It's beginning to get to me

Citation
Artist: Snow Patrol
Track: It's Beginning to Get to Me
Album: Eyes Open

I fear I've gravely underestimated my level of anger at this moment in time, or at least my level of anger before I finally went to bed (3:30am, so you know). I'm only moderately agitated now, but as I speak I can feel the tingling sensation of the anger juices starting to flow freely. I'm slumped here, contemplating my next awe-inspiring slice of semantics as flashbacks scatter themselves sporadically, whirring in my head. The contempt, the fury..the wickedness builds, fuelled by a fiery passion to purge the planet of the atrocities that befell it some years ago. We're going back a decade or three, since humanity was inducted into a world of lazy, apathetic convenience. I talk of the invention of the mobile phone.

But what is so abhorrent about such a thing? Why am I filled with such reproach for this communicational device? It sparked a social revolution - a shameful one. Accompanied of course by its equally radioactive partner in crime, the microwave (which does wonders for your 70-second chicken burgers), the mobile phone has encouraged an entire generation to take life for granted, and has scrambled our brains all the while (just for good measure). People think banter, words and communication as a whole has surpassed standards previously thought to be impervious to human efforts, but no, I'm afraid those standards are as unsurpassed as ever. In fact, these monstrosities, particularly since they were armed with the atom bomb of the conversational world, 'txtn' (that's "texting" to you and I), have delivered a swift kick in the nuts to any faint conception of linguistical worth or correctness.

Take Final Fantasy XI last night, which was the cause of my uproar. The linkshell (a LS is like a mini community in FFXI, by which any members can chat to all the others from anywhere) is riddled with incompetent morons who, bar a few, are British or American, yet must have the reading and writing age of a dyslexic 2-year-old... A 2-year-old effing iguana, that is. They are prone to molesting the linkshell chat with any number of inane and otiose emoticons such as <^> (to this day I fail to understand the meaning of that one), @_@;; and o_-. In intermittent doses these icons can lend themselves well to adding to the tone of one's message, or for slight entertainment value, but the sad, sorry reality is that these imbeciles have to resort to bucket-loads of these unattractive vermin in a hopeless attempt to convey what they struggle to put into words.

My anger is only simmering at present, but I have a plan for the future: I shall do some linkshell detective work and save screen shots of any diabolical misuse of our beloved mother tongue. Prepare to be startled. Really.

The curse

Before I begin, let me tell you that I haven't grown estranged to the tiny following that I had: I've simply had issues involving comment moderation (settings being modified without my consent), meaning no comments have been publishing. RAC lives and breathes, invigorated by its minuscule group of passers-by that it dares to call a fanbase! I can sense the vibes, the energy coursing through its veins and pumping at its heart. Yes..YES! LIVE, MY BABY! LIIIIVVEE!

Erm, yes.

Citation
Artist: Audioslave
Track: The Curse
Album: Out of Exile

You'll come to be cognizant that these titles will pose a striking resemblance to their respective entries as a whole. So what exactly is "the curse"? It is an amorphous, abstract phenomenon; it's but a concept that hits you like an apparition, spouts its putrid terror and happily observes as you writhe in its sinister, lingering grip. I'll give you three guesses.

Nope.

Nope.

Close, but no.

It's life. Life is a curse. No, life is the curse that plagues us all. It is so very upsetting that life is a fact of death, and that we must all suffer beneath it until we finally succumb to the skies of eternal rest. Or, less poetically, life's a bitch and then you die. Life brings with it many symptoms and side-effects, including boredom, depression, insomnia, hunger, thirst, more boredom, work, heartbreak, debt, fear, addiction, disease, injury, disappointment and..more boredom. There is a plus or two though: identifying a sufferer isn't too tricky - if they're alive then it's a pretty safe bet - and it is also easily remedied with a swift stab in the back. Oh yeah, backstabbing could be added to the list as well.

