Ballard, WA

Bumbershoot 2009

Tyson Ritter

Tyson Ritter, All-American Rejects - Bumbershoot Seattle 2009

Art from years ago :)

Gelatinous - I

Portrait of the artist as a banana

The adventures of the amazing CAPTAIN SPARKLYPANTS and Froobin the Wunderboy! - Part I

Once upon a time in a faraway land, it was raining.

Normally rain is not a remarkable phenomenon - we all know and accept the water cycle; revere it, take it as fact - we don't think twice about it, except when we with breasts are walking on the streets in white clothes.

However, on this occasion, the rain was rather unusual indeed.

For, you see, it was raining frog speens. (A/N: incidentally, DO frogs have spleens?)

The hero of our story after me, Gonnie Reah (a banker), darted across the street and ducked beneath the awning of a shop, just missing a particularly violent barrage of the aforementioned stuff.

"Good Morning, Mr.Reah!" called the shopkeeper cheerily.

"Not at all," said Gonnie gloomily. "I've a meeting in half and hour and couldn't possibly get there on time."

"Oh dear. Incidentally Sir, have you noticed the weather lately?"

"Yes. A bit choppy, isn't it?"

"Rather."

Gonnie sidestepped a falling spleen, which landed on a nearby sack of rice. He noticed this and frowned disapprovingly.

"Most insanitary," he said.

"Don't worry, Sir. I'll have it cleaned up in no time at all. OY!" he suddenly called, craning his cranium in the general direction of the jujubes.

I stepped out from my quaters, presently a fourth-hand cardboard box, bespattered in gecko excreta. The shopkeeper insisted he was a fair man, and that, as I progressed up the ladder of success, my living quaters would improve considerably in size and value. By the end of this year I expect to graduate from my shoebox to an altogether larger, roomier- preferrably newer - box.

"Cooroo, Mr.BossPerera," I said, saluting him cheerily with our traditional shop salute.

"Clean this up!" he snapped. "And take your fingers out of your nose!"

"Aye aye!"

I removed the offending appendages from my nostrils and flounced flambuoyantly towards Gonnie.

"Good morning, Leonard," said Gonnie.

"Morning!"

"Have you noticed something strange about the weather?"

"Well it's raining frog guts, isn't it?"

"Most perceptive. I see you have grasped my meaning."

We fell into a meditative silence.

"Yeah, it's a bit dodgy," I said finally.

"Do you have an inkling as to why the heavenly weathermen are running amock?"

"I expect the union's on strike, Sir."

"Don't be an idiot, boy!" interrupted Mr.BossPerera suddenly. "If they were on strike then it wouldn't be raining anything at all!"

"Hmm," hmm-ed Gonnie, "You have a valid point."

"In that case it must be part of the masterplot of a super villain."

"But I thought Dr.StrangeGlove was on holiday in the Bahamas?"

"Oh no," groaned Gonnie exasperatedly, his brow furrowed like a country vegetable patch. "Don't tell me it's another impersonator? Last week's episode was bad enough."

"It took me ages to get those radioactive slugs out of my rose bushes," grumbled Mr.BossPerera wearily.

Again, the meditative silence. My thoughts began to wander down the street and up the skirt of the fishmonger's niece. She had hairy legs and lime green underwear. My mind's eye began to bleed, so it shut itself with due haste and retreated as a dog might under similar circumstances, yelping painfully as it did so.

Back in the shop, Gonnie Reah sighed resignedly.

"I suppose we'd better save the day again then, Leonard," he said.

"Probably, Sir."

"Shall I prepare your suit?"

"Yes. And you also, Leonard. Get ready."

As Mr.BossPerera dissappeared into the storage area to retrieve Gonnie's suit, I hastily changed into my own. I tied a tablecloth around my neck, pulled a pair of red panties over my head, and another floral-print one over my jeans.

"All done!" I said, glancing up to meet Gonnie's concerned and inquiring gaze.

"Flowers, Leonard?" he asked. His expression was sympathetic and slightly reflected his wonderment as to my sexual preferences.

"My other pair's at the cleaner's, Sir." My voice was muffled because I'd forgotten to cut a hole in my mask for the purpose of aiding speech.

"Ah."

Mr.BossPerera finally returned wth the garment, which, to Gonnie's dismay, was frozen stiff.

"BossPerera! Whatever happened!?"

"A lady customer walked in on me unexpectedly just after the incident with the slugs, and er...I hid your suit in the freezer."

"And then you forgot about it."

"Something like that, yes."

"In that case, I'd like a cup of tea as we wait for my ceremonal garments to thaw. Leonard, has it stopped raining?"

"No, Sir. But it's become more of a drizzle now. The guts are getting smaller and smaller."

