Archive for June, 2014

Complaints

Posted: June 24, 2014 in Life-thingies
Tags: ,

In the last couple of days I have received two complaints. One I totally agree with and one I don’t.

The first was an “But, but, but. You promised!” And I did. I promised I would do my best to post something everyday of June. I failed. (What I didn’t fail was my final exam, and I have now finished my education. On Wednesday I get a diploma at a ceremony and everything). So yes, I failed. Oh well, life’s so filled with opportunity, can’t run after all of it.

The second was, and I quote because it’s that good: “Dude, I really like your blog and all, but you really use a lot of profanity. You should really think about what kinda message you wanna be sending and quit using bad words.”

I do, I use a lot of profanity. Why? Because profanity is expressive. Very expressive. And I like words that pack a punch. Hell, I just like words in general, even the word moist which is kinda gross. I like the word brewery even if I can’t say it when I’m drunk. I like offensive words and long words, nonsensical words and specific words. And fuck yes I like profanity!

So to you I say: I fucking love that you took the time to write me an email. I won’t change a goddamned thing, but thanks anyway.

If anyone else should have anything to complain about, tell it to my email!

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Missing

Posted: June 12, 2014 in Life-thingies
Tags: , , ,

I missed a post yesterday. I fell asleep while reading old X-Men comics. I woke up at 3 in the morning fully clothed and cradling my tablet like a teddy. I think I need a good night’s sleep. Actually I think I’ll go sleep now. In the mean-time enjoy this picture of my zebra, Zelda, standing on Table.

Image

Snikt

Posted: June 10, 2014 in Life-thingies
Tags: , ,

Snikt

I’m tired and reading origin stories.

Why the Zebra is the best animal

Posted: June 9, 2014 in Life-thingies
Tags:

1. Stripes

2. A mane like a Mohawk

Nuff said!

I see the punch coming before she even knows she’s gonna throw it. I might not be able to read body-language, but I’ve been in enough fights to recognize what’s happening. I can tell from the jerky way her upper-body moves, from the pitch of her voice, from the cornered look in her eyes. She feels the situation slipping out of her control, her instinct is moving in, ready to pounce, ready to take over.

I know I can take the hit. She’s scrawny. A full head shorter than me, she won’t have much power and she won’t know how to throw her weight behind the punch. She’s inexperienced. She’s used to people backing down when she lets her anger out. She’s never been up against someone like me, she’ll never have experienced anger like mine.

I look at her. Size her up. Little dyke from the good part of town, what does she know about anger? What does she know about respect. The REAL kind of respect! The kind you earn with your fists. The kind you receive with blood on your hands and the dirt of the gutter on your clothes. She’s gonna learn.

Her fist is flying at me. I feel the deep red burn in my jaw before she even connects. I fucking love that burn! It makes me feel so young again, so alive. I remember the good old days, they come back in flashes. I see familiar faces, gritted teeth and all.

 I could still move. Let her hand slip by me, grab her elbow, turn to the left, pull her forward, sink my fist into her gut, tap my foot behind her knee and force her down on the floor.

I take the hit. My neck twists painfully to the left once her fist connects with my jaw. I don’t utter a sound, I don’t clasp my face and I don’t show any surprise or pain. I stand fast, look her straight in the face, I search for her eyes and I hold them. I see a mixture of triumph and fear.

Southpaw.  The information shoots through my head, lets me know what to do and expect. I shake it off. It doesn’t matter either way, I can’t hit her back. My right fist is clenched tight, my elbow half-cocked, my shoulder puling back before I regain control. It takes every single grain of willpower I can muster.

My whole body is screaming at my brain. “Carte blanche! She hit you, return the favour!” Hit her, hit her, hit her. HIT HER! Make her pay, make her regret it! Make her wish she’d never set foot here. Make her never want to show her face again. Make her feel what anger can do. Make her taste it!”

3 years ago I would have. I would have used the stunned second of “Damn I never hit nobody before” she’s experiencing right now to my advantage. I’d have let my right hand fly as a fist at her nose. Or flat at her ear. Left foot stomping her right. Left fist pumped in her solar plexus. Knee to the face when she buckled over. A slight push to make her lose balance and fall. Done

I see it. It plays out in my mind clear as day. Like graceful dance-moves I see her body reacting to the hits. A shudder here, a twist there. Muscles flexing and blood flowing. Bones breaking. God that *snap*, it’s such a definite sound. It’s the sound of no return.

But no! I can’t. I musn’t. My whole life has taught me, that in situations like these, violence is most definitely the answer. But violence is no longer an answer I’m allowed to give. I am uprooted. I am a fish out of water. A brawler no longer in the streets.

I do the only thing I can do. I aim for awe. I take the punch, I don’t betray any pain, I hold myself back and I just look at her. Daring her to do it again. No words necessary, we speak beyond mouths and bodies now. I beg her to go for another punch, I plead with her. “Just one more, please! Cos I know I won’t be able to stop myself twice, so come on! HIT ME!”

She bows her head. It’s all over. A bouncer takes her away and I curse everything around me. I know I won’t feel the hit until tomorrow, but the adrenaline will be with me all night. The only way is sleeping it off or fucking it out. Looks like I’m sleeping it off. Fuck this shit!

Yawn

Posted: June 7, 2014 in Life-thingies
Tags:

I’m tired today. Did nothing worth writing about apart from taking 4 phone-calls from my boss (not the one at The Gay Bar) filled with frantic questions and “Do we have X, Y and Z under control?” all of which I calmly shot down with reassurances that everything was as it should be.

I like my boss, he’s a good guy. But he needs to learn that when I say I’ve got something, he best believe I got it!

I think it’s time to talk a little of the house-drinks we serve at The Gay Bar. All bars have their own specials and we are no different. Only ours usually have extremely sexually charged names. The Pink Pussy is no different. What it is though, is nasty! (And I mean nasty the way only someone with an attitude can say it “NAAAASTY!”)

Here are the ingredients:

4 centiliters of Bacardi Razz
4 centiliters of Grenadine
A bunch of whipped cream
Sprite

And now in picture form:

 

20140606-181614-65774307.jpg

You pour the Bacardi and Grenadine in a shaker with ice. Like so:

photo 1

Then you schlop a fist-size dollop of whipped cream on top.

photo 2

Shake it vigorously. Really pour your hatred into it! Now you strain this hellish concoction into a high-ball glass.

photo 3 - Copy

And then top it of with sprite. Be careful, the reaction when combining the two liquids is pretty aggressive. The result is quite un-appetizing:

photo 4

Voila, The Pink Pussy. You now have an utterly disgusting drink, enjoyed mostly by flamboyant men in their early 40’s. I congratulate and also pity you!