ansaphone conversation

it's a solitary sequel

2009-02-02T14:52:45Z

i wanted to do another one of these things, except this one is less angry and more angsty, because angsty television equals angsty me:

1. you aren't a catastrophe. except maybe i kind of wish you were. that way i would feel better about feeling bad.

2. deal breaker. we don't talk anymore. guess we really aren't friends anymore. funny how promises come true even when they aren't meant. i know you don't have time for your friends, but for some reason you still talk to them. i guess it's different with me. i'm tired of secondhand information about your life. i don't even know you anymore.

3. i actually don't really like you at all. i mean that in the least offensive way. i just hate desperation, the pretensions that cling to you like fake fur on a wet surface, the need for you to know everything you aren't a part of. i hate that. i hate people who try to include themselves in ever possible way, interlope, permeate into every perforated pore. just stop. stop trying, stop being everything i dislike about people.

4. i think you're probably one of my best friends, but you don't understand me at all. all your good for is platitudes, bromide as inert as any. i don't resent you, except maybe i'm tired of pretending in front of you. i don't expect you to think this is you, since you understand so little of me.

5. you know what i'm talking about. i'm talking to you as i type this. hello ♥

6. i'm glad we're okay. (again)

7. i'm tired of being disappointed in people, places, events. it's my fault for building up such astronomic expectations, but i always thought that there'd at least be some exceptions to the great big shuddering failure that is the world. i'm still waiting.

8. welcome, world.

9. i need you back. asap. you were the only thing worthwhile, the only thing worth doing. it's no excuse that i've had no time for you, because you're worth more than that. i'm sorry. i am serious. this is real.

10. you know that song bargain by the who? well you're like the exact opposite of that song. angryface.

confusticate @ 2008-04-23T04:42:00

2008-04-22T20:45:23Z

for what it's worth, there's still belief. only that it's been severely dented by a bagful of on-target golf clubs and an idiot head in the way.

there's always a first time for the impossible.

magic is close to nothing at all

2008-03-27T18:17:26Z

YOU HAVE TO GO AND SEE THIS FILM.

it will break you.

i swam the length of the sea to find you

2008-03-19T16:01:24Z

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU

♥♥♥
!!!

You give my life meaning. You light up my mornings. You set my stars on fire.

You are amazing.

belated happy skins day!

2008-03-18T14:14:29Z

OMG (by the way) @ Skins 2x06 !!! Not as "OMG!!!" as Skins 2x05, but Series 2 has completely changed my opinion of Tony and for the better. The bit at the end, when he leaves the room and "doesn't turn back" had me asngkjglafdg-ing!!! WATCH IT NAO PLZ :3

In other news: I went to the park, where the Japanese and American kids outnumbered the Filipinos, to read the newest issue of Nat. Geo. and some Chabon, and I hate Rapidshare more than waiting in line. But it's the same basic principle of hate, really. Apart from that, people who split files into seventeen-minute increments (i.e. fifteen #&*$% rar files!!!) are such asshats. And sendspace.pl is the most shit file sharing service ever. Even Sendspace Original is better, and I despise Sendspace's ridiculous download limits. No, Mediafire for the win forever. I will burn the world down if this stupid file thing wasn't worth it.

I hate video compilations. I hate them.

DB7 — if you want a download to the episode, just tell me bb ;-D

edit:

re: previews for 2x07 — well, generally the entire show: I LOVE CHRIS MILES. HE MAKES THE SHOW.

edit:

YOU KNOW WHAT'S THE ABSOLUTE PITS? BEING 89% and 20% INTO TWO DOWNLOADS AND YOUR MOTHEREFFERING (to quote earl hefner) LAPTOP MOTHEREFFING DIES. I HATE YOU. JUDGE PETE HATES YOU. *strangles mia battery pack*

we have enacted a ban on ugly brazilians

2008-03-16T14:59:26Z

"Torres or Gerrard?"

"...Gerrard?"

LOL WUT

"Blondes or brunettes?"

"Blondes"

T___T ~~Are there any naturally blonde Brazilians?~~ Oh, right.

"Too hot or too cold?"

"Too cold."

OMG ME TOO LULZ.

I LOVE LFCTV OTS. AKDJGSLJGLSDSJKLJS I think I've seen all of them. I hope I've seen all of them. I wish I was Claire Rourke, for srs.

So, how have you all been?

edit:

YES THANK YOU MR. MCBRIDE

edit the second:

I just listened to the most disturbing podcast today. The man said that John Terry resembled a truck-towing lesbian and called Carlos Tevez (not that Carlos Tevez; the less juicy once) a hybrid between a man and an animal. The whole thing was just insanely uncomfortable.

it's not enough for me just to hear ya

2008-02-11T14:55:11Z

FACT: I only watch Harry Potter 4 for the credits. And I stay right until the end.

holy shit, happy birthday macca ♥

as promised:

2008-01-04T09:05:53Z

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEA CRISOLOGO!!!
my love for you is as fresh as the atacama is dry, as warm as a can of antifreeze, and as valid as pluto's planetary status. i love you so much as too overlook matters of factuality and chronology. you, my (perhaps one true) alphabetical-order friend, deserve all the plaudits and wreaths of laurel on this special, gargantuan day. do not hate me for my foreordained consideration, my premature adulation for your singular cheerleading greatness. i look forward to seeing you monday, donning laundry white gowns and your almost certain scowl at my appearance, but i will be noticeably tight-lipped amidst the peal of (erroneous, i say!) well-wishes. I LOVE Y♥UUUU.

And: Happy birthday to Nina: The best debate partner ever ♥

(dear friends, please link this post to our Dear Friend bea, as i am incapable of going online/charging my mobile/giving a damn. i will pay you handsomely in math analogies and half-meant, half-assed half-hugs. thanks bbs)

paranoia meme

2007-08-24T16:21:41Z

all real peoplz. each number is an inside joke, therefore obvious. (i hate how real people take up all my time)

1. it's surprising to me sometimes that we've stayed friends for this long (and that you're number one in my list). we have hardly anything in common and our conversations are often spectacles unheard of in polite society. you are not a lesbian. you are not, you insist adamantly and (hell) i believe you. you're just really gay is all. i am sometimes worried about you (that you let your friends get in the way of being everything you could be) but most times i'm just happy to know you.

2. i don't understand how i can enjoy your company most of the time (the times we don't talk, or the times we don't talk about anything seriously) and completely hate you the rest. it isn't difficult (you make it extraordinarily easy) and i never regret the palpable feeling of absolute loathing. namely because i know i can't hate you forever (it's illegal, or something). i'm happy that we talk about things and that the things that matter to us are more or less the same. i may be cruel and much too crude at times (you pay be back in spades, anyway) but the only reason for this is that i know we'll always be okay. (thank you for the music, buddy boy)

3. we have an entirely groundless friendship (rendezvouses to restaurant chains and eating breakfast for lunch do not count) and it doesn't seem to bother either of us. we're happy being inane and verbally violent (physically at times, in your case). i can't remember how many times i've been sidetracked by you and perhaps there's some initial resentment fostering in the furrows of my forehead, but i'm grateful for every hideous, offensive joke we share (at your expense or mine). i can project all of my disappointments (my rage, my disgust, the complete and utter pitiable nature of my being) unto you and you'll always bounce back with more (selfishly speaking, i don't know if i appreciate this or not). secretly, i love you.

4. i don't understand you. i don't understand how you can subject yourself to this silent form of suffering. i can feel the quiet desperation from across the table and it hurts me, makes me angry, makes me impatient at times. you aren't being marginalized; you aren't being oppressed. i don't understand how or why you suffer; is it because of love? or some fabricated grade-school ideal similar to it? i don't know. i just want you to be happy, that's all.

5. you're white. hahahaha. that never gets old. that and the fact that everything wrong in the universe is your fault (global warming, conflict in the middle east, david beckham's dreadlocks). i'm sometimes afraid to express to other people how much you mean to me, because you know how emotionally stunted and repressed i am. i adore you completely and life would be a darker (lolzz, you know, in a sort of "you light up my life" sort of way) place, even though i know that you'd prefer for it to be that way. if you aren't touched by this, i will bleed black roses and find solace in the arms of a member of the clergy! you know that i'm incapable of expressing the true extent of my emotions and that i put anything that means everything under the veil of poorly conceived humor and desperate sarcasm. it should be pretty obvious by now, but i'm happiest knowing that you're in my life bb. (but you're weird sometimes, just saying)

6. you are the anomaly. the difference between last year and any other. i'm still surprised that we're friends and i'm convinced that we will cease to be eventually (by my next, next birthday, perhaps). i love you enough to commit adultery, to allocate my time specifically to include you, regardless of my self-imposed exile. i think you're so great and i'm amazed that there are still people like you out there. it scares me to think that i get attached to (some) people so easily and on a mournful, somber note, i think i've changed and that you've helped bring out that change in me. i adore you completely, utterly, unequivocally, unconditionally, but i think you can be selfish sometimes. that doesn't change the fact that you're fantastic.

7. you are one of the people i miss something terrible. i think i was a terrible friend to you the last few years that you were here. i ignored you sometimes; i didn't maybe look you in the eyes and it still bothers me now that i only showed how much you meant to me on the day that you left, on the few days that we talk. we talk about the best things, the nothings and it's always so gratifying, so heart-warming and pleasant enough to yield a smile on my face that we're not much different, but that we haven't stayed the same. i love you even if i never see you, even if i never might again (but that's just me being pessimistic). i miss you, you know.

8. you are another person i miss, and think about constantly. our friendship is grounded on false ethnicity and fucked up nomenclature (we win, we win, we win). i think you're fabulous, everyone does, but you're immature as fuck, still. but i can tell you're growing up; you're growing up and i might not be able to experience it first hand, but i love that we still talk and that we can still open up to one another. i love you; i wish i could be with you or that you could be with me. it seems like every moment we spent together had an unwritten ending and it gives me enough hope to know that you'll be in my life for a very long time.

9. i don't think you like me very much. and i'm sorry for that. there's nothing i can do to change who i am, how i act. most people seem to like me and maybe that is where the problem lies. i'm sorry if i make you feel bad; it's entirely unintentional and i hate that we've already been through this. we never did find that solution and here we are again.

10. i miss you too, and i worry about you. i'm afraid that you are unhappy or that something is wrong and that you're keeping all your cards pressed to your chest. i'm not asking you to open up to me; i'm asking you to be happy and not to worry. you are entitled to sadness, but even though i like you best when you are happy, know that i will always love you.

11. i hate you. most of the time. you're pleasant sometimes and it forces me to be pleasant (even if i don't want to be), because i'm afraid that if i express my true sentiments towards you a volcano will erupt, a dam will burst, a tremor will register 8.0 on the richter, and a baby seal will be clubbed (simultaneously) and i'll have to deal with all this fucked up backlash for a careless, casual remark and you're inability to gauge the degree of seriousness of a situation. you overreact and if you let go of your unfunny histrionics, we could actually be friends. i'm sorry if you're misunderstood, but all the great villains were.

12. i'm always happy that you're there and i'm sorry for all your bad luck. you're one of the most important people in my life and i know that we can be happy without anything, doing nothing, disregarding everything. sometimes, things aren't okay between us and that's fine. i know, i know, you'll always be there.

