BETAMAXNOMATES
'All she can do is dial and yell...'20041113
Now My Heart is Half-empty
First entry in a while.
I knew I’d get bored of this thing, neglecting it - like that child I sponsored in Sudan. If you're reading this Mwenge, I'm sorry, but to be honest your letters are kind of depressing and I really think I need more, like, positive vibes in my life right now.
Entry #7 on Day Month Year: In which our hero suspects he may have descended into self-parody.
I’ll start by raising the tone a bit and talk about the books I’m reading at the moment.
After having cast aside (with great force), a disastrous self-help manual, whose basic message, I gathered, was to live every day like it’s your last, ‘cos, crucially, you never know, it might just be (nonsense: as a white male aged 18 to 24 I’m fully convinced that I will live forever), today I started The Secret History.
Liking it so far, very typical of what I read but I'd recommend it on the strength of the author shot alone:
OMG, like, Donna Tartt is soooo Teh Sex! She’s like a Victorian Siobhan Fahey:
Honestly. Any excuse.
Hey, do you know it’s Christmas time? It is! And you should know! It’s Christmas time! Right now! And until December 25th, at least!
As of today, the CD randomiser at work has slipped in a couple of the old office-favourite Classic Christmas Choons, chief among them the Band Aid single, surely the worst thing Siobhan Fahey (as one of Bananarama) was ever part of:
But where’s the knee-jerk anti-Americanism and lazy sloganeering, you ask?
I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired tonight. All I’ll tell you is the same thing I told the shrill New Yorker who came into the store today. Now, I don’t want to sound harsh, but - to be blunt - every American has the blood of a thousand murdered innocent Iraqi women and children wet on their hands and until all invading forces are recalled from the Moslem heartland I will refuse to serve them.
So, first formal warning today.
I knew I’d get bored of this thing, neglecting it - like that child I sponsored in Sudan. If you're reading this Mwenge, I'm sorry, but to be honest your letters are kind of depressing and I really think I need more, like, positive vibes in my life right now.
Entry #7 on Day Month Year: In which our hero suspects he may have descended into self-parody.
I’ll start by raising the tone a bit and talk about the books I’m reading at the moment.
After having cast aside (with great force), a disastrous self-help manual, whose basic message, I gathered, was to live every day like it’s your last, ‘cos, crucially, you never know, it might just be (nonsense: as a white male aged 18 to 24 I’m fully convinced that I will live forever), today I started The Secret History.
Liking it so far, very typical of what I read but I'd recommend it on the strength of the author shot alone:
OMG, like, Donna Tartt is soooo Teh Sex! She’s like a Victorian Siobhan Fahey:
Honestly. Any excuse.
Hey, do you know it’s Christmas time? It is! And you should know! It’s Christmas time! Right now! And until December 25th, at least!
As of today, the CD randomiser at work has slipped in a couple of the old office-favourite Classic Christmas Choons, chief among them the Band Aid single, surely the worst thing Siobhan Fahey (as one of Bananarama) was ever part of:
I always hated that song. And now I have reason to hate it again – even more so as I hear they’re planning a re-recording featuring all the fame-whoring do-goodniks of today. Feed the world. Ha! Just get Kate Winslet to skip on seconds.
But where’s the knee-jerk anti-Americanism and lazy sloganeering, you ask?
I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired tonight. All I’ll tell you is the same thing I told the shrill New Yorker who came into the store today. Now, I don’t want to sound harsh, but - to be blunt - every American has the blood of a thousand murdered innocent Iraqi women and children wet on their hands and until all invading forces are recalled from the Moslem heartland I will refuse to serve them.
So, first formal warning today.
More to come tomorrow - bloggery that is (though possibly formal warnings). This week is like that bits in Three Colours: Blue where Juliette Binoche remembers her husbands symphony, fading in from black.
Leaving on a good note then, while I still can...
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Leave Kate Winslet alone you mean bastard or we'll all have to hear about how she lost the weight then how she became dangerously thin so she put it back on.
Weight isn't important anymore, just look at Bridget Jones (because she is real), ugly fat cow gets chased by Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. They can look past her flabby bits, blotchy skin and that face that just looks like she ate something really sour to her inner beauty i.e. her selfishness. It's men that all need the six packs you can grate cheese on nowadays.
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Weight isn't important anymore, just look at Bridget Jones (because she is real), ugly fat cow gets chased by Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. They can look past her flabby bits, blotchy skin and that face that just looks like she ate something really sour to her inner beauty i.e. her selfishness. It's men that all need the six packs you can grate cheese on nowadays.
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