Probably not this time, though. I wouldn't get your hopes up.
I'm not feeling in a particulary happy mood. I'm kind of depressed for a multitude of regions. For one, both of my grandparents, my parents, my estranged siblings and my pet ferret are all going into exciting emergency surgeries tomorrow. All at the same time. I know, shit, what ARE the odds? So I want all my hundreds of blog friends (except for that one who died last month... cunt) to pray for them. But shit, I'd better not start talking about my worries. Soon I'll be talking about my FEELINGS and before you know it, my limbs will fall off and I'll start smelling of fish and there'll just be a blubbering vagina sitting in front of the computer.
So basically, I can't be bothered to do anything but sit here in a depressed heap and listen to hardcore music. Yes, hardcore music. From a rave. I'm a raver, baby. Hardcore til I die, yo. I've realised that the distinguishing feature of hardcore music is that you can't tell when the track skips. I downloaded a corrupt version of a file and it kept repeating five seconds over and over again. I listened to it for about seven minutes before realising that something was amiss.
So far, I've sat and listened to 1.2 solid hours of raver music without stopping, including such gems as "Always Hardcore" (the guy is hardcore... always! AND HE'S NOT AFRAID TO TELL US USING THE MEDIUM OF SONG!), a techno remix of the Braveheart theme tune (No, I'm not joking... I guess it's what William Wallace strutted his funky stuff to down at the Scottish Discootheque), and a song that is a direct rip-off of the level music from the Western stage of Timesplitters Two. This is what I do instead of getting a girlfriend. Or even a picture of a girlfriend to put in my locker.
At the moment, I'm listening to the musical delight that is '24/7' by a famed DJ (this is short for "Djion Jubalee", from a french word "Jockey de la Disks") known only as "Hixxy". I bet his name is actually Melvin. Or Herbert. Or, perhaps, his mother actually named him DJ Hixxy. So his full name would be DJ Herbert Hixxy Weinstein. Because everybody knows that all rave DJs are jewish.
I have no idea where I'm going with this.
The thing I love about rave music is the STORY that's told in every single song. You can really feel what the singers are talking about, as the lyrics send you on a swooping journey of ups and downs, of light and dark, of good and evil. Seriously, Chaucer is just shit compared to the lyrics of '24/7'. For example, the woman on the track wants her 'baby' for a substantial period of time, or, as implied by the repetition of the word, "forever". We know this because it is repeated roughly seventeen times and is, probably, the only lyric in the entire song, a clever use of emphatic alliterative repetition. I could write ten-thousand words on this one song and not run out of things to say about its lyrical genius. Seriously: 24/7 = POETRY. If you too want to enjoy this song, you go into a record store and purchase the album. It's entitled "Bonkers XI".
*Twitch. Blood vessel in eye bursts at the amount of compressed irony in previous paragraph*
FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. WHO NEEDS ELEVEN ALBUMS OF HARDCORE MUSIC? AND WHY CAN'T I STOP DOWNLOADING THE SONGS? But don't worry, I've downloaded all the songs illegally from the internet, so not a pound of my money is going towards funding DJ Herbert/Hixxy/who cares and his destructive zit fetish.
I know what you're thinking. "THOMAS, IS THIS POST GOING ANYWHERE, AND WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME, AND THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A ZIT FETISH YOU SILLY MOO!!!!"
And to that I have just three things to say: No it's not, sure I will, but only if you pass my strict exam which will test fitness/intelligence/mental fitness first, and I think you'll find that zit fetishes do exist, and I have proof. God, I wish I didn't. I was surfing the net (for technologically crap people out there, ie my mother, this means "Making the magic flashing box in the study travel on exciting journeys through a magical realm to find Zit Fetish websites") and I came across such a zit fetish website.
You KNOW you want to click on this link. You don't. But you will. Just to see what a zit fetish website looks like.
In case you're a woman and are thus scared of going onto websites that don't involve pictures of a topless, oil-covered Justin Timberlake repairing a motorcycle, here's an extract, just to get those metaphorical juices flowing. Which, considering the context, probably wasn't a good choice of words:
I have broken out......again. This time in huge what SHOULD be easy to pop whiteheads along my jawline and my chin. I wait, and wait, and watch as they grow bigger, and more sore and finally, white appears! So I go to pop, I squeeze until my eyes start to water and I get a little liquid like pus. Clear liquid. What the hell?! Just this clear liquid crap?! Where is the pus??! Where is the cores that I know are in these things!?! I have these huge red marks now because of course I am constantly picking at them, squeezing, scratching trying to get ANYTHING other then this clear liquid to come out to no avail.SO ANNOYING!
I totally have the same problem. Where are the cores? WHERE ARE THEY?
Wow. Hardcore music and zit fetishists. I had no idea this post was going to turn out this way. Fuck it, that's all you're getting.
Comedy Mohammed No. 6:
More effort went into that picture than did the entire rest of the blog in its entirety. Sad, isn't it? To be honest, the combined weight of the world has fallen upon my shoulders and I would be crying myself to sleep to night, encased in a thin layer of my own excrement, if it wasn't for a faborific new word I made up today: Bottlecrotch. Bottlecrotch. It has no definition. Put it in your dictionary.
(And if you're looking for more on the Mr Gay situation, well, wait til next time. I have some horrifying and shocking news to share)
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