Ewan McGregor has unhealthy amounts of love for the day-old taco.
Latet anguis in herba.
I once knew a Venus Flytrap. I told Alex James about my bad habit of creating little lies in my head and presenting them as fact. For instance, I told him that there is a certain sort of moth that incubates for years only to hatch for one day only, mate, then die. This might be a real moth, but I can't be sure. I might have made this up entirely, but if I have, I have told it so many times that I've convinced myself that it's true. This will not be the first time. Continuing on, my research would have me believe that Venus Flytraps are only indigenous to the Carolinas, but this is, in fact, a lie.
I saw a Venus Flytrap a fortnight ago, if that, walking around Primrose Hill. Stopped for a cup of coffee and took it away in a heavy paper cup, no lid. Saw him again when I'd run out for a plate of cous cous, mouth snapping shut, cilia struggling to contain a very big catch. The way they work is this: incognito as something delicate and beautiful, trigger hairs indicate when would-be prey is getting close. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Sucked inside. The more that you struggle, the tighter it holds on. It takes a few days, but the intense pressure around you ultimately relieves you of your life and all of your bodily fluids. Ding dong, the witch is dead. Venus Flytrap re-opens, suddenly strong and renewed, and rids itself of your exoskeleton and leftovers.
Repeat cycle. Feed me Seymour.
Nihil est ab omni parte beatum.
Forgive me, but I cite Cher Horowitz: "It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's okay, but up close, it's a big old mess."
This is true not just for people, but for all nouns: persons, places, things, or ideas. I have lists. Far away, your attention is otherwise occupied with immediate distractions: sodomy, debauchery, Darth Vader wannabes on COPS, Steve-o getting tattooed in moving vehicles, and I Got You, Babe. Up close, well. Haha. You forget to put the dog out before you leave the house and you'll come home to disorder, torn upholstery, and utter bedlam. Think hard, gumshoe. Put down your jelly doughnut and retrace your steps, because this is a tricky caper. Where did it all go wrong?
I've got a hunch or twelve.
Omnia mea mecum porto.
I will preface this by saying that I skived off all of my biology classes to get home in time for East Enders, so I'm making this up as I go. Lots of fish in the sea. Fish meets a friend. Something that fish references cannot explain happens next, but you see where this is going. Big fish bowl, temporary home. Sod it, time to leave just when it's comfortable and the bloke from the cable company finally came by. Miraculous occurance, because fish starts to walk. And cry. A lot. Enough food for three third world countries and who knows how many nappies later, you start to realise that you'll be thirty-eight in less than two months and your youngest has already got twice the mindpower that you ever did. I'm sure it warrants different reactions in different people. As for me? I'm just starting to get to the good parts.
Intelligo me intelligere.
And little else. I am inclined to say that I learn things the easy way, but who does, really? The second that I think I have been so properly regaled with a story that I will never forget it, it's back to square one. Off with her head. Something. You would think that I'd have come up with one or two preventative measures at this point. Perhaps superglue will cure my indecision. Failing that, a good narcotic.
Bang.
Mors ultima linea rerum est.
My therapist would tell me that my hesitation in finding protection means that, deep down, I don't want to be protected. There is a drawer in my kitchen in which I stick pens, take-out menus, and miscellanea that I can't put anywhere else. I found a pack of those 'Hi, My Name is...' stickers in it, wrote 'Glutton For Punishment,' and stuck it to my forehead. The adhesive on the back breaks down from the oils in your skin, which is why it eventually rolls off and I have to write out a new badge for myself.
You might ask why I don't come up with something different. You might ask why I don't have it tattooed on my head to save the paper. Answers, respectively: I don't know what else to write and I'm not ready to give up thinking I might one day be sticker-free.
Ad hominem, ad hominem.
My Latin could be fucked. It's been a while. I love this song. I almost pity the Backstreet Boys because I want to become best friends with all of them. That is a warning. If Kate can have Pete Doherty, I want my own boy band. I never feel right if I don't ask a question. Considering the rest of this, guilty pleasures?
