Questionable Late Night Ideas/Blog Challenge??

Do you know what I feel like I’m lacking? Apart from a crowded bank account and my Christmas shopping?

Reading blogs. I was thinking about the blogs I follow and although they’re quite varied and interesting, I don’t feel like I’m immersed in a community I’ve been a part of for six years.

And I know there are a million blogs out there, because every time I look at a piece of Internet-based journalism, I read that there are a million blogs. Or a billion. Or one hundred thousand. Can’t remember, I hate those articles (they always continue with success stories about people who recommend eyeliner to teenage girls). So they’re out there. Maybe a blogger is reading this right now. Maybe you’re hilarious and intelligent and insightful and maybe in five years’ time you’ll be in an article alongside the eyeliner hustlers. But I don’t fuckin’ know it because I spend my free time eating peanut butter and wondering what it would be like to go on The Graham Norton Show.

So, at 11pm on a Friday when I’ve nothing better to do, I’m setting myself a challenge. A game. I’m going to find 50 blogs, and I’m going to actually read them. More than two posts per site, more than the about page. I’ll actually comment on them, I’ll follow them if I’m in the mood to commit and I’ll share them here if I reckon they might be up other people’s streets. The 50 blog challenge. It might already exist but I wouldn’t know, because I’m oblivious to my blogger neighbours.

I might even make a spreadsheet to organise myself. Really fill the hole in my life that’s usually stemmed by peanut butter.

I guess it goes without saying that if you know any bloggers, let me know? I don’t feel comfortable talking to strangers, so introductions would be useful…

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Spring Cleaning in Autumn

It’s Sunday, which means that I’m sitting here in a relatively clean room (relative to what it was like yesterday anyway) with a now-empty cup of tea and a planner containing ideas for projects and blogs whichwillonedaygetfinishedIswear.

Hopefully.

Actually I’m more interested in books than blogs at the moment: House of Hades is out in a just over a week! Those of you who read The Mark of Athena know how big a deal the new book is after That Cliff-Hanger, and I’m going to pre-order it right after I’ve done my ironing and watched Strictly.

Reading that back, I sound like both a pre-teen and middle-aged lady in one sentence. I’m not quite either, but whatever… That said, I am going to watch a musical about Jesus in a couple of weeks – does that add to my mental age or just challenge my status as a not-stereotypically gay man?

Okay, I have no idea what I’m talking about now. Just promise me that you won’t tell me what happens! In House of Hades, not Jesus Christ Superstar. It’s okay, I know how that ends, and the best way to describe my emotions about that is this: 😦

As I’m sure we all feel.

Anyway, I’ve been working out blogs to do in the near-ish future and I was thinking of uploading the pictures from the Morocco Diary? Or some stupid pictures from last year that never quite made it into AS Standards? Or something new entirely?

Let me know, people, since you’re the ones who have to read the verbal vomit I come up with!

The Tentative Return of Rambling Posts

I must say, I’ve quite missed Sunday blogging. There’s nothing like sitting amongst Saturday’s mess with a mug of coffee and half-hatched weekend plans, writing nonsense and posting it on the Internet for your friends to read. Although it’s been a while since I’ve sat amongst Wednesday’s mess and written to you all, actually, or Monday’s mess, or Friday’s… I’m not even sure when to start a new paragraph, if I’m honest.

Let’s do it now and start another straight away for kicks.

It’s been a while since I’ve been properly focussed on Indifferent Ignorance, and she’s starting to feel like the spare room in our house that my brother just moved out of in favour of better lights and warmer radiators. Not that her lights were faulty – and I like to think she’s always been cosy – but she’s feeling as though she has that unique spare-room quality of dusty door frames, dead flies on the windowsills and stuff that never quite got sorted out. It’s probably my own fault; partway through what was proving to be a crap year I thought “let’s give her a facial and buy some customisation tools from WP”, not realising that I was fast losing my money, my time and my will to do anything except play with Fred and Donnie. So as I lost motivation, she lost her once-frequent updates and here we are four months later with my first post in a fortnight and a serious need to open an Internet window.

Now, though, things are slowing down. I only have two pieces of homework to do (and a shitload of extra-curricular and/or exam-based admin, but we’ll take that slowly) and when we go out later to celebrate Ellen’s birthday I won’t be stewing over my Psychology coursework in a corner, because that was last weekend at a different birthday celebration. By the last academic year’s standards, I’m basically on holiday. Which I actually will be soon!