We watched old Mrs.HootlePing open up her umbrella and listened to the calming sound of fresh meat hitting synthetic material stretched tautly across a wire frame. Little puddles of blood oozed from around the scattered piles of spleens. Gonnie took off his bowler hat and placed it on the counter.

"Excellent. Take courage, boy," said Gonnie with a flourish of his walking stick. His features rearranged themselves into one of cocky, playboy-esque charm, and his feet alighted upon an overturned soapbox, from which he continued his inspirational monologue.

"Today you are no longer a shopkeeper's apprentice idiot, Leonard. For the rest of this adventure, you shall be FROOBIN THE WUNDERBOY, sidekick to the amazing CAPTAIN F.S SPARKLYPANTS!"

"This is coming out of your pay, Boy," grumbled Mr.BossPerera.

But I could not wallow in my misfortune. How could I, when adventure lurked just around the corner like a headmaster lurking in the shadows, trying to catch truants? Adrenaline was surging through my veins, and the air was thick with the scent of testosterone.

Outside, it was still raining frog spleens.

AWAIT PART TWO OF THIS EXCITING ESCAPADE!

Note: In the event anyone actually reads this let me express my mild surprise in advance.

Bad Poetry - Reflection of a dead brain in the late afternoon

It is a
lonely
lazy
Sunday afternoon

Light
and sound
is muted
and dull

I can only hear
the hum
the buzz
of the afternoon haze

We are all drifting
in
and out
of consciousness

Surfing silver
dream waves
across the


Dreamsphere

Stratosphere

Atmosphere


Across the universe

In verse.

Inverse.

Writing a song
with no melody

Only words
connected by skeins of

IDEAS

Abstract thoughts
and barely-there
strands of
half-formed consciences.

We are all drifting in
with the tide
of our daydreams

What is
and is not real

Treads gently
as if on eggshells
the thin line
that seperates

Life as we know it

and life as it is.

Are we all delusional?
disillusioned?
dengue-ridden pus-frothy
skeletons
of our former selves

My lazy sunday afternoon philosophy
never made much sense to anyone but me

Especially when it is
inverse

In verse

At least poetry
doesn't need to make
grammatical sense.

Mills&Boon super sci-fi edition!

The Loveship I - In the Universe of Love and all things lovely

To Dami,
With hope that in the future
she will stick to the high quality
trash of AL Pieres and not of
women who think that men who
are over 35 and virgins are
cool and desirable.

"Captain T.S Sparklypants reporting for duty!"

He was tall and broad and bronzed like a greek god. His face was chisled and his features were striking. His hair was dark and curly and bounced attractively against his forehead like a pair of bunnies on LSD. He was the most stunning creature i'd ever seen, and i hated him more than a parent learns to hate Barney the dinosaur.

"What are you doing here!?" I cried.

He grabbed my wrist and stared deeply into my thighs eyes.

"I came here to find you, Agent Orange."

"I told you not to call me that anymore! And I'm done with that line of work. I'm through with it!"

"Orange!" he shouted, shaking a leg, "The fate of the known universe depends on you!"

"I can't! I took a sacred oath-"

"Frankly, m'dear, I don't give a damn!"

"Stop it, Sparkly! Those old gone with the wind role playing days are over! My work is here now, y'understand!?"

"Orange!"

"Sparkly!"

"It can't be done without you, Orange!"

We stared intensely at each other for 33.2 seconds. The two moons of the Planet Pseudogothica spun gently in the distance. The sexual tension in the air was unbearable. Somewhere in the background, Lt.Twirly began to dig his nose boredly.

I burst into tears. "Damn you to hell, Sparklypants!" I shouted, flinging myself into his arms. "Why did you take so long to come back!?"

"I needed to pee."

We proceeded to grope each other inappropriately. Lt.Twirly began to talk to his mother over the intercom about how his roses were coming along.

The gleam from Sparklypants' fuschia sequinned shorts and mickey mouse suspenders was hypnotic. His purple fingernails were psychotic, and his feathery kisses across my funny bone were electric.

I plugged a blender into my right armpit and it began to whir at full speed.

"You seem to have this weird effect on me."

"Oh, Orange!"

"You never told me what the T.S in your name stood for, btw," I said, between smoochies.

"Guess."

"Erm. Todd Spingstone."

"No."

"Totally Stupid."

"No."

"Thunder Stud?"

"Close, but no."

"Then I give up."

"Alright then, it stands...for...."

"What?"

"Too Sexy."

"Oh, Too Sexy Sparklypants, I love you!"

"I love me too!"