13. be nice to her, okay? (she's been through a lot and i know you aren't like that)

14. i don't even know you, but i despise you already. you've basically warped the perceptions people have on me by simply being and i feel as though we cannot coexist peacefully. sure, it's a great ego trip (in a faux-lesbian, piss-take sort of way) when i call people out on how they feel for you (which subconsciously means that they've always been attracted to me), but could you please get a face transplant, change all your mannerisms and just be someone else completely? is that too much to ask, stranger?

15. i love you both and that's all i can say. you mean so much more to me and anything i can show you, anything i can give you in return, anything i can tell you or convince you with-- it's all inadequate and i want nothing more than to make you happy. i love being loved and you are the best suppliers. life has given me some great things and i'd count you there at the top of the list.

cue panic mode in t-minus ten, nine, eight, seven...

the wolves remain unimpressed

2007-08-03T14:00:09Z

1. Spent the day intoxicated with the company of popgoesbidin: Laughing until we became a spectacle, wasting time until there was only more time to be had, searching for t-shirts in office supply stores and trying to fill a bag of fifty pesos. I kept insisting all the while that we would cease to be friends before her next birthday came (this is an extension of the primary deadline I had set, which was my birthday, my real one), which would have saved me the trouble of having to buy her a gift. She helped me pick up a birthday present for cartoonband_aid which will break my heart if she does not enjoy it.

2. Moped. Sighed. Lamented. Moped.

I [to himself]:

I could hardly piss straight with fear. he was a man with 3/4 of
an inch of brain who'd taken a dislike to me. What had I done to
offend him? I don't consciously offend big men like this. And
this one's a decided imbalance of hormone in him. Get any more
masculine than that and you'd have to live up a tree. [he reads
the grafitti] 'I fuck arses', Who fucks arses? [aloud] Maybe he
fucks arses. [to himself again] Maybe he's written this in some
moment of drunken sincerity. I'm in considerable danger in here.
I must get out of here at once.

~~

Withnail:

What are you talking about Danny? D: If you are holding onto a
rising balloon you are presented with a difficult political
decission - let go while you've still got the chance or hold onto
the rope and continue getting higher. That's politics man. We are
at the end of an age. The greatest decade in the history of
mankind is nearly over. They're selling hippy wigs in wolworths.
It is 91 days to the end of the decade and as presuming Ed here
has so consistently pointed out, we have failed to paint it
black.

~~

I:

I'm not homosexual Monty

Monty:

Yes you are! Of course you are. You're only saying that to deny
your relationship with him. It's not his fault that he can't love
you any more that it's mine that I adore you. Can't we allow
ourselves this one moment of indiscretion? He need never know.

I don't care what he knows, you must leave Monty. [I gets out of
bed and goes over to the door. Monty beats him to it.]

Monty:

I mean to have you even if it must be burgulary. [I races to the
other side of the room. Monty advances.]

Richard Griffiths' immense stature was due to childhood radiation therapy. Don't hate.

[mood| see 2.]
[music| our song]

intimations of mortality

2007-07-15T14:27:49Z

I spent the day ostracized from the cyberworld and all it took (seemingly) was to move my laptop a few inches to the right. FFS. WiFi is such a petty, picky bitch.

...Let's reminisce about those days of of 100Mbps and unchewed mouse roller balls.

Having spent the weekend not going to Batangas and not going to the soirée and very much not home bound (aside from said cyberworld ostracism), this is the result: angry rant while my sneeze battered head is being filled with monosyllabic Chinese.

I want to be treated with pictures of pretty Caucasians and exotic South Americans (hold the attached mockery). All of which will be seventeen, therefore too old. HOW WILL I SURVIVE WHEN PEOPLE ARE HERE (to stay). I AM TERRIBLE WITH PEOPLE y/y. I DON'T KNOW THOSE STYLISH HAUNTS, THOSE BANGING CLUBS, AND STONER SPOTS. WHAT DO I DO.

I am going to build a hermitage of sheep vellum and fast-drying ink. God knows I want my hands to stay white at the end of all this.

your one and only

2007-07-09T15:03:14Z

Uncle Monty ≥ a.k.a. Hector > Uncle Vernon

Trufax.

±Hold on. Don't let your imagination run away with you.

± Imagination? I just finished fighting off a naked man!

"Look at that, look at that. 'Accident black spot.' These aren't accidents. They're throwing themselves into the road, gladly. Throwing themselves into the road to escape all this hideousness. Throw yourself into the road, darling, you haven't got a chance!"

it's thirty minutes and a last day lost

2007-05-31T14:49:36Z

Surgery.

But. Jarvis ♥.

somewhere near the end of time

2007-05-24T04:04:18Z

The truth is that the first thing I did after waking up was cut my nails. Eyes were particularly moist, but that's nothing unusual. Truth is that I can upload Smiths songs and copy+paste lyrics about "going where we're happy," but it's inadequate isn't it? (Because Morrissey was a Cantona fan, therefore a Manchester United fan, but the LA air has cleared his head and the spell of the Frenchman has worn off.) I won't pretend that I'm not devastated and you know what? Screw double negatives. I hate double negatives. I hate the word 'mentality,' and how it's impossibly, inexplicably sexy. And the difference is that most people have alcohol to cope with this. They have pints and bottles and similarly miserable fellow pub patrons to drown their sorrows with and I have to face a couple of Manchester United fans who glorify their own victories but fail to own up to their losses. The fact is that we played better than Milan. The fact is that we weren't thrashed and we kept fighting. Did we deserve to lose? If your basis is hard work, determination, and basically every other quality that Liverpool is known for, then no, we didn't. Milan were nothing in the first half, but it was a bit of luck and a lot of quality that gave them an undeserved edge and I can't really blame anyone for that goal.

Xabi cried? This depresses me immeasurably. I didn't stay for the awarding. I went to bed and tried to think about happy things. Like sheep in boxes and the prospect of being able to cut my nails finally. He had a pretty good game, even felt comfortable enough to show off early on in a Kakaesque sort of way. I hope this isn't some portent that he'll leave. Please stay, Xabi Alonso. It's a shame that none of his efforts in last night's match bore fruit... and HE CRIED? Like srsly. It makes me sad. And I want to cry. I can see this entry flying wildly off-tangent. But he cried? And I wasn't there? I feel horrible. I feel like I didn't suffer all the way. I should have stayed.

And it pains me to think that this loss, this match, their body language will be trivialized by many to a badly written fic. Where they're depressed and lonely and the clothes come off and they do pathetic, sinful (lulz) things in the shower and in the hotel room. Is that honestly all that this club, these players mean to some people? It's different to feel sad about a loss, and it's another thing to respect both sides for the game that they played and not think "Oh, look they're sad together, clearly they must/will be sleeping together." I hate how people capitalized on Istanbul and that may be a bit hypocritical, but people have really used that night to their advantage, that city and abused whatever right they have to be called Liverpool fans. I hate what's happened and I hope that these people, these so-called fans will be gone by the time August rolls around (all the same, some new ones will be surfacing). I'm just saying, if you're a fan of the club, if you love the club, if you memorize their jersey numbers, memorize years and scorelines, then don't try to make sense of this loss by writing borderline pornography that will explain it. Suffer through this quietly, maybe rant about it with friends who understand or at the very least willing to listen. Just don't, just please don't make this loss worse than it already is.

I wanted this summer vacation to end happily. And I suppose it's a bit regretful that I can't quite predict victories as well as I do losses. Maybe it's this blinding, oftentimes beguiling affection (that's really inadequate and insignificant when you see people with their faces painted red, their bodies draped in it, singing in the cold night air) for this club, but maybe I did too many things wrong. Or it's likely that this was never up to me. That all the Buzzcocks albums and sugar mice heads wouldn't have made a difference. But we hang onto these superstitions and these appointed talismans, because it's really a tangible form of hope. It's something to cling onto as the ninety minutes play out and as the pre-shows tip the opposition over your team. It's hope and it's faith and it's what gets you through every game.

I'm disappointed. Disappointed in the loss, of course, but disappointed also that I can't regard Milan in the same way anymore. I can't be happy for their victory, even if I do support them next to Liverpool, because their opposition wasn't just any other team, was it? If it had been any other team, honestly, I would have been Milan all the way. It still would be. But my sentiments towards them have shifted quite drastically. I'm in the Pippo Inzaghi Hate Camp with my brother and Jaap Stam. Fun, fun, fun. And Milan's defense was laughable in the first half and parts of the second, no lie. It was bad finishing on our part and an off-Steven Gerrard, but we could have exploited the sloppy defending that was so uncharacteristic, but very much evident in that Milan back four.

Speaking of back fours. I love ours. Riise wasn't being as brilliant as he was during the Chelsea tie and his defensive characteristics were a bit lax compared to the rest of the back four. Carragher had a great game and Agger did too, but there was this one moment where you could see that this partnership could still do some improvement. Carragher wanted Agger to get the ball, Agger didn't seem to agree. This didn't result in a goal, but my heart was palpitating madly. And Steve Finnan was the oldest Liverpool player on the pitch and he proves that class and experience are permanent.

Mascherano was fantastic in immobilizing Kaka. But we all expected that. How could an Argentinian possibly let a Brazilian get the better of him, right? Kaka only really produced one quality ball that whole match, and unfortunately, Inzaghi was able to convert it. Still, Masch = excellent. Shame on West Ham, shame, shame. I'm still not a fan of Zenden, but Harry Kewell was ineffective when he came on (albeit a little late in the game). Pennant maybe let me down. He had a few exciting spells during the first half where he was really using the ball and creating chances, but I think that the pressure got to him and you can pin that down to inexperience. Xabi, I think was fantastic. Maybe it's strong subjectivity, but fuck that. He was awesome. He did what Momo usually has to do and he escaped a booking which I think was fabulous, but generous on the ref's part. He has this awesome turning ability (and hot, hot footwork) that makes my mouth drop and say stupid things. It's true that he gave away the foul that led to the goal, but his passing is still so sharp and he is just utter class.

I think our problem was an off Gerrard. He was playing in the middle, yeah, but the position was so advanced that he was immediately pressured by the Milan defense and I think that position is better suited to Luis Garcia (WHO I MISS SO TERRIBLY). We just couldn't finish in the final third and it was so disappointing to see all our attacks fail. We dominated the game in the first half, and we should have won it then and there. But Gerrard didn't really turn it up, did he? He didn't crank it up to the next level and lacked the usual inspiration that he has and maybe that didn't fuel the team, who seem to just play better when he's at his best. I think he should have taken the corner kicks, maybe kicked in some crosses ahead of Pennant, who was struggling in the second half to put a quality ball in, but I'm just, still, disappointed.

I don't know what else Kuyt could have done. It wasn't a bad season for him, by any means. I just hope he scores more goals, because that's always something that we've been lacking. That thirty goals a season striker. That's what we need and hopefully Kuyt can develop and hopefully that transfer treasure chest will be able to get us someone who can improve the team if not immediately, then within the next season.

There's still so much promise for the future though. It was a loss, but the boys weren't beaten. How could they be? They're Liverpool players. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I'll say that you can never really defeat champions, and that's what Liverpool are. There's hope always, in their hearts and in the hearts of the fans. A loss can't take that away and what it can do is strengthen it, make it better, because that blind faith and adulation lives on and it's a light that will never go out (HAHAHAHA. I'm sad.)

