Crikey, the fourth post in the same day

I had just finished watching 'House' and was about to turn off the light and climb into bed when out of now where in my head came "...it just won't do lalalalalalalala..."

Relising I'd have no chance trying to sleep with that one lyric in my head I came to the computer and found out that the song is called 'It just won't do' by Tim Deluxe. I haven't heard it in three years.

It's a funny thing memory

Blades at dawn

I'm an evolutionist, it's part of the package when you tick the box next to 'Atheist'. But god it can be useful to be a creationist sometimes: You get to blame someone.

Why oh why God did you give men beards?

I think I started growing beards from the age of three and ever since I've dreaded the point where it gets itchy, as they always do, it means that it is time to shear the thing off. When I first started with the whole facial hair removal thing I had to figure out how to do it myself, my father has a permanent beard in residence so he could not have been a guiding light, and my technique, even after all these years potential perfection time, is to scrape a shape shard of metal across my face and if you live after all the blood loss wu-whu. If I can compare my face to a mud flow, then all the trees (hair) and top soil (skin) would be washed away (razor) leaving only bedrock (bone). And yet despite having no skin I'll still have stubble.

Being a penniless student I still have to rely on this method, all the electric gizmos are either too puny or too expensive. I once bought an electric shaver out of my Christmas money (insert your bowed head in disgust emoticon here) and when I began to use it I soon discovered that all it would do would eat the flesh around the hair leaving it more prominent. So I shouted at it, as any reasonable person would, "ARE YOU A MAN OR A SHAVER?!!", to which it replied, "Well, this is a funny story actually..." and went onto delve into deep philosophical issues between the difference, or the illusion of a difference between man and shaver. It was quite easy to see it's point but easier to shove it in a draw and forget about it. Back to that napalm kiss of metal shards.

Up until piece of steal touches my skin and the work begins of scraping (yes, it is physical labour in the case of my features) this face fungus off, the Shaving Experience (opening Spring 2006) can be quiet enjoyable. For instance, shaving cream is brilliant: endless hours can drift by when you are trying to beat the length of last time's Santa's beard, slowly but surely squirting on little dabs of foam to the bottom of the jolly jiggly plane housing wave formations that would bring surfers and phycists together. But then the blade cuts through the fun. And the skin. And the tendons to etch in my jawbone "Muahahahaha".

In writing this I've received no heavenly messages, the weather outside hasn't changed and no pop ups have..well, popped up, suggesting God isn't in a rush to answer the question above, although the absence of pop ups does suggest some kind of theological intervention. So let me express evolution's suggestion. One theory is that in different times of the menstrual cycle ("we see here a young Yeti wander blindly on to the territory of the females. Some take notice and ready themselves for the kill" [You'll only get the full force of that if you are familiar with Mr. David Attenborough]) women find beardiness variably sexy. I hasten to add I did not come up with this theory, if I were to come up with a theory it would be that all women find someone a lot like me very sexy all of the time. When women are fertile they'll be more attracted to more masculine men, when they aren't they are more attracted to more feminine looking men. I heard this on one of those 'difference between the sexes' programs the BBC comes up with every few years, I watch these..I want to say religiously..in hope that science will offer me a way of getting guaranteed date. Another theory of 'women attracted to men' is that they find taller men sexier, to which I replied "Bugger" to which the TV replied "Watch your language" a fight ensued which lead to us then going down the pub to have a drink where the TV then got a date. Bitter? Yes, yes I am.

Any one seen the beaten track around here?

By now some women ("The females make to pounce") are probably thinking that they have to go through this Experience as well and that I can pee standing up. Well I've thought about that and no, this is not the case. When dancing with a razor around your face you are very close to 80% of your sensory organs and at that distance 1) they aren't sensing very much and 2) you don't want to slice them off/in/whatever. And you've got to do all of this in front of a mirror meaning limbs have to be cranked in reverse to save from shaving air. When shaving legs/arm pits/other bits it's right in front of you in forward motion. PLUS! they don't even have to use a razor, there's stuff that looks like shaving cream but you just leave it on then rinse it off with no blades in between. Or shower head looking things that "gently buff the hairs away", the nearest analogue for a bloke to that is an angle grinder.