Suddenly, the Universe was saved. No one knew how, exactly - we only knew vaguely that it had something to do with LOVE, the most amazing sunshiny, warmy happy feeling that was engulfing every fibre of Sparklypants' pants. Whatever plot that had existed before the moment of our lovemaking had completely vanished from the existance of existance itself.

"Oh, Look, Sparkly! Space snow!"

"Doesn't that green glow remind you of our first date at the radioactive turnip factory in 3042?"

As we drifted peacefully into the intergalactic sunset, Lt.Twirly logged into the ship's mainframe computer and began to play solitaire.

The End (sort of).

Storytelling

Write a note

Tell a story

Make it funny

Make it gory

Twist the pieces

Twist the truth

Most amusing

Most uncouth.

One of those days

Dear Friend,

Today is one of those days that remain etched into the deepest, darkest recesses of your memory, cropping up on occasion to either startle or alarm you. It’s one of those days that starts off normal enough; your alarm clock rings, you turn it off; it rings again, you throw it at the wall. You wake up with only fifteen minutes to spare before your lectures begin and set new world records for the most cornflakes inhaled through a single nostril in under twelve seconds, and the least amount of time taken to hobble to the door in mismatched shoes.

Getting out of the door is problem enough. You realize that vandals have ripped off the door knob so you spend thirty seconds wondering how on earth you’re going to stop burglars from making off with your television set, the only item in your house worth anything besides your grandmother’s antique teapot collection.

SCORE! You find yourself at the bus stop and practically assault people to get inside. Five minutes later you realize you’re headed in the opposite direction to your desired destination. Groaning, you descend from the vehicle at the next halt, and are immediately attacked by a swarm of flies. Brilliant. You’re just in front of the fishmonger, who seems to enjoy hoarding meat well-past its prime. Perhaps it wards off evil spirits. Perhaps.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re flying into the lecture hall. You are forty minutes late. You arrive in a disheveled heap, making up excuses in your head. ‘Sorry, my alarm didn’t go off’ or ‘my mum had to be rushed to the vets’ or ‘it was a stampede of hippopotamuses, Sir’ – then you realize the lecture hall is empty. Classes have been cancelled for the day.

So you see, the day starts off, as I have just described, quite normally.

For me, the problems began after lunch, at about one-thirty in the afternoon.

I was walking down the street to catch the next bus home (damned things!) when I was presented with a box of cookies by a girl scout. They cost more money than I had on me at the moment, so I declined. The little girl looked rather upset, so I offered to take her back home and give her one of my paintings instead. She looked thrilled.

Once we had arrived, I took her up to my studio/kitchen/bedroom/din

ing area to take her pick of my work.

“How about this one?” I suggested, showing her one depicting a mermaid playing the banjo.

“No…” she said.

“Well, how about this?” I said, pulling out a brightly-coloured illustration of cockatoos.

“No…”

“This?”

“No.”

“This???”

“Um…”

“Yes?”

“No.”

I sighed. “Look, decide for yourself. I’m going to make a cup of tea. Want one?”

“Yes please.”

Ten minutes later, she picked a watercolor of the bay in Unawatuna.

“Finally!” I said. “Biscuits?”

“Yes please,” she smiled.

I led her to my small, moth-eaten sofa, draped in blue and orange cloth to disguise how hideous it really was. I placed the packet of biscuits on a stool and drew it closer to where we both sat and attempted to make cheery conversation.

“So,” I said. “What do you think?”

“What do I think of what?” she asked.

“Well everything, really. My art, my home….me.”

She paused in mid-chew to contemplate. “I suppose your art is okay,” she said at last.

“Only ‘okay’??”

“It lacks depth. And perspective. And originality.”

“What can be more original than a mermaid playing the banjo!?” (I was rather upset. That piece was a personal favourite).

“Lots of things! And also, your style is flat – sort of like a dancing bear with no legs.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Well, your work shows that your personality is rather naïve, almost dim-witted, with a certain…I don’t know…like you’re afraid to take any risks.”

“How old are you again?”

“Ten.”

When I was ten, my vocabulary was limited to simple words like ‘cat’, ‘dog’, ‘radish’, ‘toothpaste’. My sentences were therefore along the lines of ‘let’s feed the cat/dog radish-flavoured toothpaste.”. How on earth did this child know what perspective was?

I cleared my throat. “So what do you suggest I do about it?”

She shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m only ten.”

“Right. So what about everything else?”

“Your house looks like the inside of a cesspit. Your complete lack of initiative and innovative is clear from the fourteen different layers of grime on the floor. Your books are piled haphazardly in different corners of this house, and even make up the missing leg of your dining table.”

“Ah, well-”

“Your bedroom looks like it’s seen too many orgies and your ceiling is cracked. Your toenail clippings are inside the fruit bowl.”

