je suis
No. No more, alright? No more flippy hair. Gyrating. Long overcoats and Norwegian boybands. Unless you want to spend all your nights keeping Steven Patrick M. Saunders in a headlock. It's red all the way. Not red and white. Just red. Real red. Red like shaved heads bad posture, but great form.

Yes. Life is this uneventful that this would depress me the most. That and post-Christmas earthquakes. So, maybe not. But most probably yes.

It's been a horrible week for football. 4-1? 4-1? Depressing, really. But I'm not as beaten up about it as, let's say-- wait, let's not say. They did have the advantage though. And there were injuries. And hardly any support from home.

Brother and Father have already taken the time to mock me. Your turn?

I don't even want to talk about it. But I'll take your insults, and arrogance and just glare at you when I see you in person.

Besides, you aren't even a real Arsenal fan. You aren't. Can't even see how they could possibly mean anything to you. You were maybe at a crossroads before, deciding between red and that (classier) shade of maroon, but now you think you've made your mind up and still it wanders. It shouldn't. You aren't an Arsenal fan. Nick Hornby's an Arsenal fan. You aren't. Get it through your head.

I hate Arsenal. I do. I do. The Englishmen exodus was really funny at first, but now it all just seems pathetic. I remember last year, sitting around a dining table in some Spanish restaurant (or is it just restaurant) in Madrid, watching Arsenal-Villareal. I was rooting for Arsenal. And Arsenal won. I cheered loudly in a restaurant filled with Spanish people. God. And then Champions' League final. I found out in England, on a taxi ride from Heathrow. I was depressed for a brief period.

No more. None. None whatsoever. I hate Arsenal. Hate. Because I'm not mature enough to feel anything else. Hate.

A while ago-- when the internet was down, my torrents wouldn't download, and there was this massive pile of homework on my desk-- I thought that the only thing that could cheer me up was Spanish football, gay/kiddy pens that glow and have fur, orange highlighters, cartoonband_aid, sudoku, coffee table books, sepsis, and Oskar Schnell. And the possibility of watching Eragon with Lara et al. on Friday.

Hm.

I do love Valencia. David Villa is just inestimable amounts of awesome. Joaquin is less despicable than C-Ron, and is, in fact, quite likable. Mori-- dude, Mori. And Silva's short. I can afford to adore them, since, you know.

We need an inspirational front line. That's it. With Crouch as the punchline to every joke and with God fading fast, we need new blood, I think, someone with an already impressive résumé. Maybe Villa, maybe. How can we compete with stars like Rooney, Saha, Ole, Drogba, Sheva (lolz), Henry, and v. Persie with a bean pole? We could. We can. But we aren't at the moment.



To distract myself from the painful reality that statistics prove, I started to detach myself from the actual numbers and focused more on, well, the crack.

In my head...

...N. Vidic is a beautiful soul. A free spirit, trapped within the confines of his rugged, brutish exterior. Worn down like Atlas by the terror from his homeland that traumatized, but, in retrospect inspired him to express himself. He wears black turtle necks and khaki slacks. He recites poetry at cafes and is a lover of all things dada, but not for the destruction, but for the beauty. He hates Dali for capturing everything N. Vidic believes in, thereby killing it, because he shared it with the world. N. Vidic thought his life was summarized, cheapened by that scene with the girl making out with the statue's foot. For him, expression is non-expression and his words do little to inspire, but do more to incite.

...D. Agger may be his Danish counterpart. Beautiful, tortured, artistic, expressive, but ultimately doomed to a life of unsatisfying prose and poetry, because he wasn't born in Serbia and Montenegro. An artist swathed in his own work, but failing to convey his true emotions through the black ink and dead writer's words. N. Vidic's arch rival, but in reality, they are each other's biggest fans. He shaved his head to look like a thug, because he moonlighted when he moonlighted and became one-- one with lyrics like gasoline and a spark.

...Rio is a techie, consumed by endless hours in front of a glossy monitor, competing with Frank Lampard and occasionally playing the bongo drums for some of N. Vidic's poetry readings. He has a relationship with someone who he met on the internet, but little does he know that the person in question is in fact Anton. He spends his time gaming, hacking, looking at pr0n (because that's what the internet's for-- he found his mantra justified by a Broadway musical), and most of the time checking his stocks. His life is empty.

...Frank is an excellent mathematician. He has the preposterous ability to compute angles, trajectories of spherical objects, and slopes at lightning speed in his head-- and he uses his talents for evil.

...John Terry is a rapper. Who is a refereeist. And is being lauded for it. His obscene interest in bumper cars only exceeds those of Ashley, but pale in comparison when compared with Jason's.

...Steven suffers from severe scoliosis and regularly visits the bone doctor who just scolds him for it.

...Ole is secretly a Mexican. But he hides it, because Gaz hates them almost as much as he hates Scousers.

...Didier is in with Roman's plot to sneak crude oil into England, and he uses his hair as a mode of transport.

...Wayne. Darling Wayne. He was a rentboy once-- you can see the trauma in his eyes. Before everything, before fame. And those geriatric prostitutes weren't visited to satisfy whatever carnal pleasures were left in this beaten, defeated man, but instead, he saw them out of compassion, out of kinship, and out of solidarity.

... And those branded with 23 were slated to become legends in their own right. It's a number to retire forever.

... And Xabi is perfect. Duh.



Let's stop hating people, alright? Because you have to live with people. Unless I find my own hermitage. Complete with all necessary amenities 'nthensum.'

My view is great. You can see the bottom of everything. The surface, though, a bit more elusive. I speak very literally.

Andie, watch a movie with us. Mathay too, if you feel like it.

Synthesis (if you get this, I'll adore you for life):

(Eric C: popped; Craig B.: ________)



Clues, because I want to finish that damn meme.

finish it.

1. This song has the most awesome guitar solo ever.
5. Think Eric C.
6. A song by one of the greatest bands ever-- the title often used in movies, books, weird articles about nausea maybe?
8. Broadway musical. Spoken. Not sung.
9. Erm, Lennon/McCartney, yeah?
11. The Jarv.
12. I can't believe no one got this. Really.
15. From Original London version of what is soon to be revived in West End and Broadway.
17. This band has been around for too long. This is probably their best song.
18. Think Tony Vincent, only not.
19. A collaboration (which is very anti-Roark, I know) between two band members. This song reminds me of Cesc.
21. Dude. GOAL!
23. Erm, I'm not sure exactly.
24. Best song ever by best band ever? Maybe. Maybe it's satanic.
25. This song pwns.
27. This single was recorded naked, I think.
29. Think of smashing. Smashing things. Like instruments.
30. Schizophrenic? Hell no.



93.2%. Some metaphysical being up there, deified through word of mouth, wants me to cry. It might work, if my eyes were moist enough. They're so dry right now that cracking them an inch wider (would be impossible) would make my lids fall off.

Chay is the Ibong Adarna. Fo' Sho'. Eragon is a waste. A slot for something at the very least more relevant to exist.

Years, decades ago. John Lennon asked a friend a very important question.




My answer?

I don't.

[mood| my eyes are crummy and sepsis is a must]

Edit 13/01/07:

Tacky as it is. Finally 100%. Those seven days, that unparalleled frustration and denouncing technology-- all totally worth it.

New obsession does not bode well with sanity. Does not bode well at all.

Oh yeah. Stuff happened in the weekend.