I wanted to be happy today. Now, I don't have anything to look forward to and any fond memories of these last two months seem trivial and insignificant. But I will get over this.

(P.S. KENNY DALGLISH. I ADORE YOU. Why didn't you have more faith? But you had the most, and maybe that's what's sad.

AND. Okay. I suddenly want to convert religions just to spite Kaka.)

I love you, Steven Gerrard. No joke. Always. And this devotion is ridiculous.

Congratulations, Milan. If it was anyone else, I think I'd feel worse.

[mood| similar to this]
[music| Stereophonics-- Dakota]

snake-like shadow bite

2007-05-19T09:33:37Z

OH. GOD. The Inquirer is a useless piece of--

I can only hope that this single-minded persistence will resurface by the time school starts again. T__T

My brain is dead.

Let me preface this entire debacle with an excerpt from Dianna Chan Vasquez's riveting article entitled The Other Younghusband

"James Younghusband looks good in photographs but a snapshot does not capture his beautiful soulful eyes, which are framed by impossibly long and thick lashes. A picture cannot completely approximate his near-perfect profile. This is someone whose looks are better appreciated up close. James and his younger brother Phil are football players. They are British football players, which makes them future David Beckhams. Like Beckham, who is James’ role model, the Younghusbands are as much adored for their looks as they are for their athleticism. Phil has been likened to Josh Hartnett for his in-your-face pretty boy looks but James has a darker and therefore, more exotic, face. If Wuthering Heights had a remake, James would be perfect as Heathcliff. If Phil is all sunshine and smiles, James is more brooding and for women who love mystery in their man, more alluring..."

In short/If you couldn't get past "...impossibly long and thick lashes...", prepare to be disappointed by these photos. I'm still lollerskating, I promise you that much. And the depression in my desk table has deepened considerably. (I'm sorry for this.)

James Younghusband; modeling for Armando Caruso.
"Cuss word? Ha ha! I might let out a “puta” once in a while..."
T_T Oh, James. You are the inheritance of Philippine football.

Right, just stick a football anywhere in the photo. So effective.

See, now, without a ball, that's just awkward.

Phil Younghusband; this looks like a series of bad photos on an album sleeve.

For more scintillating reading material on these two check here, here, and here. YouTubing 'younghusband' is not worth the emotional scarring. Trust me.

I feel desperately unclean now... T__T

Please do not tell Kuya Tommy.

[mood|disgusted with self]
[music| Pulp-- Pink Glove]

a fist of pure emotion

2007-02-02T14:33:47Z

Painfully aware, it appears.

Apart from perusing YouTube's indelible, LQ stock of music videos and listening to monochromatic albums and unrecorded brilliance-- there's this:

90's, mod androgyny for the win!

This = THIS

~~ftw~~wtf?

And.

He ♥'s them.

AND.

Does M. Owen look like T. Rosicky?

All the x-overs destroy my [--credibility--]

Is currently nursing a Babel-induced headache. And the connate desire to start wrangling chickens. Go figure, media child.

- Dick lit
- A Biography/Love letter
- A supposedly anti-feminist novel, by a supposedly feminist author
- 3rd installment of a very underrated *fantasy* trilogy
- Newly found Les Mis

There's something about asexual revolutionaries.

Everyone LOVES Steven Gerrard. Srsly. Even you can't deny it.

Where is that damned article about Rooney wanting Gerrard for his birthday?

=Does god exist?
I'm far too provincial to answer that question.
^why steven is the best name ever.^

"He wasn't complicated, yet he still left you panting on the bed panting because it was so real and truthful."
That's love. And I concur.

[mood| erm, full of pure emotion?]
[music| another song by this celtic fan, who shall remain anonymous, because people actually do read this damn blog]

je suis

2007-01-11T11:51:16Z

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.

long time ago when we was

2007-01-01T20:30:26Z

Maybe, if I lived in a different time zone, the start of '07 would have been more enjoyable.

I spent the majority of the first moments of the new year unimpressed and scared for my pores, which is probably a bad sign. There was also much bouncing and yelling 'Happy New Year,' and 'Go'bless' but it was done satirically-- which wasn't very nice of me, I'll admit.

Still. A great start to the new year. A three-nil victory against Bolton-- tasty. Crouchy, Stevie G, and Kuyt (who is yet to be nicknamed appropriately) on the scoreboard. Clean sheets make me dance inside. One day, I'll be there.

Guh. And I have soap in my nose.

But watching Reading bitch slap West Ham was so tasty (my favorite adjective of the new year, because I'm irrationally fond of fat, prepubescent, toon boys). I quite like Reading, I think. Shame that they lost their previous game.

I was three years old then-- four if you want to get technical, but it was really a fantastic year. Britpop at it's finest, in my opinion. Sure, grunge was all the rage in the US (Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, and, probably, Soundgarden at the helm of the revolution) and everywhere else, but I really love the 90's for the Britpop.

1995 just kicked ass.

Common People was the single that defined the 90's and Different Class is honestly one of the best albums ever. Back for Good was, which I will shamelessly admit is my absolute favorite song at the moment. Take That (lovelovelovelovelove) were at their best then (which is admittedly still only above average) and things were still fine. And, dude, Wonderwall. (What's the Story) Morning Glory was really a tasty album. They haven't made anything better since. Definitely. Maybe...

Could I compare Britpop to prevous acts? Like the Beatles in Hamburg? The Beatles in the studio? Queen at Wembley? Jimmy Page on Bach? The destruction of the Who? Bowie, the Stones, and the ambiguous sexuality? Woodstock, but not because of the quality of the music played, but the cultural impact? Sure. Yeah, but to varying degrees.

However, I have changed from last year. I'm starting to give in to the fact that maybe, music from this decade isn't all soulless. And that I maybe I only like dated music, because that's exactly what it is.

I have been wondering if I would love the Beatles as much as I do now if I had lived through the 60's-- through Beatlemania and if I had been a prostitute living in the seedy side of Hamburg or a dentist's assistant. I would probably be more interested in Little Richard or Chuck Berry. I would have probably hated Elvis. I wouldn't love them as much. I wouldn't love them as instantly. I would have maybe grudgingly conceded to their greatness after Sergeant Pepper's. I would have done a lot of scoffing, yeah?

Thank god it's '07.

So. This the last night I have. Spend it well would mean wasting it. If everything goes according to plan, that is.

So. Slash. Yeah. I mean. Football. Yeah. That's it.

Posted on Boxing Day:

I'd just like to say that my brother is a slasher of considerable brilliance. He hates Liverpool FC; is in love with Manchester United, and is a very arrogant assface about it.

However, he does realize the slash factor present in the Liverpool squad, and he took it a step further by examining our defenders. Most only go as far as to slash our midfield, what with the mammoth Stevie/Xabi, but he went beyond that and saw potential, or created unnecessary extrapolations which resulted in a totally brand new OTP.

It's not like there's a factual basis, and most of my (one) reasons are shallow.

Jamie Carragher- Known as Carra. A legend in his own right. A local boy. While Gerrard is the driving force of the team, Carra is the heart. His influence in the most important of matches was crucial to Liverpool's success. We can see that in his insistence that Xabi Alonso take the penalty kick, after Gerrard was brought down. Along with convincing Jerzy Dudek to dance on his goal line during the penalty shootout, Carra's made his mark and he'll live on in the red hearts of all fans.

Daniel Agger- Danish. Center back. Relatively new. Tall and Gangly, but not Peter Crouch-esque. Had adorable hair, but then decided to hack it all off and debuted his new hairstyle along with Xabi Alonso, which forced me to come up with a theory that he and Xabi are sekrit lovers and decided to create a sekrit lovers pact that involved cutting their hair. A brilliant defender. Hot. Tattooed and literate. A Nietzsche fanboy.

So. Liverpool FC is known in the slashing world for its juggernaut, midfield OTP, Stevie/Xabi, which, arguably is the biggest, most popular OTP at the moment. However, if we have a central midfield OTP, why not a central defense?

Therefore...

Carragher/Agger= CARRAGGER

And that's about all.

end

Tomas Rosicky's (a gross misspelling) hair is killing me. I'm gutted by his face, but from afar and from behind, I'm probably in love. He's just so Mark Owen, don't you think? Only, a lesser dancer, and gay only because he's associated with the Gunners.

Brother, who again, is a slasher of considerable brilliance and your average Manchester United fan (you know, arrogant and smelly) maximized the slash factor his team.

Let's admit it, there aren't many slashable players in Man United. Honestly, your best OTP was Gaz/Becks, but we all know how that turned out. And the only active (read: popular) OTP right now is Wayne/Cristiano or Cristyne or Roonaldo. Sure, you had an OT3 back then, the ugliest OT3, but an OT3 nonetheless. However, if Ruud was Donkey and Wayne is Shrek, then who'd fill in the role of Fiona?

So, who was the perfect amalgamation of pretty and ogress?

C-Ron, of course.

So, even if Rooney and Ruud (Shrek and Donkey) were, er, partners in crime, the true OTP would forever be Wayne and C-Ron, because Shrek and Fiona are true love at it's most hideous.

Hargreaves, please don't leave Bayern. Please don't go to Manchester United. It's probably inevitable, but you might be subjected to to a Shevchenko-esque burn out. You're twenty-five. Stay where you are. You don't love Carrick (even though the two of you slashed would equal Michael Owen). You love, er, Lahm, yeah?

Club and country are two different opporunites, outlets. So, you can have Phil (who you're sharing with, duh, Timo) at Bayern, and Michael when you're playing for England. See? Win-win, yeah?

~~dear god, i just went 'is that little beckham' at the tv.'~~

The transfer window's making me antsy.

I think I need to be more optimistic. To stop assuming the worst in people, in situations and I need to be more forgiving. Seriously though, these epiphanies are all well and good, but what happens after realization?

Relapse.

Step 1: Put your MP3 player or whatever music player you have on random.
Step 2: Post a line from the first 30 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song.
Step 3: Post and let everyone you know guess what song and artist the lines come from.
Step 4: Strike out the songs when someone guesses correctly.
Step 5: No cheating.