“Umm…”

“And look at yourself! Are you really where you want to be in life right now? Judging by your appearance you have no love interest. Your hair is scraggly and your ears are too big. You have bags under your eyes and your clothes look like they came from the Salvation Army. Your nose has boogers in it and your jewelry looks like a collection of soda-can rings. You have no job worth mentioning and your life is dull and monotonous. You have no friends because if you did, they’d be here right now helping you to get your life back on track. You have no family because, even if you do, you’ve ignored them for so long that they’ve forgotten you exist. You’re failing your university exams because you’d rather be doing something else than studying (the floor is littered with your old exam papers, all of which you appear to have flunked) and you’re probably going to end up working in a grocery store putting price tags on items for the rest of your life, because your employers will think you’re too irresponsible to man the cash registers. You can’t cook because, if you could, you would have offered me a decent cup of tea and not this vile radiator-fluid substitute, so all in all, you’re a complete and utter failure. And,” she added, “you smell really bad.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, her from exhaustion, and me from bewilderment. I let the words sink in and absorbed everything she had said into the pores of my being.
Numb, I decided to drop her home.

Dear friend, this letter is to please ask you to sell all my paintings to charity, if they’ll take them. They’re probably so horrid and wooden that they’d rather use them for firewood instead. Please convert my home into an animal shelter and donate my books to the library. Send my mother ONE painting of your choice (if she’ll have it) and tell her I’m sorry for ignoring her. If she doesn’t remember who I am, you’re welcome to keep the piece for yourself, provided it doesn’t give you palpitations of the heart. Donate my clothes back to the Salvation Army. Remove my toenail clippings from the fruit bowl.

Thank you for all your time and cooperation. I wish you the brightest of futures, and the happiest of lives.

It is thus on this darkly humorous and melancholic note that I end this letter, and my life.

Leaves

Flowers

To siblings 1&2

Don't grow up.
Stay small.

Fight me every day.

These moments are fleeting,
barely-tangible things,
flying by fast
on silver-silhouetted wings.

Don't run.
Stay awhile.

Don't grow up
Or tall
Don't change at all.

Don't rush fate,
Or time;
Be late.

I'm in no hurry to
Let you grow
Let you go
Let time flow
Like a river

Deliver
The goods.

Deliver
Me.

Say that you'll be there
Ten years from now
Twenty
Thirty
Sixty-five.

Don't grow old
Stay small
Don't grow at all
Don't forget,
Or regret
Regretting,

Be as you are.

Fight me every day.

Only then can we cheat the murky, fleeting memories
That time threatens you will be.

An Ode to Hart

Hart, O Hart,
Succumb not to the brain fart
Ruining your mental facilites
With diabolical ease
Do not plague us so
Don't presuppose we know
Or understand
Your verbal diarrhoea
We'd rather not be here
It's true and a fact
We'd rather have none of that
Bull that you spew
The ounces of sense you make
Are alarmingly few
SPARE US the mental anguish
Allow us not to languish
In the recesses
Of your philosophical abscesses
O Hart, we cannot lie,
If you weren't already dead,
We'd will you to kindly fuck off and die.

Bill - Colour

A bit shoddy, but.... :)

Stupidness!

...And some retardedness. Oh my.

Expressions - Family I

Expressions - Poochie

Faces

Fotocatches!

Lost pictures

Fire

Something wicked this way comes

More Pics

By the sea

Natural

The first thing that runs through your mind when woken up at 1.30 in the morning and being told that someone you love is dead is “I really should be feeling more cut up about this.”

You think - I really loved him, so why the hell aren’t I tearing my hair out and rolling around on the floor? Moments pass. The bearer of these sad tidings watches you carefully. They’re wondering the exact same thing. Okay, thinks the messenger. Wait for it. Waiiiit for it. Waaaaaaiiiiit for iiiiit….

Nothing happens.

I tell myself that I’m in shock. That it’ll hit me eventually. Just not now. I’m not cold and heartless. I’m not. I’m just in shock.

I suppose this is natural. If there is even such a thing.

Natural is the sun rising in the east. Natural is feeling cold during the winter. Natural is what comes up must come down. Natural is every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. Natural is when ice floats.

I don’t know a damned thing about “natural”.

Are emotions ever natural? On one hand you can argue that to feel intense emotion is a natural thing. Something inescapable. On the other, you can argue that violent fits of passion are unnatural, dangerous things. Emotions reserved for psychopaths. People who can turn a pair of tweezers into a deadly weapon.

I sit back and tentatively allow this wave unsettling calm wash over me. Is it normal that I’m not afraid? That I’m not crying?