And another thing, I can never get my sideburns level.

"We are not affraid"

I love the London Underground

I really want to do this

The importance of....uhhh...?

Here in Yetiville, school has been out for many many weeks now and I'm spending a lot of my time on my own and so not saying much (I'm not quite mad enough to talk to myself yet). As a result I'm loosing English by the day. Whenever I try to form a sentence longer than nine words my jaw locks, my lips spasm and any air traffic through my throat instantly stops, leaving a garbled mess. Unfortionally if I then soldier on everyone nods and/or smiles making my wonder if they were listening in the first place.

During said free time I'll be crawling through one of about fourteen books I've bought (and therefore must read), playing computer games, having inexcusable fun on Paint, staring in fear at the hand spasmer (aka the guitar I got for my birthday), but the thing that gets the majority of my attention is clicking between a small number of websites (which change very rarely) on an infinite loop. Most of these sites are shopping sites, but since I'm skint I'm just windows shopping *BOOM! BOOM!*. Oh I'm wasted here. Anyway, these sites use pretty simple English, you wouldn't want to buy something you don't understand (even if you claim to), so these places are fine. But eventually I'll stumble across a comic site. Take for instance this comic from Nearing Zero.



It's got good tension building.

Interesting dialogue.

Now for the punch line, with a half language dead brain: I haven't a clue what 'apoptosis' means. I don't even know if it's a real word or a pun.

What a downer.

Oh well, to amazon.co.uk......

Dear teacher,

Dear teacher,

Please find the link below to my fifty three thousand word essay on what I did on my summer holidays.

Yeti


Link

Crashing

I've just come back from an evening of bowling to commemorate my birthday eve. It was great even though I played a shameful couple of games. I don't think so many of us have been together at the same time since school split.

Before I left I dosed up on a substance (gasp) called Lemon Crystals. This is basically a bag of sugar, dipped in acid, and then told to behave like a lemon. Some people use caffeine, some people use alcohol, I use sugar to get me hyper ready for an out with mates*.

While there I was pleased to find that I was asked for ID before going into the bar. I had no ID, he asked me how old I was, I said 18 and he said "No, sorry". I didn't think to try the "my birthday is tomorrow" but this one has snook up on me. It feels strange I'll be crossing this milestone in forty eight minutes. Anyway, I took it as a compliment that I look so young. Something I hope to retain through many more milestones.

As you may have noticed by now, this post has no wit, no humour, grammatical structure, or any particular interest as it is now fourteen minutes past eleven in the evening and I'm beginning to crash.

What I mean by crashing is that the induced state that the sugar gave me is now wearing off. This, unfortionally, always coincides with the parting of my mates. Either state in itself isn't that pleasant to undergo, and both at the same time is downright horrible. I miss my friends a lot now that I'm spending a lot of time on my own now that school is now officially out.

However, add into this mix, I'm going away for a week tomorrow which will induce homesickness. Homesickness occurs as the car engine is turned off. I could travel right around the world so long as I didn't stop. While homesick I'll feel completely out of place and excommunicated from my friends. Most of my friends are out of the country next week anyway, but while at home I know where the popcorn is stored in my house i.e. comfort eating.

So, to summarize, crashing from lack of sugar, missing my friends, going to miss home. All add up to a wreck.

That's it. No particular point. Just that.




*In this context, "mates" and "friends" are interchangeable

100

The hardest thing to do at North Yetiville High School (N.Y.H.S.) is take a whiz.

Now that exam season is over (which owes much of its design to moose season) I can look back on those times when my bladder was trying to launch itself out of my torso with only a cold sweat alien stylee. Due to some misfiling at the department of creation I was given an 80-year-old's bladder, meaning I can store, at any one time, about the capacity of a tea spoon. This little mix up that my legal thugs are having a field day over, has lead to some pretty nerve racking (or as I will say to the judge "traumatic") moments.

