Because I was told to


Having risen from the dead recently (get it? double pun!), I’ve gained the privileges of disabled parking (alas it doesn’t come with a driver’s license), a more matured appearance for pub crawls, and unjust sympathy from passing pedestrians. But more importantly, the encouragement from fellow writers to get back to this whole writing lark, which I’ve been seriously itching to do.

The lack of inspiration over the past months (a winning filmdash entry, zombie walk, and a Facebook game idea for my beloved charity didn’t count evidently) had done nothing other than frustrating me (though no more than our noisy neighbours with their 6000 watt speakers that the City Council would gladly confiscate with a bit of hard evidence).

So what the hell am I going to write about? My charming housemate Hazz has been a right bastard at showing off his ability to write about absolutely nothing, that loveable hairy man who loves to snorts my hair like a sniff dog… I told you he’s charming.

Well I’ve been commanded by my favourite (and only) black friend (I’m only as racist as the next Chinaman with predominately white and asian friends) Antonio Roberts to update my blog again, and as luck with have it, the first thing WordPress showed me when I logged on was a helpful article for the sufferers of writer’s block (I hate it when they show up during a game of Tetris when you just need the 1×4 block). I can just see some self-righteous arsehole at the WordPress headquarters going through all the inactive blogs out there, flagging up the pathetic ones to send their little patronising links to. I want his job.

Anyway, here’s what Plinky told me to write about:

Write a 10-line poem about your neighbor.

*in the voice of Morgan Freeman impressionist*

Oh those neighbours
The way they live across the hall
Just doing what annoying fucking neighbours do
Multiple speakers, and
I rant about you,
Arsehole neighbours
You keep my evenings interesting when I’m tired.
Oh, I might call the cops on you from time to time, but
Oh, that’s no good.
You’ll always be an arsehole to me.

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Scrap that

I had my first meeting with current boss about 9 months ago on a cold morning around 11am. My shirt was un-ironed but tucked in, my tie and belt was missing, my staff swipe card was cracked, and I was in desperate need for a haircut. Some first impression.

My boss sat me down, and reclined into his boss-man chair. His checkered shirt was casual but probably worth more than my entire outfit, he clearly wasn’t one who cared for ties either, honestly can’t remember if he had a belt as my gaze never drifted down below nipple height, his swipe card brand new around his neck, he donned a pretty casual haircut for someone who obviously wanted to look casual. Some first impression. A good one though.

“So, erm… don’t really know what to do in this sorta meeting. I suppose I’d just tell you a bit about myself then?” I queried. Yep, he said, just tell me whatever you care to tell.

Sweet, chance to play it cool. I started my story with my usual disclaimer: “I’m gonna woffle on a bit, so yeah, here goes nothing.” or something like that.
And so I woffled on, much like I’m doing now.

What was it that I wanted to write about? “Scrap that.” Yes, start with the story of how my boss described me, then the story about our psychometric test at the team away days, throw in a couple of remarks my boss made about me, and point made – I’m impulsive, I hate routines, I’m shit at keeping promises to myself.

So yeah, I’ve decided to scrap the middle bit of this blog, cuz I woffle, and I don’t want to. You get the story though. But the point is, I want to write again, and this is the first of many more lazy promises that I’ll try and vomit a few words here and there, now and again, there and back, funny or bleak.