Waiiiit for iiiit…

***

The day is cloudy and overcast. Perfect funeral conditions. The ride up is quiet, mostly. And when I say quiet, what I really mean that every thought in my head has tripled in volume. The radio is maddening static, hissing and cackling like fireworks. We cannot tolerate this madness. We cannot tolerate this madness, emotion.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she says, and I want to claw her eyes out.

Emotion does this to you, I suppose. Maddening emotion.

I’m waiting for the explosion,

But nothing happens.

I suppose this is natural, if there is even such a thing.

Waiiit for iiit…

***

It’s the little things you miss the most. The stupid things. The things you took for granted. The things you loved the most without even realizing it. The stupid smiling eyes. The clumsiness. The bully in him. The way he turned the whole house upside down. Chaos personified.

‘Little brother’, we called him.

Malli.

***

We stop to buy flowers. He loved flowers. He loved to pee on them. Sometimes, if there wasn’t enough rain, the plants would wither and die. What a way to die – to have drowned in his urine.

But that rarely happened. After all, an up-country drought would be like an unrigged “democratic” election; like a perfect banana; like me handing in homework on time –

Ie: highly unlikely.

Everyone who hears is in tears. But not me. I tell myself this is natural. That it will hit me eventually.

Waiiit for it…

***

We bury him on the bank just above the vegetable garden, below the peach tree, surrounded by haleconias. It starts to drizzle. The sky is cloudy and overcast; perfect funeral conditions. The wind bites our skin as it whizzes past our cheeks. The cold is percolating our bones. We’re shivering but refuse to move until the deed is done.

GG is digs furiously. Chocolate-brown earth flies past his face, red and clammy. I can’t tell if he’s crying because the rain gets in the way, blurring the details; making the scene a little more surreal.

I’m waiting for the explosion. There’s something glowing white-hot inside of me, threatening to push past the numb disbelief and make its’ grand entrance. As sibling places flowers and incense at his head, the white-hot glow intensifies.

This is it, I think.

But there is no explosion.

The pressure that’s built up in my chest deflates like a balloon.

Disappointing anticlimax.

It’s only after I turn and walk away that I realize I’ve been crying. I suppose there was an explosion of white-hot emotion after all, only it was silent, like an explosion in space; in a vacuum.

Just because the explosion is silent doesn’t mean it never happened.

I cannot tolerate this madness, emotion.

Maddening emotion.

I berate myself for being a drama queen; for being melodramatic and hypersensitive. I tell myself that I’ll be perfectly fine. That I’m probably caught up in the moment and that I probably don’t give a damn he’s dead at all.

I realize that I loved him without realizing it.

He was just a damn dog.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks, square my shoulders and walk inside for a cup of well-earned coffee.

He lies on the bank just above the vegetable garden, below the peach tree, surrounded by haleconias, covered in wet earth.

I tell myself I’m fine. I ignore the pressure in my chest and complain about the cold.

I ignore him as well,

And pretend this never happened.

I suppose this is natural, if there is even such a thing.

Happy Christmas!

Cries in the dark

And the photoshopped version...

Orange

Orange! Sweet, sun-kissed orange
You warm the cockles of my heart
And the soles of my feet.

Orange! Vibrant, welcoming orange
You vivacious, wonderful thing
That gives life to neon street signs.

Orange! Tender, juicy orange
You light up the world, you light up my life
You draw attention away from my ugly toes (Because my shoes are orange, duh.)

Orange! My Exciting, gentle, citrussy orange
You are so very bright and orange
Like an orange.

Orange! Pungent, aromatic orange
I bathe my hair in your life-juices
For you are purely orange juice.

Orange! I love you so!
You warm the cockles of my feet
And you give life to neon street signs.
You are tender and gentle, juicy and exciting
You carry the greatness of your kind within your weary peel
Orange! There is only one word that would do your splendor justice
And that word that sums you up is simply...
Orange.

Trusts

Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.

Restlessness.

Tuesday afternoon blues. Tuesday afternoon ambles on.

“Anyhow, the topic is: Beneficiaries’ rights.”

We’re startled out of our dozy state. My brain is still stagnant. Pens on paper. Click, click, click. Shuffle, shuffle. My hand is moving to the beat of his accent, but I do not comprehend. I look at my notes and all I see is blah, blah, blah.

Get me out of here.

I’m writing a story. I nudge the paper into her face; sleeping, squashed into the table. She ignores me. I hate her. I pick up my pencil and begin again. This story is never ending. This is the story of my life…in Trusts.

Get me out of here.

***

She shoves a statute into my hands. After staring at it incomprehensibly for a few seconds the tiny molecules of my brain make my hand write my name on the top-left hand corner. Right. Satisfied with my handiwork, I turn to the story.