Exhibit A: when on the National Express from a major airport to a major city near Yetiville my bladder was getting ready to do that Kane/chestburster thang (but a little further south), and I had the indescribably stupid idea of going to the toilet. Let me share this experience with you. The coach was moving along a stretch of motorway where it is customary for the locals to steal tarmac from the road. The loo itself was a single moulded piece of plastic made out of that economy off white plastic which confirms your gut feeling (no pun intended) that this place is cheap. This single piece is about the size of a night stand, presumably only to piss of customers (again, no pun intended), and is covered in smears of a substance you'd rather not think about. So you're standing (I say "you're" instead of "I'm" to make it more general and so hopefully less offensive) in a cupboard at the back of bus doing sixty miles an hour, piloted by a mad man hell bent to capitalise on the handy work of the locals, with your feet spread no wider than your shoulders, bent trouble not to hit your head on the ceiling and avoiding the smeared wall substance. If you can pee while all that is happening, you deserve a medal. After that incident I didn't pee for weeks.

Exhibit B: In the middle of exam season I had a day consisting of, in total, six hours of exams. Anyone older than me is now going "pah, that's nothing" I know this because that was the pep talk a select few of my teachers gave us before the slaughter. The first session of these exams was invigilated by...can I say that?...a fucking idiot. Twenty minutes into my first exam I could feel Mr. B. pushing against the waistband of my trousers (just to clarify as I know I have to with some people, Mr. B. is my bladder, not a person) , queue much nervousness ("trauma") . Rush through the exam and place hand in the air to ask if I could....well, I'm sure by now I don't have to elaborate. The guy looks at me, from the other side of the room and has a look on his face saying "What?", like I'm going to shout across a room full of people taking an exam "I need to take a piss". I made a gesture that he should come over and he looked at the clock and said "You have five minutes remaining", doubting that he could comprehend a more meaningful gesture I gave him a look in response that simultaneously said "thank you" and "you fucking idiot". Trapped in the room for the next eighty plus five minutes I resorted to the only plan I could think of short of wetting myself which for a seventeen year old simply wasn't an option. No, I didn't leg it out of the room while smashing the invigilator’s face in, I did an infinitely more drastic thing, I undid the button on my trousers. Ahhhhhhhhhh, much better. Next exam, not a problem. Come to the end of the exam I put all my stationary in my jacket pocket, hold my jacket in front of me and head for the exit, which is now blocked by a rather rotund fellow asking about a number that was not required. It was as this conversation into missing numbers and no people movement was taking place that I felt my trousers beginning to fall down, Mr. B. (again, the bladder) was now so large that it was forcing the fly open. Solution to this? Clamp my hands down on my bladder to stop the decent and have the jacket hide the very white lining of the trousers. It was also the time when classes were changing over, so approximately one billion lower year proles were in the corridor. I have never run so fast and never caused so many injuries. I managed to get to the toilet in time to save my dignity and without any embarrassing events. I swear I heard angels sing.

Exhibit C: Now at the last exam in exam season I had the timing all figured out. When you have a geriatrics bladder timing is everything double underlined. This time the problem was getting into the loo at all. The powers that be in N.Y.H.S. sixth form centre have decided to start locking the toilets set aside specifically for sixth formers. This is due to the fact that the lower school proles tend to light up in there. This is all well and good when the key is around. Can you see where this is going? At that moment as I was launching myself at the outer loo door for the hundredth time, I would happily trade in the lives of a thousand smokers just to spend thirty seconds in there. My shoulder now a bloody mess I went to the main school office to see if they had a key. Wait for the receptionist to get off a call. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they have a key. Cross legs. Find out they have no key. Wait for the office staff to have a conference as to whether they'll let me have the key for the staff toilet. Jump up and down. Then they tell me use the lower school toilets. How demeaning. A sixth former one exam from not being a sixth former being forced to use the toilets set aside for the lowest (in many meanings) year the school catered for. Where the boys have fun wetting toilet paper and throwing it at the ceiling, or bunging up the toilets and flushing them to flood the floor. As I went in, two lowest year girls were walking up the corridor in the opposite direction let out a giggle. A million smokers. Thankfully the place was deserted, but I didn't linger to savour the moment. As I was walking back into the sixth form centre to get my stuff to go to the exam I noticed, on it's hook, where it never is, the key to the toilet.