(no subject)
Some of you may have noticed that I've made a few changes as to how things are done around here, particularly with regard to who I keep company with. To put it as delicately as possible, I decided that my life needed a bit of a mental scrubbing. So basically, if I've never worked with you, fucked you, or you don't know me as anything other than words on a screen, you got sent up the stairs. Now, if you're really desolate over the fact that the great Tim Roth won't deign to read your words, feel free to come around and introduce yourself to me again. I can't guarantee that I'll be glad to see you, because I'm a bastard like that, so you'll have to decide whether it's worth the shot. On the other hand, if you decide that I'm an arsey git with far too high an opinion of myself, you'll get along famously with both my ex-wives.
I have no idea how, but the other day I realized I'd somehow become a member of something callled mbp_guytalk. You can bet I got shut of that right quick. I always found it a bit dodgy when I meet blokes who feel like they're only able to be men when no women are around. Speaking as someone who's shagged both of them, I can tell you this whole business of men and women being able to relate to their own kind better than each other is bollocks through and through. Bottom line is, when two people get together and start placing their hands and other parts in various warm places, sex and ego and love and hurt become this huge tangled knot that's impossible to undo, regardless of what bits you have hanging off of you. That chap Alexander had the right idea; when it comes time, just cut the thing down the middle. Anything else just draws it out, and wears your cuticles down to the raw.
When I was little, my father made us kneel down and say our prayers every night. After awhile, the lines got so stupefyingly easy to recite that I could do it without giving the text a moment's thought. The words I was chanting in my head soon took on a very different cast than the ones coming out of my mouth. I prayed for ice ages, typhoons, every kind of natural disaster we learned about in primary school. And just imagine my joy when I was taught about bombs pointed directly at us, ones that were capable of obliterating the whole bloody island off the map. I would have pressed that fucking button in a second. It never so much as occurred to me that I'd get swept away by whatever cataclysm I called down. You'd think after forty-three years, at least that one concept would have gotten hammered through the tungsten hide that coats my skull. Sorry to disappoint.
I used to hate people who nattered on and on about fate and destiny and the like, but I'm buggered if I don't feel something in the air. A wind is picking up; I hear its ghostly howls on the horizon. I don't know where it originated from or what it will bring, but I've seen these kinds of weather patterns too often to expect anything else. And I'll know that when it comes, I'll be in the same bloody place I always am; in the thick of it, at the highest point, arms outstretched. Some buggers just don't have sense enough to come in out of the rain.
What? Oh, bugger it all. I had fifty dollars on France.
I have no idea how, but the other day I realized I'd somehow become a member of something callled mbp_guytalk. You can bet I got shut of that right quick. I always found it a bit dodgy when I meet blokes who feel like they're only able to be men when no women are around. Speaking as someone who's shagged both of them, I can tell you this whole business of men and women being able to relate to their own kind better than each other is bollocks through and through. Bottom line is, when two people get together and start placing their hands and other parts in various warm places, sex and ego and love and hurt become this huge tangled knot that's impossible to undo, regardless of what bits you have hanging off of you. That chap Alexander had the right idea; when it comes time, just cut the thing down the middle. Anything else just draws it out, and wears your cuticles down to the raw.
When I was little, my father made us kneel down and say our prayers every night. After awhile, the lines got so stupefyingly easy to recite that I could do it without giving the text a moment's thought. The words I was chanting in my head soon took on a very different cast than the ones coming out of my mouth. I prayed for ice ages, typhoons, every kind of natural disaster we learned about in primary school. And just imagine my joy when I was taught about bombs pointed directly at us, ones that were capable of obliterating the whole bloody island off the map. I would have pressed that fucking button in a second. It never so much as occurred to me that I'd get swept away by whatever cataclysm I called down. You'd think after forty-three years, at least that one concept would have gotten hammered through the tungsten hide that coats my skull. Sorry to disappoint.
I used to hate people who nattered on and on about fate and destiny and the like, but I'm buggered if I don't feel something in the air. A wind is picking up; I hear its ghostly howls on the horizon. I don't know where it originated from or what it will bring, but I've seen these kinds of weather patterns too often to expect anything else. And I'll know that when it comes, I'll be in the same bloody place I always am; in the thick of it, at the highest point, arms outstretched. Some buggers just don't have sense enough to come in out of the rain.
What? Oh, bugger it all. I had fifty dollars on France.