Poetry and beautiful words always impresses the chicks
Originally on this picture on flickr. But I thought I'd share it. Ms Entropy had invited guesses as to her racial origin. There was some other stuff before this, but I wasn't in it, so bollocks to that. Except Dolores', which was funny but you'll have to follow the link to read it.
Ms Entropy had invited guesses as to her racial origin:
Brock:Amazonian.
With perhaps a distant smattering of Smurf. Just a hunch.
Ms Entropy:Brock, how come everything you say has a slightly perverse edge: "distant smattering"?
hurhur
Ms Entropy:Plus, I'm too short for Amazonian: 5 feet plus an inch or so
Brock:It's because I am a filthy and dirty wretch, whose entire mind is filled with a constant ooze of fetid and disgusting effluent, with little (rotting) boats of innuendo vainly attempting to float on top of it.
Not to put too fine a point on it.
Brock:(and if you lived nearer, it may just be a 'smattering', you never know...)
See? I just can't help myself.
ellipse:you needs help
Ms Entropy:...and yet you're so eloquent: "little (rotting) boats of innuendo."
What a gorgeous picture, I'm already swept off my feet.
Brock:Yeah, baby!
Concert going for Oldies.
I went to see
Judas Priest with my step brother and one of his mates on Saturday. He is 16, a drummer in his own band and ENORMOUS! He is 6ft 3, size 14 feet and the proverbial gentle giant. His mate is the Bass player, and about 3 ft fuck all. Really funny seeing the two of them stood together.
It was great. They are a band from my youth - I listened to a lot more Rock and Heavy Metal when I was at sixth form and the like, but it is still close to my heart. I'd forgotten how much I like live concerts. Memories of all the ones I went to when I was younger came flooding back, I'd forgotten how many I had been to, and have no idea why I 'got out of the habit'.
The weirdest thing was that the crowd, I swear, was the same fucking people that were at the last concert that I was at. Seriously. The last proper metal concert I went to was in 1991. The same age range of people were there, which doesn't seem odd, except that the range was
in relation to mine rather than a 17 - 35 or whatever age range. There was about the same amount of predominately my age people, and loads more older! It was fantastic, such a mellow atmosphere with all of the people so obviously there for the music and nothing else. Oddly mellow, considering the aggression and power in the style of music, if you know what I mean. You expect mellow at a Sting concert, not at a Judas Priest one. I actually only went because my step brother wanted to go, and his mum was worried that he might get stabbed or something at such a 'hardcore' metal gig. What a laugh. Unless it was with a knitting needle.
Top night out.
And in true Metal Rebel style, I spent 3 hours washing the car the next day at my Dad's. I ROCK!
Shop dummies are always so excited.
Apex Twins
Originally uploaded by DrJoanne. I've never understood why shops seem to think that Women are more likely to want to buy clothing if the dummies wearing them are in a state of sexual pique. Is it to make them fancy the bits of plastic within the clothing? Or perhaps imply that ladies will get all hot and bothered by wearing said item?
"It even makes Dummies horny! How great is our T-shirt, eh?! You want it, don't you, I can tell!"
They've got no fucking heads, how the hell are they supposed to embody 'sexy'?
And even if it were possible that the new t-shirt made a girl rampantly horny the whole time that they wore it, surely it would be phenomenally expensive. I mean think of the washing alone, they'd get through 8 pairs of dripping wet pants every single day. Never mind not being able to concentrate on their work/TV/driving/other activity for rampant fantasies involving blokes delivering Diet Coke and the like.
Oh, and as a complete aside, what if you had a 'liaison' with a girl in such a t-shirt, and who sported nipples such as those in the picture? They'd take your damn eye out, wouldn't they?
Hell of a story as to why you wear an eye patch, as one whiles away one's retirement propping up a bar somewhere with the other salty sea dogs.
"AR! 'Twas a dark and stormy night, and in walked this skimpily dressed girl, a vision of such beauty as you never did see. She flashed me a coquettish smile and floated gently to the bar just down from me, slightly shivering despite the obviously new t-shirt, but in a graceful kind-of way.
I picked up my drink and sauntered casually over, striking my best Kays Catalogue pose as I paused, hand on hip, to toss my thick thermal fleece over one shoulder - did I mention it was a cold, cold night?...."
That'll get their beers on the bar and their rapt attention, wouldn't it?