1. When I was a child I had a fever.
~~2. Woes are fleeting; blows are glancing.~~ delgadina
~~3. That fuck!~~ delgadina
~~4. And I'm going to teach something relevant.~~ delgadina
5. Oh, I will never make her sad.
6. Lots of people talking, few of them know.
~~7. I won't take no prisoners-- won't spare no lives.~~ delgadina
8. The ferocity of the French taunting took him completely by surprise.
9. Oh please believe me! I'd hate to miss the train. Oh yeah!
~~10. Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial. For what it's worth-- it was worth all the while.~~ prettyboylover
11. Now the time to play is over, time to dispose of the light.
12. You say you got a real solution, well, you know. We'd all love to see the plan.
~~13. She's got a cousin. In fact she's got 'bout a dozen. She's got one in the oven, but that's nothing to do with me.~~ disorrrder
~~14. I need you. I need you. I need you. I need to make you see, oh, how much you mean to me.~~ fistfuloftheory
~~15. He told me that I had a soul. How does he know?~~ thedarlingdoll
~~16. I was just a skinny lad-- never knew no good from bad.~~ see_buggy_fly
17. I was 'round when Jesus Christ had His moment of doubt and pain.
18. It's cool and the ointment's sweet, for the fire in your head and feet.
19. Caresses fleeced you in the morning light; casualties at dawn.
~~20. The priest is on the phone. Your father hit the wall.~~ prettyboylover
21. Bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say.
~~22. I've got no right to take my place in the human race.~~ disorrrder
23. That bullshit is bullshit, it just goes by different names.
24. The piper's calling you to join him.
25. Og min Constanze ta min hatt, ta mine sko, ta mitt extravaganza (HAHAHA. In yo' face)
~~26. You're a very sexy girl that's very hard to please.~~ prettyboylover
27. And in return, she'll get my support.
~~28. Bring back the lies! Hang them back on the wall. Maybe I'd see how you could be so certain that we had no chance at all.~~ delgadina
29. Now you wanna leave me, baby, for the love of someone else, but I try to do my best.
30. The girl I used to love lives in this yellow house. Yesterday she passed me by. She doesn't want to know me now.

Great start to the new year. A win. An absolute demolishing. And a draw (sorry suffraget_city. But isn't it strange how we're on such amiable terms?). The rest, I don't care about.

I will be better.

edit 03/01/07:

OMGz. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOLKIEN. ILU.

edit in lieu of recent happenings:

Dude, my first troll! Awesome! I'm totally making it to the top one day.

edit 04/01/07:

Okay. So. Classic Liverpool is ♥. Srsly. Macca and Rushie and God and Colly-poo and Barnesy. Guh. I love them more, sometimes, I think.

And Classic Arsenal is gay-er than ever. And they're big on interracial love, which is fab. How can one possibly hate the Gunners? With Henry's gyrating and the irrational fondness Fabregas has for yellow cards.

On that note. Henry's back.

And ~~strangely~~, I'm not worried.

[music| The Decemberists-- The Legionnaire's Lament]

I might die with a smile on my face after all

2006-12-20T16:12:20Z

I am a sucker for sexy calves and social realism. The two together would be something poignantly impossible.

Like foolishly egoistic integrity and loyalty. ~~Why can't all men be Howard Roark?~~ I suppose that's why I admire one club men. It takes a special kind of devotion to promise yourself to the same set of people who could easily be change from chanting your name in reverent adoration to combining it with various death threats and rhyming it with obscenities. Maldini, Raul, Carra, Gary Neville et al., Totti, Guti...♥

Not that they're the most loyal people, necessarily. It just proves that they have longevity and staying power-- that they haven't sickened of the same crowd, the same expectations or the lack, thereof. The most faithful sons can be turned away by a slap on the mouth or the temptation of a fatter paycheck-- a boot to the head if you're especially unlucky.

Kaka fended off the call of Real Madrid to stay at a club that's currently cruising towards the relegation zone. John Terry may have had a brief stint with Nottingham Forest, but he is Chelsea-- which is as disgusting as it sounds. Torsten tried out Bayern-- who knows what... or who for, but he returned to where he belongs, even after a victorious season--Bremen. They either come back as prodigal sons, welcomed but stained forever, or establish themselves firmly into their new teams, which become family and into club history, which becomes home. Still, you can't help but wonder if they regret how history played itself out and where they are today.

And I'm sure that when David Beckham bleeds, there's a hundred times more Red than there is White.

Cells, I mean.

As I sit here, professing my undying love for my bathrobe-- I intend to die wrapped in its soft embrace, to be buried in its velvety warmth and to decay with it-- and tending to my skinned, battered, and waxed knees, I find myself requiring a distraction that will pull back whatever hairs of sanity it can paw at.

MORTEN.              BLACKBURN                    /SLASH                ELF                   BOYBAND
        SHAVED              BALD         NO               PENALTY              YEY
               Weekend
           Yes      TALKINGANUS
CAPS         stop          INTERNACIONAL            NARITA

~~sad carles makes me sad. but happy in the most morbid way.~~
~~valdez of chin pointy-- still an assface~~
~~rio vs. lesser rio-- lesser rio comes out on top~~
~~was cesc jealous when thierry got to sit next to eva longoria in that basketball match?~~
~~ZOMG!1! HE REALLY IS A BOYNBANDER. LUFFS. He's the annoying one whose voice is an octave higher that the others who is just constantly harmonizing. LUFF.~~
~~Norway has gotten sufficiently gayer. What, with this charming new development?~~
So, Sweden has Freddie Ljungberg who's pretty damn gay on his own. And Zlatan Ibrahimovic, likewise. Finland has... Kimi? Sami? that pool player? Yeah. Aside from the girly names-- mostly heterosexual, I suppose. Norway on the other hand has footballers+boy band, which is a combination only a select few can appreciate.
~~FOOTIEBOYBAND.GUH.~~
I swear-- from the first time I saw you I knew. Yeah. I swear-- had a feeling that you could take my dreams and make them all come true. All my friends they didn't seem to approve, but I had a plan-- It's a blessing, a curse, but ever since I put you first---

ONE DAY WE WILL BE AS ONE. Nothing makes me feel so alive... 'Cause this is for real.
'Dinho is totally gay for Henry. Like Henry and Rooney are totally gay for Stevie. Lookit:

"Henry is a beautiful player and has got complete technique, I adore watching him. I respect him very much as a man and as a footballer. He reminds me of myself."

Okay, so maybe it is more narcissistic than it is complimentary, but that buck-toothed Brazilian totally wants that fat-lipped Frenchman to come over to Las Ramblas so that they can samba the Spanish nights away. Oii. My head.
~~Dude, why is Frank Lampard suddenly looking all… decent? It’s the captain’s armband, I guess. But it does nothing for JT, so how on earth could that logic be followed?~~

I spent the past few ~~weeks~~ days discussing the merits of different OTP combinations with my brother (our conversations usually center on football and ~~music~~ Morrissey) and suffraget_city. Neither of them were sufficiently inclined to listen. Midfielder/Midfielder and Striker/Midfielder are my favorite combinations, I think. Defender/Defender just doesn’t do it for me.

However, that's another discussion for another blog entry, because--oii, this is prolonged agony.

Meme, because I can. Taken from get__upxjune et fistfuloftheory.

The Rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your journal with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Questions thoughtfully given, after much deliberation and pragmatic reasoning, I'd assume, by get__upxjune:

1. ~~do you hate me?~~ do you want kids when you grow up?
2. are we friends, and why? also, do you like me?
3. if you would like to share a talent you have to the world, what would it be?
4. football boys are dead musicians? why?
5. what do you think of me? srsly.

1. ~~do you hate me?~~ do you want kids when you grow up?
           It's all a bit too cliché, but right now, for me, that seems an odd question to ask, since I haven't ever really entertained this possibility. The default choice, however, would be no. I'm not the type to get all puddly when some fat baby comes rolling in with his entourage of stuff toys and overworked parents. I don't like screaming kids and I've never felt that tinkle of maternal affection for anyone at least five years younger than me that I'm meant to feel, as some hormonal teenager.
           And I think that if I ever raised a kid, he'd turn out terribly. Misanthropic, misogynistic, and suicidal-- the works.
           Yes, I guess the answer is no.

2. are we friends, and why? also, do you like me?
           I've known you too long for us not to be friends. And you've imposed yourself onto me too much for me to avoid that little fact.
           Kidding. Mostly.
           I like you most of the time. There are times when your company's enjoyable, since you are easy to hang around with, regardless of your sometimes brash and loud behavior. There are also times when it's maybe too much.

3. if you would like to share a talent you have to the world, what would it be?
           ~~My dazzling wit~~ ~~My eye poking, gut stabbing insulting abilities.~~ I'm at a stage in my teenage-hood when I think that I'm utter crap at everything and anything useful. Yes, I'm feeling particularly talentless at the moment. I'm starting to think that I was born in mediocrity and destined to thrive in it. Go me.

4. football boys are dead musicians? why?
           ...Augh. It isn't just dead musicians. My mom actually gave me permission to marry either of the two, but now, I suppose you've forced an ultimatum.
           But for me to make a more informed, more substantial choice, let's put those two options into more concrete forms. For footballers, let's have: Xabi Alonso (no explanation necessary), Kaka (even though I'm iffy about all the religion issues), Zinedine Zidane, Fernando Torres (really, who wouldn't?), Cesc Fabregas (the pout does it), Thierry Henry, Steven Gerrard (lfc4lyflolz), David Beckham (this would have been incomplete without him, really) and Cristiano Ronaldo (just because he's buff and the stereotypical 'football hunk' ~~kill me now~~). For dead musicians, let's say: Jim Morrison, George Harrison, Kurt Cobain, Syd Barrett, Freddie Mercury, John Lennon, ~~Janis Joplin (nothnx)~~ and Joe Strummer.
           In terms of attainability, I'd say football boys-- because I'm not a necrophiliac. ~~And hello, the pseudo-local Younghusbands.~~
           But if we all lived in a fairy world, where physics doesn't exist and where immortality is granted to those worthy, I'd pick dead musicians.
           Why? Because I'm logical enough to admit that fandom has completely skewed my vision of who these footballers are. The voice that comes with these athletes is ultimately dictated by the mind of a post-adolescent, heterosexual female who has had one too many fantasies. I'm certain that a number of them aren't pensive, thoughtful, almost philosophical and in touch with their feelings as fandom wants them to be. They are athletes, first and foremost, and it's still a difficult task for the pragmatic skeptic getting rid of the stereotype that accompanies them--buff, brainless, and lots of bravado (see, that's why Cronaldo was necessary). However, I'm really not one to judge them seriously. And, on some level, I think that they are more down to earth than most of the dead musicians I mentioned. Maybe it's some fanciful dream, but I like to think that they don't really see themselves as stars, but as athletes, first and foremost. They love the game more than anything, whether it's the money, the fame, the fans. I like to think that they don't play to make a living, but they play to celebrate life.
           I'm mostly fascinated by them because of their skill at something so universal. It's like kinetic art, really-- each skillful pass, each cracking volley, and each earsplitting goal. Some miracle is captured with every movement, and the magic they create on the pitch is enough for me to see how great they are.
           ~~Plus, they're hot and rich.~~ Xabi Alonso's perfect anyway, so shut up.
           Rockstars may not be that different. It's almost the same kind of celebrity, isn't it? The screaming, the stadiums, the stalkers. The Beatles>Jesus. David Beckham=Jesus. But I think that I respect dead musicians more. I certainly don't slash them. I've deified them too much to really get a clear picture of who they are. I'm too in love with them to find fault in their histories.
               John Lennon peed on nuns and was possibly gay with Eppy?
               So what?
               Jim Morrison was a drunken buffoon who liked exposing himself... a lot?
               Yeah, and?
               George Harrison was some preachy, British guy who got a kick out of religion? Oh, yeah, and he broke up Mo and Ringo?
               What of it?
           In my head, they're these really brilliant people whose job is to create magic on a daily basis. That's what it is. The free flowing music, the lyrics to a song or the melody to accompany it-- it gives me a similar feeling to when I see great football being played-- like I want to freeze time, and take that moment forever and just display it on a wall, framed and hung. Their music-- and the emotions that are awakened-- is something perfect and intangible, and it just glorifies the our race when you think that wow, a group of men created this out of an idea and a dream.
           I think that football players and dead musicians are already so similar, that the only thing, really, that separates them is their career choices. The same level of fame is achieved. The same kind of popularity is required for the same kind of success. The same sort of celebrity that's so condemning, yet so alluring at the same time-- It makes me wonder why they ever chose to get into that life, but then I think how could they not?
           It's too hard.