“As equitable owners…”

Crap. Only seconds too late I realize that Jayasinghe has started the lecture again. Although I start writing only half my brain is there, paying vague attention. After months, no, years of practice the other half that is imagination flits lazily between the note and heavily lined memories.

I finish printing the last line and shove the paper towards Anjalie. Bemused. Wondering. What sort of travesty will she come up with next…?

***

“Representing their interest to them…”

Jayasinghe drones on, drawing us in. No one quite understands what he’s saying, but he holds us captivated by the rise and fall of the tone of his voice. I myself have given up on the note. I have spent the last ten minutes decorating Mariam’s file.

Green T.

Fade in, fade out. Blending colours. Emerald green and ripe paddy field green. As green as new leaves, as neon lights. I’ve always loved colouring.

Highlights now. Swirls of black break apart and stretch the length of that T. They stretch for miles and mile before they meet again; unexpectedly as old friends. They intertwine and scatter drops of ink across the horizon.

The horizon – Mariam’s emerald T.

“…can terminate the trust the moment he turns sua juris…”

I am lost in my own kaleidoscopic imagination.

Jayasinghe lectures on.

***

I hurriedly glance through the story whilst writing the note. Giving up on the lecture is not an option for me. I idly wonder how much studying we’d get done if Jayasinghe morphed into Johnny Depp. Or, better yet, if Anjalie morphed into Wentworth Miller. I imagine I can feel my brain smile rapidly.

Finally! He has stopped. My brain is still stuck in limbo. I can hear Anj and Mariam talking. Blah, blah, blah. Anj is humming. La la la. I don’t think words can penetrate my brain.

Mariam said a bad word.

***

This is the story of my life in Trusts. Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.

Restlessness.

Tuesday afternoon blues.

Tuesday afternoon ambles on.

Earth

Untitiled - I

Chapter One

They call him The Watchman.

They say he guards the secrets of the city. My city. Big city, sin city- Metropolis. They say he knows things that even the Chairman doesn’t know. Things that the labs don’t know. Things that even our grandparents never knew. They say he knows what its like.

What it’s like beyond the gates.

What it was like before the plague and the pestilence and the disease. What it was like before the Registration Act. What it was like before the oil ran out. What it was like before the war.

I know this man. I’ve known him ever since I was a little girl. I know that he lives by the West gates; the only one courageous enough to brave the terrors of that place. I know that he is a chain smoker, although he doesn’t always smoke cigarettes. I know that he has a crick in his left knee and a scar running down his arm. I know that his eyes are two different colours – one green, one blue. I know that every time it rains, he has nightmares.

I know his real name is Fourie. Jaco Fourie.

They call him The Watchman.

I call him Father.

…xxx…


They lost a lot of good men out there, he says. Not men. Boys. All of them boys, fighting someone else’s war. They lost a lot of good dreams out there, he says. Big dreams. Great dreams. Dreams that only come twice in a lifetime.

I’m sitting on an overturned wooden crate and washing my feet in a puddle. It’s really damp here in the sewers, not to mention it reeks, but Father seems to rather enjoy the solitude. We’re talking about rainbows today. He tells me they’re made when sunlight is refracted through raindrops. He tells me about leprechauns. He tells me about Ireland, about shamrocks, about a good pitcher of beer.

He’s halfway through explaining a story (The Wizard of Ooze?) when the cars draw up. Sleek black cars, slinking around the garbage like cockroaches on a warm afternoon. Midnight black. Blacker than Father’s skin.

“Come here, baba,” he says. His voice is stern, so I do not dare disobey.

The men in suits make their way around the broken pipes and piles of dirt, kicking the filth out of the way with their expensive designer shoes. Armani. Calvin Klein. Nike.

Father steps in front of me and says nothing, but he smiles. He has no teeth. He lost them during the rebellions. All seventeen of them.

The Chairman steps out from the cluster of men in suits. His own is a rich plum colour. He is wearing a rare and exotic fragrance. It must be eau de cologne. It must be essence of jasmine. It must be what the rainbows smell like, above the smog of the city. I breathe in this scent and sigh blissfully.

“Mistah Chairman.” Father smiles toothlessly and good naturedly. He extends his hand in greeting, but the Chairman doesn’t take it.

“Watchman,” he says. “What do you know of this Messiah character?”

“The Messiah?” says Father, scratching his chin. “I know a bit about him. What would you like to know?”

“Who is he?”

“He’s one of us.”

“One of us? One of you, you mean.”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“Tell me his name!”

“I only know him as The Messiah; just as I am only known as The Watchman.”

“Where is he?”

Father rubs the back of his neck. “Last I saw him he was at the north end. Or maybe it was east end? I couldn’t say for sure. He moves, that one.”

