuls repeatedly, expelling every tiniest morsel with fresh spells of spittle. The kitchen was heavily dressed with the stench, that dreadful stench, and turned breathing into gagging. I knew it would be weeks before I’d be fully rid of that toxic smell. I just stood there, thinking what I'd just done.