Sunday, October 30, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Eventually they ran out of reglions so my friend's mum answered the door stark raving naked to scare them off.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
But come on, the guys name... Horatio Hornblower. I mean really. The books were only written early last century. The author dude *knew*.
It is my professional opinion as a person with an honours degree in psychology that Horatio is a big homo gaylord. I haven't read the books but Wikipedia informs me he's depicted as a very conflicted young man, full of "reservation and self doubt". He's shy, isolated from those around him, self-conscious and lonely. Helloooooooo. *Takes out fresh pack of cigarrettes* Young fag anyone?
Plus he's really smart and good with his men *giggles*. His wives (plural) never understand him. He doesn't like capital punishment but is a fan of spankings to discipline naughty men. Oh, look at this "bundle of sticks".
His best buddy in most of the movies is Archie Kennedy, played by the delectably hot and nelly Jamie Bamber who I've blogged about previously. Hornblower tenderly nurses a sick Archie back to health in a prison cell. Like, thats two gay fantasies in one.
I rest my case.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
The trainer was really hot of course, but that's what made it intimidating. I'm all confused about my gym program now. But he was really nice tho.
He made this joke when we were talking about doing ab crunches and like he said it's silly bending at the hips cos that just works the hip flexors. Cos like, hip flexors are just two inches of muscle near the hips. "We don't care about anything thats just two inches near the waist." *giggles* I like going to a gay gym.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Friday, October 07, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
Because I am busy futzing over buying a new compuda, here is a bit of fiction I wrote way back in my high school days. It's supposed to be a 'descriptive piece'. It still amuses me and maybe one day I'll flesh it out into a proper story.
Rememeber, it was high school. Be kind.
The City was the underground wasteland that had assembled after The War. The War: in all history, there was only one war that had any meaning now. It was The War that had metamorphosed three billion years of evolution into vapour; The War that had burnt life into choking clouds of ash that hovered above the fractured surface of what had been Earth. All other wars were inconsequential.
Before The War, The City was built as an underground refuge for the squandering bourgeoisie that now hung as a stifling dark cloud Outside. After the war, The City drew the surviving rabble as maggots to carrion. Twelve levels of carefully architectured human construction suddenly thrust outwards in a desperate attempt to contain the colony of the sufferers. The Maggots had tunnelled haphazardly through the earth like grubs desperately gnawing through flesh to keep themselves alive. It was a growth that moved like a cancer yet ironically held the life that held humanity back from extinction. In a brief time, The City had exploded into a dark warren; a bewildering hive of creaking metal where survivors didn't live--they lurked.
Survivors nestled themselves among shadows in the long, wide corridors that were The City. They sat huddled, clutching blankets or themselves in desperate attempts to keep out the fear. The dark was barely pushed back by the wearily flickering, sparsely placed electric lanterns. Few people moved in the dark; the only reason for it was food. Occasional rustles of movement were heard by the grotesquely deformed ears of survivors; but more often the alert ears heard the frightening shrieks of the insane reverberating along the metal walls. Yet, no matter what came from outside, Survivors forever heard the sounds in their own heads. There were quiet whispering voices that spurred them into deviancy--prompted them to thrust a knife between the shoulder blades of the already dead, or to gnaw at their own hands. And even the lucky who had no voices perenially heard their own tense heart-beat.
While survivors could still hear sound, they no longer smelt the foul sour odour of themselves; nor did they feel the acrid smoke that forever stung their noses. The smoke billowed from fires lit by those with enough wits to know they had to keep warm. Around the flaming bundles of clothes, survivors rocked gently back and forth. The more sane hummed to themselves ancient songs or rhymes. None could remember when they had learnt the songs. References to time had no meaning. Time was inconsequential. They had eternity to sit and hum.
This was The City.