5. what do you think of me? srsly.
           I think that you try too hard sometimes to be accepted. I won't like you any more or any less depending on the bands, movies, or football clubs you like. Maybe you're too open to new things, which isn't really bad, but it isn't always good. I think that this question was overkill, after the last one, but I'm answering it anyway. I think that you're a fun person to be around with.
           I think of you as a variable constant in my life-- which is as strange as it sounds. I've known you for how long, but you've never really taken a focal point in my existence, but you were always there, and whenever I checked in, once in a while, something was new and different. It was still you, but time changed and so did you. It wasn't all good, it wasn't all bad, but ultimately, it's who you are.
           I think that you are the complete opposite of me. Take that however you wish.

YEYz!!1 Done with one.

Questions thoughtfully given, after much deliberation and pragmatic reasoning, I'd assume, by fistfuloftheory:

1. What made you get into debate in the first place? (So I have to know right because I've been barraded with this question myself)
2. Why are you an Anfield girl?
3. Xabi Alonso and Steven Gerrard are alone one cold night in a hotel room overlooking the Eiffel Tower. What happens next? (Long and detailed, please)
4. What makes Fernando Torres attractive to you? (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)
5. Are you as creeped out as I am that we have vaguely similar interests? (This is me being presumptious and overbearing)

1. What made you get into debate in the first place? (So I have to know right because I've been barraded with this question myself)
           Honestly, last year, I was very adamant on my position about the debate team and whatever relationship I might have with it-- I wasn't planning on joining, at all. My Reading teacher was very disappointed--but she didn't see that horrible debate 'competition.' And the people around me felt the need to cheer me up after whatever debate-related debacles ensued afterwards, telling me that I had potential. I just kept losing, and I didn't really enjoy being subjected to that.
           It all probably did change during first year. Debate seemed like less of a elite team filled with politically-conscious intellectuals, and more like something I'd enjoy. It was still something new and unfamiliar, but it was fucking high school, and I wanted to try as many new things as possible. All that lame stuff I made for the follow-up question during the try-outs were also true, in the most shallow sense, but still true. Maybe it was also because of my failed audition at Blazon. Maybe it was a need to distance myself from the club career path's that my sisters had, even though that decision had already, really, been made for me. Oh yeah, the people are totally awesome. Yes, right.
           And arguing is fun. Even though I'd much rather debate about which Ftorres hairstyle was the best (WC2006, no question), but Saddam Hussein and Thaksin Shinawatra are sufficient replacements.

2. Why are you an Anfield girl?
           Same reason why Thierry Henry is.
           I can't say anything without whatever bile that'll come spilling onto the internet page becoming so saccharine sweet that I’d want to kill myself. So, I’ll allow myself to be suicidal, for this question at least.
           I think that football established in its relatively shorter lifespan, what religion took centuries to. Devout followers, weekly practicing, strict traditions, and culture. The whole shebang in a neat red colored kit with a beer logo that is overshadowed by a crest. Liverpool perfectly exemplifies that complete and utter devotion and you know that the legacy lovingly left behind is something to be built further upon. While my stance on religion (not Christianity) is a bit foggy, my stance on football, Liverpool specifically, is pretty grounded.
           Liverpool’s culture and history are two of the most fascinating things about it. Just knowing that you’re in the midst of milestone is something in itself. I have this irrational (or not) dream of just standing there in the Kop, soaking it all in-- staying silent mostly, even if you aren’t supposed to, because the moment would have been similar to a pilgrimage. And the fact that there are ashes of Liverpool sons scattered around Anfield makes it less of a stadium, but more of a safe haven-- a sacred place where dreams are born and fulfilled, where triumphs are celebrated and where glory is a rite of passage.
           I want to be in the throng in a home game. After experiencing the Kop for the first time, I’d stop romanticizing it. I’d sing You’ll Never Walk Alone and wave a scarf around, because I could and because I want to more than anything. Because Liverpool Football Club, isn’t really some holy order sent to deliver the footballing world. They’re a great team, with great players, great moments in history, and great expectations. I love everything about the club. From the Gates to the Kop, it’s all really something spectacular. From Liddell to Dalglish to Rush to Carra to Owen to Gerrard, each player contributed his own greatness to the team. And as trite as it is: “Once a red, always a red.” Watching classic matches, watching current matches, they were just the perfect team for me, and I knew I’d be red for life. ~~Kill me, please~~ I’d keymash right now, but it would just ruin it.
           My head literally buzzes every time I watch them play. It’s sort of an unpleasant feeling I get in my head, when I’m suppressing too much emotion. It’s like when I want to cry, but I can’t, because it’s some stupid 80’s chick flick or some criminally good Spanish film, and I get this massive headache. It’s sort of like that when I watch matches, only better, more comforting knowing that the pain will be relieved once the ball finds the back of the net. I erupt with joy (sloshing hot chocolate spilling, seat kicking back and all) the same time Anfield does, and for a moment, the joy we share is the same, and the miles that separate me from them are bridged by that one burst of passion generated by the memories of past glories and current triumphs being displayed on the pitch.
           It scares me to think that one day, they might abandon Anfield. It will happen one day, I’m sure of it, with that new stadium in the works. I just wish that I could be there before that happens, before anything changes the team that I love now. I want to go there and snap stupid photos of myself pointing at the Shankly gates, gawking at “This is Anfield,” posing in the Kop, stealing a few scarves, singing, chanting, being a hooligan (one can only dream so far). I want to meet the players and gawk a bit more. I’m too late for the CBGB and I’d totally kill something if I missed out on this. I feel like I’m missing history. Leaning Tower of Pisa/Coliseum/Sistine Chapel=Anfield. The difference is that I haven’t seen that last one, and it’s the only one that really means something to me.
           Anyway, Chelsea’s full of diving sellouts. Arsenal’s too gay to really be gay. Bolton is just irritating. Everton will always be second-best to us. And Manchester United is full of arrogant assholes, and for supposedly being the “best football club evaar” you’d think that they’d have won a bit more silverware by now.

3. Xabi Alonso and Steven Gerrard are alone one cold night in a hotel room overlooking the Eiffel Tower. What happens next? (Long and detailed, please)
           My writing skills are for shit. I extrapolate all the slash from well-taken pictures and press conferences. Fan/Slash Fiction isn’t exactly my forte.
           And wtf are they doing in Paris?... Okay, I’ll stop stalling now.
           I think of everything in terms of the soundtrack that would be playing. ~~And it’s all fucking Morrissey and Pulp.~~ The first song is “Angel, Angel, Down We Go Together,” because Stevie is angsting muchly. This is the point in ~~their relationship~~ his career where the transfer rumors won’t die and his future at Liverpool is hanging precariously on a signature. Seeing a shirt with your name on it, with a number that isn’t yours on a shade of blue that you’ve spent practically your entire life fighting against, being burned would do something to your morale. All the expectations and all the disappointments back in England were left behind, when Xabi decided to take Stevie on a holiday.
            ‘Why not Istanbul?’ Stevie asked lightly, hiding his surprise when Xabi procured tickets to Paris. ~~Carra, who was there, grabbed one of the tickets and declared his inclusion in the trip, because of “team solidarity, you know.”~~
           Xabi smiled briefly, ‘No flights out today,’ was the easy reply, but Stevie knew better. Xabi didn’t want to make Istanbul the last gasp of fresh air. It seemed cheap and petty to go there to convince Steven to stay by dredging up memories of that night in Ataturk—Istanbul was too special for that. Istanbul meant magic, a night of unspeakable glory and culmination of a journey, but the inception of a future. But now it seemed that it was the future that was going to tear them apart.
           It’s very late in the evening, Carra had gone off, searching for entertainment. Xabi and Stevie are left alone in Stevie’s room after an unconvincing dinner invitation was turned down by the latter. The air was crisp, yet pungent. The fumes and exhaust of the Paris sky smothered more than they did induce romance. Still, the scenario was still poignant and yet to be disturbed by the error of human nature. Yet.
           As Morrissey’s sonorous voice, coupled with the wailing violins, sings the lyrics: ‘And when they’ve bought you and they’ve sold you, and they’ve billed you for the pleasure, and they’ve made your parents cry—I will be here, oh believe me… believe me,’ Xabi and Stevie face each other as they recline against the railing of the balcony and there are no words. The garish, blinking lights attached to the Eiffel Tower would ruin the moment, if there was a moment to ruin.
           There is just silence and Stevie stands there, grateful. Words—he heard enough words at England, enough defamatory chants, enough declamations that branded him as a fickle player whose loyalty could be bought— he had had enough of words.
            "The Day After the Revolution" suddenly starts to play, and Steven feels a hand on his shoulder-- the first real human contact he had felt ever since leaving Heathrow, and he sees Xabi, smiling grimly, but not pityingly. Xabi shuffles and turns around, facing the glowing cityscape, a pensive, almost content look etched into his face. His eyes are lit alight by the rapidly blinking lights and his cheekbones seem all the more prominent. Stevie stares as nonchalantly as possible and follows Xabi.
           'This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?’ A number of profanities pop into his head and he considers topping himself off by jumping the railing—it would have been fucking poetic, really.
           'Yes, I suppose so,’ Xabi answers, his voice hard to place. He props his elbows on the cold metal and glares at the flamboyant laser theatrics that destroyed the simple, yet intricate beauty of the metal bars and arches crossed together to form a landmark known by the entire world. Xabi didn’t like embellishments or fancy ornamentation. He liked things as they were created to be—sparse, stripped-down, and honest.
           'Then why the fuck would you bring me here in the first place?’ Steve cannot appreciate the serenity in Xabi’s expression and instead lashes out, the frustrations back home flooding out of him.
           Xabi shrugs nonchalantly, almost in apology, ‘Like I said, I thought that you could use a break from everyone back at home—‘ Steven’s eyebrows shoot to straight to his hairline as that word escapes Xabi’s lips. Home. Home? Xabi noticed it too and amended himself, ‘Back at England.’ Silence. ‘You know that this will all end when you make a decision?’ Xabi says, a touch of exasperation in his voice, ‘Everyone back there will try their hardest to bring you to their side and you’ll be the center of some stupid tug-of-war. You need an opportunity to be able to think for yourself.’ Xabi grasps his shoulder gruffly and forces Stevie to look him in the eye, 'Whatever you chose will affect your future and only you have a right to a decision.’
           'Isn't this all a bit too hypocritical then? You dragging me all the way to bloody Paris? What? So that you can convince me to stay? Is that it? Did Rafa—‘
           'Steven.' Xabi cuts him off and there’s more than just exasperation in his voice, his entire demeanor, ‘I’m not going to convince you to stay at Liverpool. Neither am I going to convince you to not sign with Chelsea,’ the strain on the word was palpable, and Stevie winced, 'I'm not going to tell you what I think is best, because it won’t matter. Your own decision would be your own fault and if I give you advice, then… then I’d have to take some blame too, right? If you crash and burn?'
            'Then why are you even here?' Steven snaps angrily, feeling threatened by the implications of the future and Xabi’s patient consideration, ‘Why did you have to come if you weren’t going to do anything? You could have just let Carra and me here in this damn city. God knows he’d do more than shoot me sympathetic glances and make excuses to get me to go on a holiday!’
            ‘Alright then!’ And suddenly, it’s the most angry, the most tired Stevie has seen of Xabi, ‘I brought you here because I wanted to know why!’ The truth. ‘I wanted to know why you’d go to Chelsea. Why you wouldn’t? Why you’d leave Liverpool? Or why you’d stay? I want to know your decision. I want to be the first, and I want to know the god-awful truth behind it. I want to know what you chose and not discover it by reading some shit tabloid.’
           Jarvis Cocker is almost poetic: ‘They say the future's beginning tonight. Whole empires will crumble. Civilizations will fall. Lie on the bed, hear the sound of it all. No anger, no guilt and no sorrow; it sounds unlikely, I know, but tomorrow you will wake up to find that your whole life has changed. Although nothing looks different a revolution took place. I love the way you do it. I love the way you put them on. You know the answers but you get it wrong. Just to confuse things. Why did it seem so difficult to realize a simple truth? The revolution begins and ends with you.’
           With that, ‘True’ plays, because I can’t think of anything else. And because I’m feeling very fond of the 80’s after having just seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
           And for the first time, in a long time, it seems, the two reach something as close to understanding as possible. They face each other and contemplate time. Xabi remembers the past—the dreams that had been fulfilled and dashed, the hard work that had come into fruition and had been wasted, every goal they scored and let in, and every moment they had spent together as teammates and as friends.
           Steven looks to the future, as he stares at Xabi, or through Xabi, rather. He thinks of matches he hasn’t played, goals he hasn’t scored, and trophies he hasn’t lifted—and what color was on his chest as he did.
           Neither thought of the present, which was the stale, artificial gust of the French night and the freezing metal that separated them from an easy way out. The present meant transfer wars and death threats. The present meant change. The present was filled with doubts and uncertainties and Steven looked to the future to sort them out, while Xabi looked to the past so that he could find a reprieve from them.
           As ‘How Soon is Now?’ is being played by the omniscient the Smiths, both men wish that the future and the past were enough to keep the present on hold.
           But then Jamie Carragher suddenly bursts into the room and drags the two of them off to the Moulin Rouge.
           ’Lady Marmalade’ promptly starts to play and there are a whole bunch of cancan dancers and dirty old men. Xabi is suddenly transformed into a sensitive young writer who embodies the Bohemian revolution, Carra into a French dwarf with a penchant for the stage, and Stevie into this beautiful ~~stripper~~ dancer who is hiding a life threatening illness. Xabi and Stevie fall in love, thanks to Carra’s bumbling mistakes and opportunities, but there’s this duke guy, let’s call him José, who tries to steal Stevie away from Xabi. But thanks to quick reflexes and José’s obliviousness (because Stevie’s such a tease) the two manage to keep their love affair a secret. But then the owner of the Moulin Rouge, let’s call him the Jellybean discovers Xabi and Stevie and he orders them to break up. He makes Stevie marry José, but as an act of defiance and as a sign of their true love, Stevie stays with Xabi, after some heart wrenching number. But then Stevie dies, because life’s like that.
           The end.
           NEVER AGAIN. ~~NEVER~~ I cannot write real people anything. Not seriously anyway. That was all the slash I could really handle. That last line. Oh, you mean it’s been done before? No way.