I’ve been concentrating on a lot of different things lately, from school to physiotherapy to my lack of post-school plans to trying to find some sort of job that doesn’t involve retail or administration (hint: there are none) because it was sitting and typing and pressing cash machine-like screens that made me need physio in the first place… I’ve been getting so frantic that writing that sentence actually made my heart rate increase. And if I’ve learnt one thing this year it’s that short-term stress is good but long-term stress is bad. I’ve also learnt that Islamic fundamentalism was started by an Egyptian teacher who went to the US and basically pulled a Holden Caulfield, but I think that’s an anti-racism rant for another day.

I just went downstairs to take a photograph of Sprout for this post, but he’s looking very much like my mum got a bit overenthusiastic when she was watering the plants so I think it’ll wait until he is restored to his former glory. I should also make a start on clearing Saturday’s mess, which is nearing the ‘health and safety issue’ end of the untidy spectrum. So, hopefully there will not be another two weeks between posts – I’ve had two or three in my head or in draft form for a while that I just need to write, goddamn it – but the weather’s been so pretty that they might have to wait for me to get bored of sunshine.

In which case nothing I do on the Internet has any hope of being worked upon.

I Can’t Believe She Just Wrote That

  I finished watching House with my mother about half an hour ago, and they were treating a girl with cancer/liver failure/heart problems/facial bruising. The more distinguishing factors in the episode was that the girl in question, whose name was Frankie, was a serial blogger. She frequently fought with her boyfriend about the lack of privacy in their lives. Seriously, she spilled all… Except for stuff concerning her toilet-going habits. House figured that one out.

  Got me thinking; do I spill it all on here? Compared to a lot of people, I highly doubt it. There are a lot of bloggers who can and will write about everything in their lives, from the lip gloss they just bought (most of them seem to be girls) to arguments with their best friends to – shock, horror – where they live.

  I talk about being from Essex quite a bit, because, let’s face it, Essex is funny. Infamous. Filled with chavs and hoop earrings. A talking point, I’ve always felt. So you know I’m not American at least. I sometimes name names, I have no qualms about stating my opinions and I’m not averse to telling an invisible audience things I might not tell my actual friends. For example, Kylie Minogue is currently playing from my stereo.

  That is something I possibly wouldn’t mention in front of various family members who would go on to take the piss out of the ’emo kid’ liking Kylie.

  I won’t lie that WordPress has done a lot for my ego. Or that the first thing I look at when I log on here is the stats page. It’s usually quite a nice sight too, quite a few people click on this blog every day (a lot of them, admittedly, may have done so accidentally, but still).

  I also won’t lie that I spend a lot of time and energy improving this blog – I refer to it as my baby. A grumpy, rude, arrogant baby, but a loved member of the family nonetheless. I invented Indifferent Ignorance, I’m responsible for what I say on here, the links and pages. It’s a hobby and my way of stating my opinion when most of the time I’m ignored or told to shut up since I’m a wee child who doesn’t have to pay bills and doesn’t have a PhD, so clearly isn’t a valid human being worth listening to.

  One thing I definitely know is that some things that go on in my life will never go on the Internet. My diary, sure. It all goes into my diary. But it will stay there. If you wouldn’t say it out loud unless you were being questioned by police, don’t blog about it. And don’t verbally vomit on a comment section of someone’s blog or website if you don’t have the guts to repeat it to their face.

  This applies also to marriage proposals, stripping, swearing, bitching and fangirling.

  

‘Blog’ definition: Princeton University’s search engine,  Urban Dictionary

Define: Artistitis

This video was made by  Chantal Claret, who I mentioned before:

 Go to www.morningwoodrocks.com to see the making of the video, which is amusing because a) everything is  DIY and inspiring, and b) you can hear Jimmy chuckling in the background.

  Anyway, I was thinking about this blog at some point in the last week, and how so many ‘journalist’s blogs’ are really just spaces for whining posers who tell themselves that the reason they haven’t got a big break is because no one understands them, or they have so much talent it’s painful, which automatically means the world hates them. Same with a lot of ‘artists’ and ‘musicians’.