“What does he look like?”

“Like you’d expect him to. Small-made. Tanned skin. Dark hair.”

The Chairman splutters in outrage. “But that could be anyone!” he cries. His loud voice echoes through the dingy sewers and scares a family of geckos who scuttle hurriedly away. Everything falls silent while the Chairman pauses to calm himself. The only sound that now punctuates the air is that of his heavy breathing. He always fights to keep his temper around Father.

He can’t help but be frustrated by Father’s calmness. Nothing seems to disturb him. Not even the shiny black cars or the men in suits. The Chairman brings them to intimidate us, but Father doesn’t pay them the slightest bit of attention. I think the Chairman is scared that nothing, not even his power or influence seems to agitate him. The Chairman is afraid that he is losing control.

But what he doesn’t realize is that down here, power and influence mean nothing. The only thing that matters here is staying alive.

“Is it true, what they say about him?”

“Is what true?”

“That he’s the last king. The one.”

“I wouldn’t know until it happened, sah.”

The Chairman’s right eye begins to twitch. His silver-blonde moustache quivers with suppressed anger.

“You think you’re so great!” he finally spits, face contorted in fury. “But I know better! I know about you! I know more than anyone! Murderer! Thief! Liar! Scum!”

Father smiles, unperturbed. When he speaks, his voice is soft and pitiful.

“Oh, how much you know, mistah Chairman, sah; and how little you understand.”

The Chairman throws us a look of contempt and stalks off, his entourage following him like ants. “Useless!” he says. “Don’t know why I bothered coming here in the first place.”

After they leave, Father leans against the wall and sighs.

He says they lost a lot of good men out there.

No, not men.

Friends.

Family.

Ourselves.

More than anything, he says, we lost ourselves.

…xxx…

Hand and foot

Poochie's hand and foot. We had fun!!

God's annointed

He is the candle to our night

He is our holy, guiding light

He is the shining morning sun

He is God's annointed one.

Bones

Sketches of stuff

By the way, the background of the last drawing is made up entirely of my writing (in this case, criminal law notes).

Cyanide and Happyness

I happened to stumble upon this webcomic that is random enough to support. Yay.

Here's the link: http://www.explosm.net/comics/15/



Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

The adventures of Stickman in Stickland upon the advent of a year in limbo

WRITTEN BY TAMMY, THE SAGACIOUS ONE
..
..

hey i started this in JULY 2006, and its taken this long for me to get of my ass and type it to u...

The Adventures of Stickman TM in Stickland:

Upon the advent of a Year in LimboPurpose or Literary Intent: TO Delight the life and times of ANjalie Leonora Pieres

The Beginning

Yet another sunny day dawns in Stickland. Stickcrows tweet and warble like they have nothing better to do and poop freely on unsuspecting passers by. Stickorganisms accept this with little rancour because the guiding principle to a happy and content sticklife is to accept that stickshit happens.

Unfortunately, for Stickman, all is not well with him. He plods along the dusty road (plod plod plodplodplod plod ploddle plod.)

Stickmans facical expression is decidedly morose.

Sorrow and a fair degree of despondency waft from the crown of his head in creamy clouds. Stickman coughs because he inhales bits of cloud and this gives his nasal guardians migrane.

Whilts plodding along, Stickman encounters a fair number of Stickants. Luminous blue with orange pinstripes, they are easily spotted. (Except when ones eyes are closed).
The Sitckants march in a highly efficient and rapid manner with a discreet glint of mania in their shiny pink eyes. Stickman pauses for thought, slightly to the Right of the Great Column of Advancing ants.

Stickman thinks with even more gusto than usual (still maintaining a despondent air, if such an attitude is possible.) Circles of So Pink scented smoke begin to emanate from his ears and he has to sit on a conveniently located mound for extra support.

Stickmans thoughts and ruminations are as follows:

" The ants... they live such an orderly life. They march, in unity, together, in a unidirectional formation. Their very tread imposes a tangible rhythm to the comparitively chaotic lives of Stickpeople. Above all, they are Ants with a Mission. They know where they are going, and where their destiny lies."

Drumroll

(Stickmans voice has cracked in 3 places. It has morphed into the voice of God in a 1950s movie-eg. the one where Charlton Heston is Moses)

"Thus the ants march on. Assured certainty in this tremulous world of Stickshadows. They each have a small role to play in the Grand Ant Plan and the fate of each any is inscribed on the earth it treads on.

Enter the voice of Bart Simpson as the Voice of Stickman

" I, on the other hand, am seated on a mound of dust, watching the ants go marching one by one (HooraHH, hooraHH). I have no purpose , no function and I am decidedly deficient of purose and function."

