Where is my inspiration? No time for my inspiration. Smoking my inspiration...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5vb1dPHvAU
Things to do.
1. Record thoughts "I need to express even if it does depress, so lets drop the LSD and begin the sexual unity"
2. Work like stink on my dissertation 5000 words to go
3.Finish Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
4. Research Jungian archetypes
5. Kendo!
6. Kickboxing!
7. Work in a shitty sports store trying hardest not to kill the chav thieves we get, who steal money out of MY pocket.
8. Try my hardest not to get into a fight with a certain individual (srsly I want to go to America next year)
9. Organise Kendo socials because my club captain is a lazy pisshead who will no doubt take the credit for it but oh well...
10. Chase up the tax office at my work for the £400 that they owe me.
11. Saxophone playing
12. Read the books for my classes
13. Research Micheal Foucault and prepare for a 3000 word essay due next month
14. Possibly go climbing
15. Pay my three grand debt to the university
16. Refund my summer ball ticket since the ball get cancelled (stupid student apathy)
17. Try my hardest not to go crazy
18. Finish Burning Chrome
19. Make progress on The Passion of New Eve
20. Write something extremely trippy for my seminar on Transgressive Fiction
21. Finish Snuff
The Great Desert of Suburbia
Then there he was. Noone knew where he was from, but that wasn’t surprising as everyone on Greenfield Crescent kept to themselves. It wasn’t quite true that nobody knew him, everyone saw him getting into his silver BMW and had somehow picked up the name “Thom” so when one brave soul finally decided to break the taboo of silence and ask him: “Where you from?” translated as “hello who are you?” and “I like your car” became “why are you here?” But Thom was never to know as Thom was never really a man of words, he was a man of grunts, glares, and action mingled with slight tenderness. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who’s face was underneath a thick brown beard which, despite his age, didn’t show any signs of fading away into grey. His body was that of a well built man gone slightly to seed, still strong but still going. Life in this old dog yet.
As he drove away from his single detached bungalow hastily erected during the 60s to house the rise of the baby boomers, he passed more signs of life. Crooked figures of old men bent over thrice-washed cars and their wives directing them from within the living rooms. Dead hedgehogs sticking two imaginary fingers up at his tires as he zoomed passed their pitiful corpses. He passed another car that was just coming out of the driveway of the owner’s converted garage: slick and red it oozed out onto the grey road. Driven by an old lady that literally only took her four bazillion horsepowered beast for the weekly shopping run. The lies that the salesman must have told to her in order for her to shell out her pension for that creature were probably biblical in scale.
A fly splatted onto the window while he was inevitably stuck behind the red car going at the generous speed of twenty miles per hour. He fumbled about the glove compartment, and got out Metallica’s Ride the Lightning; blew on it and put it into the CD player. He turned it up loud enough for people outside to hear, a disapproving look from Mrs-recently-widowed in front made him quietly pleased with himself. Thankfully she turned off at the next junction driving towards the neighbouring village, allowing him to drive at a less civilised pace. For Whom The Bell Tolls was interrupted by a traffic announcement: a tanker had flipped over on the junction leading out into Brighton. Major roadwork expected on the 7th of September right the way forward to the Christmas period. The road got more and more busier, as people below the age of fifty joined the morning rush; hundreds of Mr. And Mrs. Respectables took off for their Acceptable jobs, while their rugrats went onto the bus to their Dependable schools.
Things to do.
1. Record thoughts "I need to express even if it does depress, so lets drop the LSD and begin the sexual unity"
2. Work like stink on my dissertation 5000 words to go
3.Finish Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
4. Research Jungian archetypes
5. Kendo!
6. Kickboxing!
7. Work in a shitty sports store trying hardest not to kill the chav thieves we get, who steal money out of MY pocket.
8. Try my hardest not to get into a fight with a certain individual (srsly I want to go to America next year)
9. Organise Kendo socials because my club captain is a lazy pisshead who will no doubt take the credit for it but oh well...
10. Chase up the tax office at my work for the £400 that they owe me.
11. Saxophone playing
12. Read the books for my classes
13. Research Micheal Foucault and prepare for a 3000 word essay due next month
14. Possibly go climbing
15. Pay my three grand debt to the university
16. Refund my summer ball ticket since the ball get cancelled (stupid student apathy)
17. Try my hardest not to go crazy
18. Finish Burning Chrome
19. Make progress on The Passion of New Eve
20. Write something extremely trippy for my seminar on Transgressive Fiction
21. Finish Snuff
The Great Desert of Suburbia
Then there he was. Noone knew where he was from, but that wasn’t surprising as everyone on Greenfield Crescent kept to themselves. It wasn’t quite true that nobody knew him, everyone saw him getting into his silver BMW and had somehow picked up the name “Thom” so when one brave soul finally decided to break the taboo of silence and ask him: “Where you from?” translated as “hello who are you?” and “I like your car” became “why are you here?” But Thom was never to know as Thom was never really a man of words, he was a man of grunts, glares, and action mingled with slight tenderness. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who’s face was underneath a thick brown beard which, despite his age, didn’t show any signs of fading away into grey. His body was that of a well built man gone slightly to seed, still strong but still going. Life in this old dog yet.
As he drove away from his single detached bungalow hastily erected during the 60s to house the rise of the baby boomers, he passed more signs of life. Crooked figures of old men bent over thrice-washed cars and their wives directing them from within the living rooms. Dead hedgehogs sticking two imaginary fingers up at his tires as he zoomed passed their pitiful corpses. He passed another car that was just coming out of the driveway of the owner’s converted garage: slick and red it oozed out onto the grey road. Driven by an old lady that literally only took her four bazillion horsepowered beast for the weekly shopping run. The lies that the salesman must have told to her in order for her to shell out her pension for that creature were probably biblical in scale.
A fly splatted onto the window while he was inevitably stuck behind the red car going at the generous speed of twenty miles per hour. He fumbled about the glove compartment, and got out Metallica’s Ride the Lightning; blew on it and put it into the CD player. He turned it up loud enough for people outside to hear, a disapproving look from Mrs-recently-widowed in front made him quietly pleased with himself. Thankfully she turned off at the next junction driving towards the neighbouring village, allowing him to drive at a less civilised pace. For Whom The Bell Tolls was interrupted by a traffic announcement: a tanker had flipped over on the junction leading out into Brighton. Major roadwork expected on the 7th of September right the way forward to the Christmas period. The road got more and more busier, as people below the age of fifty joined the morning rush; hundreds of Mr. And Mrs. Respectables took off for their Acceptable jobs, while their rugrats went onto the bus to their Dependable schools.