  I find this quite funny, and every time I think I’m heading toward ‘artistitis’, as it will henceforth be known, I resolve to never contract such a dreadful disease. If I do, I will embark on a medicine of Mindless Self Indulgence songs and write about stuff people want to read, or at least something that is vaguely interesting. Something like, I don’t know, my friends. They rock, even the wierd ones.

  I highly doubt this blog will ever reach BBC News or have a thousand hits a week, just like I highly doubt I will never earn a pot of cash from writing fiction stories or touring in a van with rock bands, smelling of petrol stations. I don’t think I really want to, though. The main way of inoculating yourself against artistitis is to not bother with the red carpet dream, or the fantasy that you’ll receive thousands of fan-made gifts every birthday. You don’t need them if you’ve got the things you care about around you, like your friends, your dog, or a new karate grade.

  I can’t find a picture of LiZzi or Ruby or my cousins and I at the grading we did a couple of weeks ago, so meet Fred.

Hail Frank’s Impending Brain Apocalypse.

  I have had been reading Chantal Claret’s blogs on www.morningwoodrocks.com and she is awesome. Crazy, talented and honest. Plus she has tre cool hair. Anyway, she has inspired me to write a blog on here and I thought I’d fill you in with stuff that’s gone on during this topsy-turvy day.

  My Dad went away earlier, I have no idea why or where, probably business, for a couple of days, but I don’t think I’ll miss him because we exchange an average of two words a week.

  My mother is at my parents’ evening at school, which I refused to attend on the basis my teachers won’t say what they think of me if I am sitting right there, sneaky buggers.

  I am fracking exhausted. This is because of my self-inflicted  idiocy. I have my VERY FIRST I’MA-CRAP-MY-SKINNIES SCIENCE GCSES on Friday week (the 5th, if you care). I am trying to revise lots as I am ‘conscinecious’. Translation: I am a sucker for karma. So I’ve been making notes on the old Edexel CD-textbook thing and haven’t had much time to write, which automatically means my brain has a period. Bits of my skull collapse in on themselves, I am not making this up. I have also discovered Percy Jackson. I saw the movie last week. My brother loves the books, has for years, and I read a bit of Lightning Thief before he found me with it and yelled at me, so I kinda-sorta-pretended I knew plot of the film. By the way, the Percy actor is not twelve. He has his shirt off in the first scene. Anyway, I borrowed the first book from Maxim (gave him Fang) and got addicted. The second book is on my desk right now. I want to read it but I know if I sit in bed with it I will consider sleep a tool for mere mortals and not bother with it. This is bad.

  I am now an irritable, hungry (get hungry when I’m stressed) ‘munchkin’.

  Cannot belive it is only Wednesday, I have a karate grading on the twentieth, Duke of Edinburgh stuff to do (SPONSOR ME FOR THE RACE FOR LIFE. CLICK THE WIDGET. DONATE. I WILL WRITE YOU A HAIKU) and I’m getting depressed. I get depressed when I’m stressed to, which is why I am treating you to a crappy emo-rant.

  Was going to write my version of the ten commandments, but… Actually, what the hell. Here goes:

How to Live Your Life According to Me

  • If there’s no faith, there’s no point.
  • There is always faith, no matter what it is in (and whether or not it is good or bad). So, even if you’re a genocidal madman who is being manhunted by the CIA and you think you want to hang yourself, there is always hope, even if it is in your beard or your nuclear weapons of mass destruction. You’ve shaved or had your nukes stolen? See number one, you may as well find a skipping rope and some rafters.
  • Karma is very real. So:
  • Bad things happen to bad people. However,
  • The only person who can make you feel guilty is yourself. If you do something that you know in your heart is wrong (at least according to your morals) you will suffer in life and death. Basically, you set your own standards. Same goes with being ‘good’.
  • People go where they want to when they die, and death will come in whatever form you want it to. Grim Reaper, Pearly Gates, The Black Parade, etc.

  That is my list of Honest Truths (written in RS, of course) and I am glad I posted them because I am sure they will be different when I am twenty or eighty or married or in prison or whatever and I need a record. Will forget to transcript into my diary…

  By the way, I heard a rumour that people read this. It makes me feel loved the way a prostitute wants to feel loved, so please comment, even if it’s to tell me that you won’t donate to my Race for Life/Duke of Ed. cause because I am a rude muthafrackin’ little toss pot who needs a slap in the goddamn face.

  Told you I was tired. When I regain full conscienceless I will regret ever logging on here.