4. What makes Fernando Torres attractive to you? (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)
           It would be easier to list the ways that he isn’t attractive. That very ‘Common People’ mentality he seems to have. His mullet. His shaved head. His uninspiring performance of late. His whining--but this is fandom-induced. The way everyone seems to like him. The way he’s too conventionally good-looking. That he thinks Manchester United and Arsenal are the preeminent clubs of England.
           But to answer your question… it’s the Tengwar.
           The Tengwar tattoo. The fact that he watched anime as a kid. The World Cup 2006 haircut. The fact that he’s the captain of Atletico. The fact that he scores awesome goals. The fact that he’s… err, Spanish. That goal celebration. His slash factor. ~~The inexplicable way I can’t seem to bear slashing him with just anyone.~~ The freckles? The Tengwar tattoo. The World Cup 2006 haircut. The interviews. The pictures. The shallow everything. The Works—oh yeah, and the Tengwar tattoo. ~~Come on! Doesn’t the fact that he’s a possible Tokienite intrigue you? Guuh.~~

5. Are you as creeped out as I am that we have vaguely similar interests? (This is me being presumptious and overbearing)
           Yes.
           But it’s cool, since only the most awesome people know about Pulp ~~and football~~. Pulp’s kind of like the 90’s version of the Kinks, only more anthemic and lascivious. Do you know the Kinks? Ray Davies is kind of like an ugly, less charismatic version of Jarvis. But the two are equally brilliant in my opinion.

This post pwns my brain.

cartoonband_aid, suffraget_city, and cielo_sprinter were all waiting for this to be posted. I hope it disappoints. I love you all. Oodles.

I don't think that Michael Ballack is all that sexy. Fandom screws with your brain.
Conan just mentioned Zidane. I hated him for just that moment.
I think that Henry's very posh.
prettyboylover, I have this video to show you. It involves Schweini, Poldi, and a key.
I want to be in that bumper car with John Terry and Jason Orange. Ashely Cole? Nothnx.
Sheffield Wednesday's okay. Yes. More than okay. I'd love them if it weren't for--
Could this post be any longer?

*pets shiny new D.Agger icon*

[mood| accomplished]
[music| Pulp-- Like a Friend]

3-nil: what the fuck?

2006-11-13T10:47:40Z

NOMFUCKINGSTEVENGERRARDJIKGIET&*RNBJMRXHIBARSENALMOITIJYFNDIEHBT*&(%&^$*V UIOBRARSENALBUDFVO*&GF%*VB*Y*OFUCKINGGIOTVB*%VE*BTEW#)NFHSARSENALHOIF*&TRN#MODIE WHYUIh98PYJ*()TCAN'TJ*()^G&*WEJ*(BNTFUCKINGHIUOB*RWINJHUI(%&%VE&*ATHY*IRV&IHOME???? H&*B^*V& HDIEMKOHUB*ARSENALNUIB*R^&Idie.

Yes.

Oh. Yeah. Happy Birthday, Dad. You're awesome. Yes.

Dearest Classmates,

Yes, hello. I'm doing this for ~~my grade~~ you, just so you know. Ignore the title of the entry, just venting out some pent up frustration. Frustration rhymes with menstruation. And fornication. And... a lot of other nasty things. Please ignore this note. I'm too far gone to even care. Ignore my sample sentences too. They scream of bitterness. But please, enjoy the witty comments spaced apart by arbitrary intervals. They scream of painstakingly disfigured wit.

So, feel free to be a pain in my ass and ask questions about the words. Yes, leave a comment.

Your much-maligned beadle,
me

Words for the Day

1. Odious
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From French odieux, meaning "hateful."
     Definition: Causing dislike or displeasure.
     Sample Sentence:
     The odious Swede offended us all with his arrogant manner.

~~no, i'm not bitter.~~

2. Tacit
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From French tacite, or Latin tacitus, meaning "that is passed over in silence."
     Definition/s: 1. Unspoken; silent. 2. Not expressed openly, but implied.
     Sample Sentence:
     The team had a tacit agreement that they would secure victory, regardless of the cost.

~~no, i'm not bitter.~~

3. Dissolute
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin dissolvere, meaning "loosen up." (oh, the pun isn't lost on me. hohoho.)
     Definition: Immoral; licentious
     Sample Sentence:
     Debauchery and promiscuity are to be expected from a dissolute person.

~~This means you.~~

4. Convalesce
     Part of Speech: Verb
     Etymology: From Latin convalescere, meaning "thrive."
     Definition: To regain strength and health (after an operation, sickness, etc.)
     Sample Sentence:
     Steve was still convalescing from malaria during the game.

~~no, i'm not bitter.~~

5. Prolix
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin prolixus, meaning "extended."
     Definition/s: 1. Extended to a great, unnecessary ~~(don't you think that unnecessary has so many unnecessary letters? hmm?)~~, or tedious length. 2. Long and wordy.
     Sample Sentence:
     Many audience members left during the debate, because it was very prolix and roundabout.

~~hm?~~

6. Boorish
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From English boorish, meaning "ill-bred."
     Definition/s: 1. Crude, unmannered. 2. Insensitive.
     Sample Sentence:
     The boorish, inebriated hooligan stabbed him in the throat with a broken bottle.

~~green street~~

7. Fatuous
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin fatuus, meaning "foolish, insipid."
     Definition/s: 1. foolish; inane. 2. unreal, illusory.
     Sample Sentence:
     Catherine's fatuous hopes of becoming a belly dancer were never to be fulfilled.

*runs and hides*

8. August (not the month, in case you didn't know)
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin augustus, which is the sixth month of the Roman Calendar, named for Emperor Augustus Caesar.
     Definition/s: 1. majestic, inspiring reverance or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur. 2. venerable, eminent.
     Sample Sentence:
     The august playwright was disgraced after the scandal involving him and two other men.

9. Superfluous
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin superfluus, meaning "unnecessary."
     Definition/s: 1. excessive; being more than is required. 2. unnecessary; needless.
     Sample Sentence:
     The superfluous amount of cocaine forced the smugglers to move their stash to another place ~~where they were discovered and shot dead by the corrupt police officers who thereby took their stash and made millions~~.

10. Facile
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin facilis, meaning "easy to do."
     Definition/s: 1. Moving, working with ease. 2. Easily accomplished. 3. Agreeable, affable.
     Sample Sentence:
     His facile fingers made quick work of the bonds that bound her together.

~~uh. no. bondage? nthx~~

11. Indomitable
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin indomitabilis, meaning "untamed."
     Definition: 1. Cannot be overcome, subdued, or defeated.
     Sample Sentence:
     Jessica's indomitable lust for Frodo Baggins drove her insane.

*runs and hides and builds a bomb shelter*

12. Halcyon
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin halcyon, and Greek alkyon meaning "kingfisher." (that's a bird, in case you didn't know.)
     Definition: 1. Calm, peaceful. 2. Happy, golden. 3. Prosperous, affluent.
     Sample Sentence:
     Bernadine and Mark shared a halcyon summer together at the beach.

I'm running on crack. Yes.

13. Sycophant
     Part of Speech: Noun
     Etymology: From Latin sycophanta, meaning "informerer, talebearer, slanderer."
     Definition: 1. A person who uses compliments and other forms of flattery to acquire favor and power.
     Sample Sentence:
     The inestimable (which means 'great') and wonderful beadle was impervious (meaning 'unmoved') to the sycophantic pleas of her peers.

Oh. Yes. You're going to shoot me tomorrow.

14. Maladroit
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From French mal- + adroit, meaning "lacking adroitness."
     Definition/s: 1. Inept; lacking skill. 2. Tactless.
     Sample Sentence:
     Kazakhstan declared war on Borat due to his maladroit representation of its people.