Handy tips for the terminally dull
Hmmmm. What crazy mad problem can teh Brockmeister be about to banish to the annals of history? What wonders are about to be given forth from the sharp mind of a prefessional engineer? The problem?
Milky glasses.
That's right, you heard me. Now, I don't mean when you fall forward into your cornflakes in the morning and can't see where you are going from a bad attack of dripping white haze. I mean those times when you fancy a glass of milk, so you have one. Full fat, of course. None of that half milk/half water bollocks for me, matey. Big glass, fat milk, few big slurps, head back... gone. You put the glass on the side.
Then you get a bit distracted and don't wash it up for a bit. I don't mean until it grows it's own culture and creates it's own currency and national flag, like. I'm talking a couple of hours. Well, maybe until the next day. Or two. Maybe. If you are male and live on your own and don't get too many visitors. Just as an example.
This is obviously bad, and makes the glass hard to wash up. It leaves funny little ring marks in the bottom outside ring of the glass, and those of us with big fat hands can't get in there and clean that easily. Consequently, I took to never putting the glass onto the sink side for washing up without rinsing the glass and leaving it full of water to soak. I did, however, get rather pissed off that it took about 10 bloody goes to rinse the glass out. It stayed slightly cloudy for
ages. Then I (accidentally, admittedly) cracked it.
Due to an entirely unconnected burst of efficiency (honest), none of my 3 pint glasses were clean when I came in from work tonight, and I fancied a pint of milk. The cleanest glass was the one that I had some water from this morning before I left for work. So I thought to myself "She'll be reet, guv" and rinsed it out and poured in the milk. I started cooking my dinner, and merrily sipped away at my milk as I did so. Come the end of the glassful, I walked over to the sink and rinsed it out. Crystal clean instantly.
Well, fuck me. I didn't expect that.
Presumably the fat in the milk (as I know semi-skimmed does it less) sticks to the surface imperfections of the glass which is why it is so hard to rinse out. I imagine that a wet glass means that the milk has nothing to stick to. It tries to stick to the water. Genius, eh? So simple, yet so brilliantly helpful! Never again will I try to cram my hand into a pint glass trying to get the sponge into the corner bit and smash the glass apart with my knuckles. No more will I cut the soft bit of skin between my index finger and thumb when I do that, or spend twenty (fucking) minutes rinsing the suds out of the bowl slowly until I am sure I have found all the (bastard little) bits of glass. I'm so pleased.
Over something so small and pointless. Holy fuck, my life is dull.
Maybe I should change my number
Text messages out of the blue on Sunday:
Mystery texter: "Hi. Can we talk?"Me : "Depends who it is. Your number's not showing up"
Mystery texter: "******"( Ex-girlfriend as of 18 months ago, pathological liar, psychopath, fucking nutter, source of untold hassle, the source of the lowest point of my life/self-esteem since I was 14 and the reason that I was £2.5K worse off at the end of the (18 month!) relationship. Impressive, huh?)
"Then, no. I really don't think that we have anything to say to each other. Sorry."
"Why are you still so angry with me? Can't we be nice civil (sic). Really need 2 talk 2 some 1 who knows me well. I know we parted on bad terms but I never wanted you to hate me."
"I was perfectly polite. If you need someone to talk to, try your husband." (She married new guy a year and 2 months after we split. Rush into it, did we?)
"I can't. Im sorry ur still so bitter towards me. I must have hurt you very much."
(after fighting the urge to reply for about half an hour): "That's you all over, though isn't it? Not sorry for what you did, just for how it affects you. Still. It doesn't matter. I don't care enough to be bitter anymore."
I wanted to send, but it would have given too much:
"Leave me alone. You have already tricked me and cost me more than I would ever knowingly be prepared to, or can cope with giving. You have no concept of the damage that you have done to me, as you have never managed to see out past your own needs and demands to even notice anyone else, never mind the life you were sucking out of them trying to keep you happy".
But that's too much. She doesn't deserve to know the closed and shut off person that I have once again become after so long. I spent 10 years trying to regain some emotional ability after shutting it all away so effectively when I was younger, and I am fighting being back at square one. There was a time after her when I couldn't even voice these thoughts (those that know me may now know how significant that is/was for me), and now that I can... Well. It all seems a bit pointless and after the fact. The feelings had to subside to such an extent that the resolution of what it meant and did to me seems strangely irrelevant now. I
need to form everything I do into sentences before I can understand it, feelings alone are beyond my comprehension. Now that I can word it, I have nothing left to vent the words that were so important to me in order to express myself. I feel cheated again.