I would make a class case study for analysis of this condition, as I have quite a cantankerous strain. Life has tightly clasped me with no route to recovery. Because of this, my existence is comprised of stumbling out of bed, smashing the alarm clock into the "off" position, eating a gargantuan bowl of cheap-Kellogg's-spoof cereal, considering dressing, not dressing, daydreaming for a few minutes (sometimes substituted for an Xbox 360 session), hearing complaints about the lack of walking of dogs from dad, considering dressing, not dressing, turning on the PC, checking Black0ps, checking Wikipedia, checking Last.fm, checking the blog, running Final Fantasy XI, beginning gaming on FFXI, receiving strident earfuls from dad about said canine, begrudgingly dressing, walking so-excited-I'm-about-to-burst mutts, hurling profanities at his excrement, arriving back home, moping around, returning to FFXI to discover the connection has timed out, reconnecting, being engrossed for hours on end, becoming hungry, fetching luxurious oat snack bars, scattering crumbs on (and in) the keyboard, becoming thirsty, switching mini coolers on, drinking cans of soda before they've had a chance to cool (defeating the purpose of the appliance), rendezvousing with Ed on FFXI, leading us or being led to our humorous deaths on FFXI, retrying, repeating the previous occurrence, desiring a bullet through the skull, greeting mums that are home, fending off questions about how the day has been, fessing up that the day was blessed by perfunctory routine, asking what will be for dinner, not being granted a response, scuttling downstairs, asking what will be for dinner, incurring derogatory remarks about my persistence and being told that the answer is unknown, rummaging through the freezer for ideas, suggesting pizza, being declined, suggesting something with chips, being declined, passing the point of caring, marching upstairs, discovering FFXI has timed out, logging back in, exchanging quips of sarcasm with Ed, being informed that dinner is served, finding out that it's curry, igniting my tongue, picking out the onions, vainly making to extinguish the flames on my tongue, finishing the meal, scooping out dollops of ice cream from the freezer, ravenously devouring them, refusing to place my dirty dishes in the dishwasher, receiving scowls, putting them in, trotting back upstairs, discovering FFXI has ti-...being too nonchalant to give a monkey's, watching Eastenders, retrieving cream crackers from the cupboard, spreading butter on them, crunching them, pouring a glass of water with which to take fish oil supplements, swallowing them, feeling more brainy instantaneously, re-attuning myself to FFXI, playing mindlessly for further hours, glancing at the clock displaying 4am, exiting FFXI, contemplating blogging, usually refuting the prospect of even constructing a viable sentence let alone a multiple-hundred-word account, changing into pyjamas, daydreaming a little, plonking myself into bed, stirring, and drifting off to sleep.

The curse at its finest. Longest sentence ever? Let's not push it, but I do feel a dot of triumph.

That's my piece. If your brain hasn't splattered against the walls by now then any more would without doubt finish the job. Next time? Well, I'll be collecting my GCSE results on Thursday (crikey, that's tomorrow), so after I've been given confirmation that I've flunked every subject and have no future, I'll be sure to drop in.

Save the world

This is to be the format from this point forwards. My jaw-droppingly inventive titles notwithstanding, I shall always entitle my entries with a song name or with lyrics from one, and then offer an appropriate citation.

Citation
Artist: Orson
Track: Save the World
Album: Bright Idea

"You're too busy saving the world, and I think I need saving the most." Yes, I feel the wise words of Jason Pebworth take on a whole new meaning in this context. You see, as you may have surmised, I've been lacking in the inspiration department recently, but I can assure you that it's been well worth the wait. Today I'm adopting an alternate approach (no, the quartet of words starting with A was a mere coincidence) - something errant yet unerringly special. No, it's not waffling either: that's just my inability to GET TO THE SODDING POINT.