It's entirely possible.

15. Perspicacious
     Part of Speech: Adjective
     Etymology: From Latin perspicacitas, meaning "discernment."
     Definition: 1. Being able to comprehend things quickly; keen.
     Sample Sentence:
     The perspicacious adventurer was able to get past all of the mazes and puzzles, but he was shot dead by a native when he stole their sacred nose flute.

Everything's going wrong in the footballing world.

Torres         wants to go to United.

But Torres                has been so uneffective lately (despite his goal against... some other club). I saw one Atleti match. It was against Zaragoza (who have many a pretty player) and Nando was just so... insipid and uninspired.

He              got        dropped from the national team. For a friendly. But he still got cut. But             Fernando replaced him, which is just ♥♥♥♥♥.

                    I really miss Raúl.

Aragones           is an idiot, whose name          doesn't deserve to be spelled correctly.

                  Liverpool's losing.

            Puyol's father dying.

Fucking Arsenal.             I've become decidedly disenchanted with that thoroughly un-English side.

Liverpool ♥♥♥. ILU.

I hate Man United. Arsenal. Bolton. You. Rafa, you... SPANISH WAITER! Play Gerrard in the middle, pleaase. Sure, he does good on the right, but he's even better in the middle. And with Momo out with a fucking injury, wasn't this as good a time as any?

plz forgive me rafa

Arsene Wenger, you... pedophile. I hope the FA can your ass for not having enough English men on your team. You can't actually call Theo Walcott a man. And everyone on your team is gay. Yes. Gay.

And you don't even have one decent OTP! okay, fine. so there's cesc/philippe, but philippe's hardly ever in the starting eleven. And there's Ljungberg and Lehmann, but they're both too gay to really be gay.

The one bright spot is the fact that Sheva (and possibly Ballack) is unhappy at Chelsea.

Okay. Okay. So it's not good for him, or his career~~, or Chelsea~~, but it might be good news for Milan.

Sheva and Milan. The two things just fit. Just click. They want him back. He wants to go back. He was magic and he was loved and worshipped there. He was a hero. He loved that club, but he left. Godknowswhy.

I do hope he goes back.

Milan haven't really been struggling, so to speak, but with the return of Sheva, morale would boost and they'd play football so beautiful and inspired that the top of the league would just be the beginning.

But I know that Mourinho (who is an evil so' o' a b'tch) and Sugar Daddy Abramovich (can't be bothered to spell his name right) will shackle him to the club. Not to mention the sexy that is Ballack that is keeping him there.

~~Fuck, I love Henry, Mathieu Cesc, Robin, and Jens. I suck.~~

If you have any questions, or if you want to express your immense gratitude, comment here.

[mood| bitchy]
[music| My anger frothing and bubbling dangerously.]

In Which Crouchie Serenades Luis Garcia with his version of "Tiny Dancer" in an attempt to woo him.

2006-11-03T09:15:45Z

I lie. That's another bedazzlement and ravishment of your senses and sensibilities for another time. It also involves Stevie, Xabi, some Morrissey song and a whole lotta angst. But I digress. Muchly.

Because, you see, Brother and I have a vision...

It starts out at Stamford Bridge.

The stadium is        empty, yet the tension is high. Somewhere in the locker rooms, you know that something is happening.

A smoke machine was hooked up somewhere and is working its magic on the pitch

An eLeCtR0nIc,        M~0n0t0nIc* beat starts to play.

And from the entrance to the pitch, where most of the smoke is concentrated, two figures suddenly emerge.

One is wearing a          grey suit. Stylishly ruffled and untucked. His hair spiked up and looking as cool as possible.

The other one is dressed in a Chelsea jersey (five sizes too large), a blue cap (tilted to the side), track pants that are nearly falling off his waist, and a helluva lot of bling. He's a wigger. Therefore not cool.

It's John Terry. And Frank Lampard.

They're both bouncing rhythmically to the beat as the smoke dispenses.

And suddenly behind them, you see more figures. Clustered there. A safe distance behind.

And suddenly JT goes, "I'm bringin' sexy Ballack."

(Lamps: "Yeah")

A crescendo of synths hit and one man separates from the mob behind him.

He twirls with class             and struts ahead.

His horrible fashion sense    doesn't exist here, since he's wearing something chic.

He swaggers ahead, in between JT and Lamps        and walks straight onto the pitch.

     As he hits the halfway line, he stops. And strikes         a pose.

JT glances scornfully at the rest of his team, "Them other boys don't know how to act..."

(Lamps: "Yeah")

The rest of the starting eleven look affronted, but relent to the fact anyway.

Micha is still in the halfway line, posing. And looking sexy.

The boys stand at the end of the pitch, JT and Lamps in front, everyone just watching Micha pose, "I think you're special. What's behind your back...?"

(Lamps: "Yeah")

"So turn around and I'll pick up the slack."

(Lamps: "Yeah")

Suddenly, the music stops, for one brief rest and JT's hand is thrust into the air. Sweeping towards the green of the pitch.

"Take 'em to the Bridge!"

All the boys suddenly do that weird Destiny's Child walk towards Micha.

But he doesn't notice. He never does.

JT and Lamps stand a distance away, but the rest of the boys try their luck with Micha.

In vain, they try to woo him.

JT, as the Captain, sans armband deserves at least half of the spotlight, "Dirty babe."

(Lamps, who is one half of their OTP, deserves less: "Uh huh")

José Mourinho, in a bad plaid suit, suddenly enters in a diamond encrusted helicopter with "The Special One" spray painted on its side, "You see these shackles, baby, you're my slaves."

(Lamps: "Uh huh?")

The next two lines are easily overlooked.

But the fire in the boys' eyes suddenly renews itself when their manager says, "Take 'em to the chorus," before disappearing with a swish of his amazing Technicolor dreamcoat.

First, Claude tries his luck with his French charm, "Come here, girl."

But is apparently confused with the object of his desire's affection.

Micha realizing this, rejects him with a casual flick of the wrist, "Go ahead, be done with it."

Claude runs away in shame, but continues hopping to the beat.

Next, Petr tries to seduce the German king, "Come to da Čech."

But Micha, being considerate and hot, realizes that Petr just had head surgery and is probably delirious.

"Go ahead, be done with it.

Didier the Diver, sidles up to Ballack and just suddenly proclaims, "Wow! Look at those hips!"

Micha disgusted, "Go ahead, be done with it."

After many futile attempts by the starting eleven (with a particularly emotional encounter for Arjen Robben) the smoke that had built up in the exit to the locker rooms, which no one had noticed, outlined the figure of a short, but obviously sexy man.

The starting eleven stood there and gaped.

Micha began to look a little nervous.

There from the smoke. Emerged Andriy Shevchenko.

A collective gasp escaped from the starting lineup as the Ukrainian striker makes his way towards them, determination and the need to dominate evident in his eyes.

He faces off with Ballack, the rest of the players are a few yards away. Waiting with bated breath.

"Get your sexy up," says Sheva, because his English isn't all that good yet.

Micha hesistates, before replying weakly, "Go ahead, be done with it?"

"Get your sexy up,"

"Go ahead, be done with it?"

"Get your sexy up,"

"Go ahead, be done with it?"

"Get your sexy up,"

"Go ahead, be done with it?"

"Get your sexy up,"

"Go ahead, be done with it?"

"Get your sexy up," Sheva says one last time.

And Micha doesn't answer.

The music dies and even the crickets stay quiet.

The stunned silence in the stadium is bolstered by the erratic, uneven beating of their severely compromised hearts.

But JT breaks the silence with his wicked rapping skills.

"I'm bringin' sexy Ballack."

(Lamps: "Yeah")

And that's where it ends. The police come and Ashley Cole is accused of participating in yet another gay orgy.

Many libel cases are filed and Chelsea lose all their money and lose all their players. Not even their rich sugar daddy can save them now. And Liverpool win the FA cup, the EPL, the Champions League, and everything else.

Man United are there, still haggling over Torres, not realizing he went over to Milan (not Baros) already.

How's that for crack?

[mood| dorky]
[music|The Beatles-- Hippy Hippy Shake]

Objectivism is not Idiot-Friendly

2006-10-30T03:51:20Z

It's Peter Keating. Peter Keating. Such a forgettable name. The Fountainhead is cool.

I'm not very well-read. If that list is anything to go by. How sad. I must read more. More.

~~The Good Earth is the most shitastic book ever. Wang Lung and his godawful family deserve all the dysfunction and destitution. Pearl S. Buck was just some rich girl.~~

Yes. I am bitter. But that is one book that I did read. Regrettably.

Quite the contrary, actually.

Aston Villa match. Yes. We kicked ass. That beautiful match. It nearly cost me a simmering cup of hot chocolate, but it was worth it. The first half was love. I love new Dutch boy (yes, let's call him Dirk), even if he does look like a wet dog, most of the time (seriously, what's his his 'do?). Peter Crouch is RobotronicBambi!Love and Luis Garcia does have the ability to "exhilarate and frustrate."

Pepe Reina and I have the same shoes ♥.

I think that Momo was probably the most fouled player during the match. And in all other matches too (hello, Ballack). Why? Shall I pin it down to petty racism? Or is it because of the position he plays? Is it because he's huge? But not "adorable" huge like Peter? Does he, maybe, smell funny? Is it because the players enjoy, with sadistic satisfaction, seeing him sprawled on the floor, the patented "lost, offended puppy; OMGZ I can't believe he fouled me" expression?

I think it's because Xabi's too pretty to foul.

And if they even tried to, Stevie G. would totally exact his revenge.

Ask Frank. ~~That bastard.~~

That scramble in the penalty area in the second half was just priceless. Xabi on the floor, legs tangled with some defender from Aston Villa, the ball just wedged in between them, and everyone wondering where it had gone. Until... realization.

I also loved, when Xabi seemed to be contemplating shooting when he was in his half (again). He was about the strike the ball, but then he stopped, thought about it (because that's what he does) and passes it♥.

Rafa's tie just killed me. Over and over. Whenever they panned towards him.

Oh, and Finnish guy. Sami. ~~I do know a Finnish guy called Sami.~~ He's a great defender. Really. Just not so much when it concerns the penalty box.

My insides might be cauterized for this, but I didn't think that Stevie was all that effective during this match. I mean, he helped set up that awesome Luis Garcia goal, but aside from that? It killed me that he wasn't able to score, or even shoot on-target. He will score in the next game. He will.

Was I the only one who felt bad for Milan? *pats him on the head*

~~Czech Boys.~~

And then we have John. He kept wasting chances. Over shooting. But whenever they said his name. Riise. What? He said Risa? Risa? Was it?. Oh yeah.

ZomG! Ballack scored. Header. Beautiful header. "He's excellent in the air." Sheva should go back to Milan, because everything was better there. ~~I blame his wife.~~

Lamps scored too. Pshaw. He still sucks.

Rooney managed a hatrick. Cristiano Ronaldo got one in too. Whatever. I hate Bolton.

Robin scored. Yes. My favorite Dutch boy. He's been doing swell. I hate Everton. But I love the Nevilles.

These two are just...

~~Asking for it.~~
Precious.
I wish Cesc could smile as well as he pouts.