What irritates me the most is I know exactly why she texted. She's lacking attention, and wants to ring me up and reassure herself that I still fancy her, that she can still cast her spell over
someone. This is the same girl that had a MAJOR failure of self confidence because we once walked into a bar and "No-one" looked at her. I sure as fuck didn't see any backs of blokes' heads, I am damn sure. All her other exes must have their phones off, as I know she rang them when
we had rows. Tough luck, sweetie. I really meant it when I told you to fuck off and stop bothering me last year. Really. The only feelings I can muster for you any more are those of bitterness at wasting 18 months and thousands of pounds, hours of time and pissing off my friends, trying to keep an emotionally fucked-up girl happy when it was an impossible task.
I was weak. I was stupid, and not a small part of me hates myself for being so unfathomably stupid. I was dazzled, and hopelessly head over heels. She was (still is, by all accounts) a
stunningly, heart-stoppingly
beautiful woman. Tall, slim, blonde hair, striking looks and very graceful, she would (I am
utterly convinced) still take my breath away, stop my heart and weaken my knees if I saw her again. Right up to a milli-second later when I would remember that she so utterly embodies the expression "Beauty is only skin deep". When she was being lovely she was indeed so, but it was all a veneer and soon split, but too late for me to spot it. She constantly tried to create an impression designed to appeal to how she wanted people to perceive her, borne of a deep insecurity from a broken home and an equally fucked up and shallow Mother. I never understood what she saw in me, and perhaps that lack of faith in myself was part of the reason that I sacrificed everything to try and keep her, someone that I was too close to, to see how screwed up and (in all seriousness) psychologically damaged as her. Or maybe she just knew a fundamentally decent bloke and a soft touch when she saw one.
I don't know. I genuinely don't really think she was
knowingly that devious, but someone so desperate for attention I have yet to meet.
Ok. That's enough. I wanted to write something about this, but I'm fresh out now. Both of the feelings to keep writing about it, and the desire not to care that this is on the web. So I'll stop. I've disabled comments for this post because well, in the nicest possible way, I don't really give a fuck what anyone else thinks. I know what I did wrong. If people that know me well really want to say something, they know where I am. But
no-one is as harsh a judge of me as myself, or as analytical, so it will undoubtedly have been pre-empted and reasoned into a positive statement.
It's truly believing those statements that's the hard thing, isn't it? And no-one but me can do that. I can make the intellectual steps without any help which is a bit daft, as that is the bit that is easiest to help. Still, no-one said that being me was easy, did they?
I'm going to post this now as I am losing faith in it, and having second thoughts. I'm not even going to spell check it. Sorry if it's dull and not the usual stupidity I post, but hey? Who gives a fuck? It's my blog, after all.
;)
Fitness freak
I know that I have been getting weaker since doing a desk job, but I didn't think that it was
this bad... Oh, and I appear to have shrunk an inch, too. I seem to be only 6ft 1 now. Anyway, never mind that, I'm still dark and handsome.
I found out that one of the steel beams across the ceiling of my flat is open one side (I'd never noticed before) and that it would be ideal for pull ups. So I did some stretching (as suggested by the physio I went to see the other week) and thought I'd have a go. Now I was never very good at these, I think my all time record was about ten or so, but I always managed to put that down to the fact that I am really tall, and so weigh lots. It's harder for me than for these stumpy fuckers, I tell you. So I step up on the bed and grab the beam, take a few deep breaths and start.
Now remember that I was never very good anyway, but after about 3 minutes of huffing, puffing and heaving I just managed it.
I got one foot off the ground.
For fucks sake! I may be in serious trouble. I mean, if I don't do something to improve all this soon, I'm going to be too bloody puny to pull myself out of bed in the morning.
Top comeback
Outside our office is a little walled area made of 6" wide Breeze blocks that is about 18" foot high. Kurt, our development technician was walking along the top of it on his way to see me in the office.
Tech Dir: "Kurt, you shouldn't walk along that really, you might fall off and twist your ankle".
Kurt (twice British Champion Mountain Bike Trials rider, and ranked 2nd in the World in 2002): "I doubt it, I rode my bike along a 2" round scaffold tube last night, and I didn't fall off that".
Hahahaha! There was nothing he could say to that, really, was there? I nearly wet myself when he told me.