This is to be the quintessential run-down of everything on this planet that sucks more ass than an anal vacuum and, naturally, why... Or it was until I twigged to how many individual things (for failure to call upon a more sophisticated term) suck. With that in mind, I shall list my personal top 5:

5. Early mornings (particularly Mondays)

I imagine this one is fairly self-explanatory. It's a crying shame that your week can be irrevocably over before it even gets going (namely losing the will to live), and it's equally bewildering how the quilt and pillows become miraculously more comfortable the moment you and them must part ways, as if they're literally clinging to your movement-resenting body. A nasty git, and one to give the slip wherever possible.

4. Daytime television

It's physically degrading. I have to hand it to certain TV companies though, possessing the sense to broadcast worthwhile, popular, ratings-hungry programmes in the evenings when families are at home, but pleasure-pain theory inherently leaves their daytime counterparts in the blindingly depressing lurch. Worse still, some channels - who for pity's sake I shall leave anonymous (Living TV) - have the shameless indecency to devote their every penny to televising this dispiriting garbage around the clock. Although obese imbeciles brawling on a talk show's studio floor is vaguely amusing, after the six-thousandth episode it grows irksome and then some.

3. Vegetables

They smell vile and taste worse. With a few sparse exceptions, it is vital that you know that vegetables are spawn of the devil and exist only to pervade the land and rule over us with an iron (yet green and vernal) fist, in the guise of a healthy form of nourishment. I find it very disconcerting how so many are so fond of them; I fear these are the ones unlucky enough to have been infected with the deadly virulence that is the sprout, cabbage or cauliflower, which have mercilessly moulded the victim's taste buds to suit their evil schemes. Begone, heathen!

2. School

Sweet, sweet education. One day when you were four or five years of age, your mummy walked you into this horrifying, foreign building when, suddenly, she releases the grip you have on her hand and says goodbye. "WHAT?!" must be the only thought running through your brain, as you tug at mummy's blouse, but it's no use: the inseparable become separate as, voice wailing and arms flailing (neat bit of rhyme, eh?), you are guided into the classroom. And that's it. For a minimum of 12 years, your future is a bleak pit of unrelenting misery. Sad.

So, it's time for the number one. What for me, you ask, sucks more than anything else? What sucks an unparalleled level of ass? You're about to find out...

...

Any time now...

...

(rapidly losing suspense)

...

...

This is plain boring now...

...

1. Chavs

Often modelling the haute couture that is burberry, trend-setting trackie bottoms, or synthetic imitation sportswear, chavs are a cultural blemish (or more a full-blown wart) on the visage of modern society. They amass in nefarious groups known as a "gang," "crew" or "posse," are liable to jaywalk, clench their crotch in a protective and somehow symbolic manner, smoke on graffiti-defaced street corners, and assimilate vast quantities of illegally acquired alcoholic beverages, and have a slurred, offensive and ultimately limited diction. Baseball bats at the ready.

So there you are: a romp through the cringeworthy nightmares of today's ruptured civilisation. And on that upbeat notion, I say good night.

All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl

First of all, I would like to take this time to query the common adage by which this entry is entitled. Perhaps I'm missing the point here, but surely work-related boredom is a unisex condition, and even it wasn't, surely girls called Amanda, Alex or Ashley are equally susceptible? In fact, I have reason to believe Jill is taking liberties here, using the neat simplicity of her monosyllabic name in order to gain supreme acclaim in the proverb-loving community.

I'm talking bull, aren't I?

...

Thought so.

Morning on Friday reared its ugly head (or headed its ugly rear, whichever you prefer), and despite feeling so wasted that connecting two neurones in my brain proved an overwhelming challenge, I was all too aware of my horrific fate. Take these subjects and mathematical operators and tell me if you can replace the question mark: teenager + unbearable tiredness - ability and legal permission to drive + workplace 18 miles away + mum's workplace in the same direction + cruelly early in the morning = ?

Done? Good. The answer is, the only option is mum dropping me off at work en route, meaning we leave at around 7:15. Oh joy.