OH GOD! It hurts.
I need to kill Cañizares. Or at least shave him bald.
Iker looks like he's having a good time.
Xabi looks like he knows that he's committing a nearly unforgivable fashion crime.
Raul looks like he's trying his best to work out his outfit.
Puyol looks stoned.
Nando looks... uninterested.
Fernando is trying his hardest to give a smile. ~~Since Xavi's keeping Rau-Rau away.~~
Xavi looks tiny.
Pernia looks old.
Damn. My eyes hurt.

My four favorite people. ~~Seriously.~~
Who likes short shorts?
We like short shorts.

Why isn't Xabi there? *is outraged*
Aw, but they all look so adorable.
Luis looks exceptionally clean. And I had no idea that he was taller than Xavi, as this picture suggests.
Nando, again, looks uninterested.

Ah, there's Xabi.
And everyone else.
I don't think that Cesc is fond of knee touching.

I... I have no words.
All I see is... mullet.

Eyes bleeding yet?

I know mine are. You should see my keyboard.

Oh, yes. Not that you care about my well-being, but I am in a foul mood. I seemed to be programmed to wake up at eight in the morning everyday, which is not good. Last night, however, there was no electricity (which is bad enough) and I was feeling quite sick.

Thank God for drugs.

I went to bed early, because I was miserable. And I woke up at half past three in the morning. It wasn't pleasant. And, as I lay in bed, miserable, in pain, restless, the light I left on flickered to life and I just glared at it. Hoping that maybe if I tried hard enough, it would zap me and I'd be knocked out of conciousness. That'd mean rest and sleep right?

I fell asleep. Somehow. Woke up at six. And fell back asleep. Somehow. And woke up before ten. And now I'm here. Not eating breakfast. And being a pain in your flist.

Happy Birthday, Diego ♥♥♥.

Edit (01/11/06):

What did I say about Steven scoring? Oh yeah...

3-nil, bitches.

Luis got two more. ~~Risa~~ Riise got headbutted by some asshole. For the first time in a long time, Rafa was smart and kept his starting eleven. Bremen boys look like Rugby players. Fringles is just teh shiz. And Miro will score in his next match (which'll be against Barca, I think). Lahmie is love. I got to see Roque and go "squee!" many times. Bayern drew with that irritating Portuguese side, thanks to the goal frame. The lesser of two evils prevailed in the Chelsea-Barca draw. Liverpool is on top. Yes. And will go against PSV. They are going to win.

Thanks muchly. Good day. Happy flisting.

Edit (02/11/06):

Because I am loathe to start a new entry.

That match was glorious. Seriously. That starting eleven is teh shiz. I love how Crouchie ducked and Luis just volleyed it past everyone. And Gerrard. Oh, Gerrard. Oh. Oh. Gerrard. My. Our Captain Fantastic. Riise was just so cool when he got headbutted. He was all, "Yo, I'm bleeding."

I assume that Fernando was just trying to seduce John, but our red-headed boy was impervious to his charms. Did you see the way Fernando's hand trailed over John's backside when he ~~dived~~ ~~dove~~ fell? Fernando was just excercising his frustration through that headbutt.

Momo is the most fouled player ever. I think that he got that yellow card because he was tired. Oh yes, and Francesco is love.

Chelsea and Barcelona have no class. Whatsoever. And. Barca's goalkeeper looks like an asshole. I dislike him. And the entire team. ~~Well, no. Not exactly.~~

Good day again. Unless you didn't read this part, in which case I hope you have an incredibly mediocre day. Like I am having. Right now. Damn.

[mood| apathetic]
[music| Carpenters. Noisy ones.]

Home of Forgetful Dogs

2006-10-26T02:30:02Z

Seeing as how they show everything late in the Philippines, I cry you mercy if my very objective recaps are quite irrelevant.

Not that they ever were relevant.

I hate how Chelsea has so much money. But they have replaced Man U in my list of "Teams that are Sound."

Moving on. After a very stimulating dinner (due to the food of course, and not the company or conversation), I switched on the telly, punched in '32,' but of course got it wrong and instead fell into a French channel where this man and woman were asking if they could "buy eggs off" someone.

Yes. I would have liked to stay and watch, but unfortunately the call of '32' was too much, and after a few unnecessary punched buttons later, I found my way there.

It was the Champions League, and I nearly danced around my room when I found out it was Werder Bremen vs. Levski Sofia. I need those Roman Shades.

Anyway. I came in pretty late, and they never show the whole match. So. I was just contented, watching, squealing, whatever. And I finally realized the beauty of Torsten "Oh-my-he-is-quite-pretty" Frings. I was wondering why Miro "OMGZ!-HE'S-ADORABLE" Klose wasn't playing, but Bremen won the match anyway, so yey.

And then. Internazionale vs. Spartak Moscow, was it? Yes. The only good things about that match were the fact that Internazionale won, Patrick Viera, and erm, Figo (who isn't as pretty as everyone makes him out to be). Materazzi is a crap defender. ~~No, I don't like him.~~ That Ukrainian dude, Kaly-something-chenko was quite cool, his goal was pretty awesome. Internazionale won 2-1. Cruz almost scoring a hat trick for Inter and Kaly-something-chenko scoring this wicked goal. ~~Still, die Materazzi.~~

I was almost stuffed with glee by the time they showed the next match.

Bayern vs. Sporting

*explodes*

I've finally come to the conclusion that I don't like Portugal very much. I would, however, like to go to Lisbon and eat many a chorizo, but that's another entry for another time.

Anyway. Bayern is my favorite German club, for very shallow reasons.

It's because.

It's because...

It's because--

It's because I LOVE OLLIE KAHN.

Well, no. But really, I do love Kahn, he's like, keeper extraordinnaire. He's like a superhero. A really ugly superhero, but a superhero nonetheless.

But aside from him, there's Basti, who I really fell in love with during the match. He was just splendid. His goal was just marvelous and it's a shame that he got sent off.

The first yellow was unfair. He got the ball and the stupid player from the Portuguese club just happened to fall on top of him. The second... let's call it a routine foul.

Boo. Anyway, his goal was just brilliant enough to make me love him (even if he does look a tad bit like Schumi). Aside from his goal, until he got sent off, he seemed like the only Bayern player who was trying to regain possession!

Lu-Lu-Lukas, as much as he is awesome, kept losing possession, which was quite strange. Van Bommel too. Say, is he Dutch?

Anyway, halfway through the screwed up broadcast, Sporting got a corner. It was a decent enough cross into the penalty area, and Phillipp Lahm jumped up, but, alas, due to his "Luis Garcia-esque" stature, he was unable to hit the ball, and the asshole behind him got a touch on the ball and cracked Lahmie's head open.

~~Where was Timo?~~

Boooo. I was nearly in tears ~~(no, not really)~~ when he went off to get his head stiched up. Blood streaming down his face, pooling around his slick forehead. Boo.

I ♥ Lahmie. And Ollie Kahn (who is the reason why Sporting couldn't score. I mean, honestly, where was the defense of Bayern? Oh yes, he was getting his head sewn up). And Basti Schweini.

I was wondering why Owen, and erm, Roque weren't playing. However, I got to see the Roque's back, as the match ended, and I am quite contented.

Bayern won, of course. 1-nil.

Oh yeah.

And yes. Liverpool-Reading 4-3. Booyaaah.

And most of my lovely boys didn't play. Go Robbie Fowler! Yey!
---
ManUnited Fan: So? It's just Reading! And it's just the Carling Cup! 2-NIIIIL! Rooney is a hot, not ugly boy! 2-NIIIIL!

Me: Poohead.

Blame Shakespeare.

Anyway. I finally finished The Virgin Suicides. I find it a bit strange that it takes me less than an afternoon to finish around 250 pages, but weeks to finish the last 40 or so.

Spoilers Ahead.

They all die.

And what's more, they commit suicide.

Spoilers end.

I am now going to return to The Fountainhead. We've been separated for what? Four months? I need to start all over again, just so that I can be acquainted once more with Howard, Dominique, and err, dude that's trying to ruin Howard's life.

Also, I apologized to KatDLC. And she totally said that Liverpool could win. Yeah. Yeah. She said that.

Those Renault people are such dorks. They resembled malnourished North Korean girls who danced for their "Great Leader" or was it "Dear Leader?" Anyway, they were all so cute in their bright blue suits, holding up those silver dishes as they "raced." I'll admit that it was cute when they "crossed the finish line" and oh, look! It's a Renault!

Alonso and Fischiella weren't there. I bet Alonso's off somewhere, taking a bath in champagne and being a slashy Spaniard.

~~STOP TALKING ABOUT RACING.~~

I want 24 hours of football. My head would explode, but I'd be placated.

Bastard.

No, not really. I just adore ambiguos, yet annoying alliteration.

Pardon, if I may proudly present a picspam of puny proportions.

I'm bringing Sexy Ballack.

Germany was having trouble, what a sad, sad story.

Needed a new leader to restore its former glory.

Where, oh where was he? Where could that man be?

We looked around. And then we found, the man for you and me!

And that's where the song ends. And this is where you start falling in love with Mister "Sexy Back" Sexy Ballack.

Little Boy Ballack. Playing with his ickle ~~boy~~ bow and arrow:

For a King, he does have shoddy form. Although, I do commend his bow arm, it isn't sticking up like one of his subject's is, behind him. His hand, however, is floating, and he should anchor it underneath his chin. </know-it-all>

Once you go Ballack, there's no going back...

Armband!Love

Ask Torsten.

And Miro.

And Lu-Lu-Lukas. ~~OMGZ! Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Luca Toni! Think about it!~~

AND JURGEN!

Belle Balle:

~~Reminds me of Robbie Williams in Angels.~~ BLASPHEMY.

We all know that Micha is Marky-Mark.

Two very striking things about the picture above. 1: HELLO SHEVAAAAA! and 2: wtf is the King wearing? Micha is in dire need of a stylist.

Again, three striking things. 1: HELLO XABIIII! 2: Xabi's face-- it isn't as perfect as usual. *coughs* and 3: Micha's face-- a mixture of shock, admiration, and, dare I say it, longing?

Nah.

Don't do it Micha! You're shaking hands with EVIL!

Oh, yes. Back to the pretty.

HELLO OWEN!

Notice how it's hardly ever Ballack alone? Well, it's for you. Your monitor would totally short circuit due to Ballack's ~~slutiness~~ sexiness.

Teh laces.

King Ballack with his Queen Torsten "Who-was-already-mentioned-in-this-entry-and-given-an-apt-nickname" Frings, and his merry boy harem of young, bendy football hotties:

They follow their King faitfully.

I love Jens. And his yoga-induced state of mind.

Out next season, Die Nationale Mannschaft's very own interpretation of Billy Eliot.*

*Tutus not mandatory.

End picspam.

But wait!

They spelled his name wrong! *giggles*</idiot>

My first pic spam. *tears and sniffles*

Speaking about firsts, Bea As. and I had this pretty disgusting conversation, where I mentioned how our class was the only "virgin class" left. And then she had to add to the vulgarity of the situation by asking which class would "pop our cherry." My mouth promptly formed an abashed "o" shaped and I walked away saying, "Shame, Bea. Shame."

[mood| bored]
[music|This]

confusticate @ 2010-06-30T18:59:00

2006-06-28T10:58:56Z

Locked, but not really.