I once knew a Venus Flytrap. I told Alex James about my bad habit of creating little lies in my head and presenting them as fact. For instance, I told him that there is a certain sort of moth that incubates for years only to hatch for one day only, mate, then die. This might be a real moth, but I can't be sure. I might have made this up entirely, but if I have, I have told it so many times that I've convinced myself that it's true. This will not be the first time. Continuing on, my research would have me believe that Venus Flytraps are only indigenous to the Carolinas, but this is, in fact, a lie.
I saw a Venus Flytrap a fortnight ago, if that, walking around Primrose Hill. Stopped for a cup of coffee and took it away in a heavy paper cup, no lid. Saw him again when I'd run out for a plate of cous cous, mouth snapping shut, cilia struggling to contain a very big catch. The way they work is this: incognito as something delicate and beautiful, trigger hairs indicate when would-be prey is getting close. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Sucked inside. The more that you struggle, the tighter it holds on. It takes a few days, but the intense pressure around you ultimately relieves you of your life and all of your bodily fluids. Ding dong, the witch is dead. Venus Flytrap re-opens, suddenly strong and renewed, and rids itself of your exoskeleton and leftovers.
Repeat cycle. Feed me Seymour.
Nihil est ab omni parte beatum.
Forgive me, but I cite Cher Horowitz: "It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's okay, but up close, it's a big old mess."
This is true not just for people, but for all nouns: persons, places, things, or ideas. I have lists. Far away, your attention is otherwise occupied with immediate distractions: sodomy, debauchery, Darth Vader wannabes on COPS, Steve-o getting tattooed in moving vehicles, and I Got You, Babe. Up close, well. Haha. You forget to put the dog out before you leave the house and you'll come home to disorder, torn upholstery, and utter bedlam. Think hard, gumshoe. Put down your jelly doughnut and retrace your steps, because this is a tricky caper. Where did it all go wrong?
I've got a hunch or twelve.
Omnia mea mecum porto.
I will preface this by saying that I skived off all of my biology classes to get home in time for East Enders, so I'm making this up as I go. Lots of fish in the sea. Fish meets a friend. Something that fish references cannot explain happens next, but you see where this is going. Big fish bowl, temporary home. Sod it, time to leave just when it's comfortable and the bloke from the cable company finally came by. Miraculous occurance, because fish starts to walk. And cry. A lot. Enough food for three third world countries and who knows how many nappies later, you start to realise that you'll be thirty-eight in less than two months and your youngest has already got twice the mindpower that you ever did. I'm sure it warrants different reactions in different people. As for me? I'm just starting to get to the good parts.
Intelligo me intelligere.
And little else. I am inclined to say that I learn things the easy way, but who does, really? The second that I think I have been so properly regaled with a story that I will never forget it, it's back to square one. Off with her head. Something. You would think that I'd have come up with one or two preventative measures at this point. Perhaps superglue will cure my indecision. Failing that, a good narcotic.
Bang.
Mors ultima linea rerum est.
My therapist would tell me that my hesitation in finding protection means that, deep down, I don't want to be protected. There is a drawer in my kitchen in which I stick pens, take-out menus, and miscellanea that I can't put anywhere else. I found a pack of those 'Hi, My Name is...' stickers in it, wrote 'Glutton For Punishment,' and stuck it to my forehead. The adhesive on the back breaks down from the oils in your skin, which is why it eventually rolls off and I have to write out a new badge for myself.
You might ask why I don't come up with something different. You might ask why I don't have it tattooed on my head to save the paper. Answers, respectively: I don't know what else to write and I'm not ready to give up thinking I might one day be sticker-free.
Ad hominem, ad hominem.
My Latin could be fucked. It's been a while. I love this song. I almost pity the Backstreet Boys because I want to become best friends with all of them. That is a warning. If Kate can have Pete Doherty, I want my own boy band. I never feel right if I don't ask a question. Considering the rest of this, guilty pleasures?