So, the car journey... On second thought, let's fast-forward past this:

I'm at work. There I am, diligently tackling hell's wrath - or log sheets as they're more innocently referred to - when, out of the blue, the hormones explode into a display of metaphorical fireworks, before fainting in blissful breathlessness. Curtly put, a girl entered the room. If you're coming to the conclusion that I'm so lonely that having a girl wander past me is a breathtaking experience, you'd be very, VERY... correct; but man is this girl cute! To horrendously understate, she was..distracting. As the day progressed I became somewhat infuriated by the seating plan in the office: it was such that I had to crick my neck through 180◦ to catch the merest glimpse of her. Clearly my cricks were too frequent, because I could swear she looked back at me on numerous occasions. My optimistic side is proposing that perhaps she's mutually interested, but my pessimistic (read, 'realistic') side firmly believes she's thinking "Is that ******* kid still gawping at me?"

Enough about that; this blog's theme is comedy. Granted, it is failing to meet any comedic criteria, but I'll stubbornly persist.

Since Friday nothing noteworthy has taken place; it's been pretty uneventful. Well, massively uneventful. So uneventful in fact, that all endeavours to dress it up as mildly exciting were instantly doomed, in spite of my uncanny wit (and humility). A hefty chunk of today and the weekend was worthily expended playing Hexic on my best friend, the Xbox 360.

To put it simply, the object of the game is to rotate the tiles so that a homochromatic triangle is formed. As you can plainly see, this mini-game is capable of taking your average person and transforming them into a mindless, addle-brained airhead... OK, more mindless and addle-brained.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's gone 10pm, my patience here is wearing thin, and I have tiles to rotate. I'll see you when I see you, unless I don't see you, in which case I..won't. Information you can rely on.

Good mor-..afternoon, Ryan! Have a nice sleep?

I awoke in a foul mood today. Wait, no... I awoke to the infernal ear bashing of my alarm clock at 5:45, went to the effort of clambering down my high-raised bed to turn it off, and still went back to bed. Next thing I knew it was 11:00, this time awaking to the uncalled for raving of my mum, sardonically informing me as to the aforementioned time. Of course I managed to rouse myself into getting up properly now, right? Wrong. Somehow, despite the oh-so appealing prospect of removing the comfortable duvet, crawling groggily along the mattress, and then likely tumbling head-first into my wardrobe whilst attempting to climb down the bed ladder, I feel asleep, again. So, half-past midday and my idle carcass is confronted with another rude awakening. Once more it was mum, marching up the stairs, beckoning me and yelling the embarrassingly late time of day at me, this time in a far more aggressive fashion. After laying there for a further few minutes, desperately attempting to equilibrate the fine line between lethargic comfort and sleep, I (foolishly or wisely - depends on your opinion) got up.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, it's the afternoon, and I've been up for an impressive total of two hours. The parents took it upon themselves to have a field day at my expense, making snide remarks about the time in relation to when I finally mustered the will power to make about ten movements, from bed to floor. Ironically I'd already achieved this at 5:45, but why I set my alarm for such an obscene, almost pre-dawn period... heaven forbid. Due to the stressful nature of my bedridden ordeal, I snapped at them in a very teenage mood-swinging manner. I had the bad-mood look 'n' all: bed hair, grunge-filled eyes and brows more furrowed than they had been while taking science exams (and believe me, I was a grumpy little sod).

Hmm, it seems I've truly justified my moniker of the Ranting Insomniac. You see, if it wasn't for my body refusing to settle until approximately 2am beforehand, all of this would have been tidily avoided.

Seeing as I've been dead to the world for half of the day already, I'll waste no (more) time in discussing what I had first intended to (yes, none of the previous rambling was planned in advance). Let's begin where we left off, which was..erm..*checks blog*...after I stained my clothing with soup! Yes, yes that's it. To business then...

[90-minute grocery shopping interruption]

There's always something, isn't there? Since all gross interruptions have been thoroughly put to bed, I reckon I can start this entry! ...

...

This would have had more gusto with a chorus of hallelujahs.

Following my late lunch on Thursday, mum came home and began to prepare macaroni, possibly the most delicious dish ever to grace mankind. She proposed that I walked the dog whilst it was cooking, but laziness is a rather persistent git, plotting ways to eschew anything even remotely taxing. Basically, I evaded mum and the dog until dinner was ready, at which stage mum absently mentioned "Oh, you didn't take Robbie out." Gosh mum, you're an observant one.

Dinner passed with an outburst of gastronomical glee, but also with sauce-like additions to my stain collection, which may have had something to do with the fact that I was eating it on my lap (the dining table must have been absolutely metres away, after all).

The remainder of the evening was primarily - oh alright, entirely - spent obsessing over Dungeon Keeper 2. I can think of few evening activities more satisfying than causing mass bloodshed on videogames. Crime doesn't pay, but in games you have legal impunity. Genius. However dad, ever the antagonist, successfully tried a cessation of my virtual escapade at the insultingly early time of 10:30pm. Nevertheless, insomnia kicked in, leading to roughly three hours of sleep, and a 5:45am alarm that I had to raise myself to. A fortnight in, and already I loathe employment.

Reviewing the current state of play, it has come to my attention that this incoherent mess exceeds that of my first entry, with a whole day about which to complain remaining. With that said, expect an update quite soon.

Ciao.

Back in black

That's a record. Within the first three words of my first entry of my first blog in what feels like an age, I've lied. It was going so well to begin with, because I am indeed back. However, it all went catastrophically wrong when I mentioned 'black,' as in truth I am back in a delightful colour scheme of navy blue and turquoise, splashed with a stain of tomato soup. Slurping viscous liquids has its disadvantages. No, I'm still talking about soup.

Yup, I've still got it. 'Got what, Ryan?' bellow the squillions of avid thrill-seekers (known also as my fans).

Erm..I must stop there briefly, as I have an announcement of utmost concern. Being the finicky (and lazy) person that I am, I checked dictionary.com to discover whether "thrill-seekers" was one word, thus meaning I wouldn't have to go to the tremendous trouble of typing a hyphen. It isn't, but what bothered me far more was that "oral sex" was one of the spelling suggestions. I'm not joking.

Now that that unsettling qualm has been duly dealt with, let's continue. Allow me to relieve you of the suspense that not knowing what I've still got has served up: I still have the remarkable ability to stray off course before I've even created a course off which to stray. And I'm doing it now.

So, four paragraphs in and what have we learned? If you're new to my blog entries you will have learned that I am shockingly weird, and if not you will have learned that I'm as weird as I was a few months ago. Weirder, in fact. Truth be told, I have a progressive, terminal affliction. Symptoms include bold expression of incomprehensible oddities whilst blogging, mindlessly assembling lengthy strings of words which didn't make sense to begin with and make even less sense when conjoined in a random and futile manner with a worryingly gaping deficit of commas full stops colons semicolons and arbitrary parentheses, and incessantly scratching underarms that WON'T STOP BLOODY ITCHING. To hell with heat rashes. Actually, to hell with heat. Actually, to hell with summer...or even the Sun.

Or life. And that's how it's progressive..and terminal.

You may have noticed that all of the above has no lasting (or temporary) relevance, significance or worth of any kind. That will inevitably be a recurring theme here in RAC headquarters, so I would strongly advise that anyone even faintly mature or sensible discontinues their visits here. Conversely, if you're mentally volatile, drunk, high, dead, or just a little eccentric, you may have found your sanctuary. Wow, I've realised that my blog has the same acronym as a motor insurance company. Now I'll probably be accused of copyright infringement, sued, fined, defamed, slapped in solitary confinement and raped by a 60-year-old paedophile called Phil. I love my life.

That's it for today. See you next time, and please, spare me the standing ovation.

P.S. Я ненавижу тебя, и я хочу тебя мертвый. Не волнуйтесь, я только шучу. :) (It's great being able to speak Russian; you can deeply offend people and they can't even read it... not that I have...)