Exeunt B. Simpson

At which point, Stickman is drained of all testosterone. Assuming the God voice has drained him of all of it. Stickman now has a voice that is completely indistinguishable from Stickgirl's.

Stickman continues to perch upon the mound and keeps as quiet as possible and tries to think positively about the situation.

"I am doomed doomed doomed doooooooooooooooooomed!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How can I ever show my face in Sticktown again? My brotherhood will laugh at me and no Stickfemale will have a straight face when Im around, besides my great Aunty Ethel!!!" (Great-Aunty Ethel is as deaf as a coconut.)

At this point, Fate casts a benevolent eye on Stickman and sighs. A gentle warm wind ruffles stickmans ears. Fate then giggle and prods Stickgirl onto the scene.

The column of Stickants, has, incidentally, marched deep into the bowels of Anthill 73B for collective swigs of icey Elephant House Ginger Beer which is what makes their sting...sting.

Stickgirl staunter jauntily onto the scene, Heavy Duty Feather Duster in hand.

" wow. dig the atmosphere of gloom and dispair!" she remarks astutely.

Stickman realises that she is near and tries to look invisible. Stickgirl squeaks as she sees stickman with a rapidly vanishing left foot. Stickmans concentration is interrupted by Stickgirls shrill shrieks which occur at a frequency of one every fifth second. So he scowls at her instead.

"Dont you SCOWL at me Stickman".

Stickman, gathers what little dignity he has left and slings it over his shoulder. He then tries to walk away in a studied manly fashion.

Stickgirl is deeply offended and displays her irritation by picking up a handfull of dust and flinging it at Stickmans head. Stickman has his back to her and is blissfully unaware of the very real danger he faces of being Clobbered from Behind.

As the handfull of dirt makes contact with the base of his skull, Stickman is greeted by his old friend, Ye Olde Orange Crate. It lands squarely on him like a crate of falling oranges. Stickgirl, a hardened madam, turns around and trips off into the sunset.Oh heartless world.

The orange crate begins to hum the "Dont worry, be happy" tune and stickman begins to realise that he has been hit by an orange crate that fell at terminal velocity. Feeling slightly annoyed, politely bids the orange crate to fuck off and die.

The orange crate, being in a relative position of power begins to whistle Good Vibrations (by the Beach Boys).

As stickman lies there, a prone and 2 Dimesnional mess of crushed bone, muscle and nervous tissue, he drifts off to the land of nod.

Big mistake.

Stickmans life force begins to seep away from him, into the ground and Stickman is drawn into the black hole that is Death. So you really cant blame him for missing the approaching boom of a flock of airborne Stickchickens breaking the sound barrier.

Drawn by the luminous orange of the oranges in the orange crate and the stickmans glistening body fluids that are oozing from the crate, the Stickchickens swoop and dive towards the splodge that was once Stickman.

It took a couple of minutes for the Sitckchickens to realise what had happened, but when they did, the gathered around Stickman , clucking anxiously. Pale blue tears of sadness trickeld fromt he eyes fo each bird as they realised that the central figure of Chicken-Toe Veneration (Stickman--honourary head of the Chicken-Toe Cult) was almost no more.

Stickbirds on the whole are not famed for their mental acuity, but in times of trouble, a Stickchicken can usually be relied upon to do the right thing. Slowly, the birds formed a circle around their idol. A single deep cluck of sorrow emanated from each feathered gullet and each stickchicken glared with beady eyes at the offending crate.

The crate began to realise that all was not right, and ceased to hum. Frankly, the crate felt threatened. Crates are not intrinsically evil (Bar the Arms Crates) but are not particularly sympathetic to their victims either. However, under the gaze of thirty seven stickchickens, the crate began to quail.(who wouldnt?)

Within 3 minutes of this visual attack from the chickens, the crate had experienced a substantial range of unpleasant physical phenomena. (eg: goosebumps, pins and needles, pruritus (itching), nausea, IBS, hot flushes and a runny nose). The crate felt its slats expanding and contracting and the oranges huddled even closer together because they had a nasty feeling that their number were up.

Some of us in life always display a certain degree of orange-ness...characterised by a 'go with the flow but end up in the shit' Life Pattern.

The crate began to quiver gently in the still air and stickman felt his life forces returning. The crate began to tilt and shiver violently. The oranges were terrified. One small orange began to leak juice. The crate gave an anguished yell and fell to one side.

The oranges all died.

Stickman, however, rose gently from the ground, fully restored (except fro the fact that he was 2 dimensional) and smiled benignly at the stickchickens.

Amazed by their own powers, the stickchickens began to hoot with glee and affectionately pecked at stickmans feet, before flying off into the sunset.

The oranges were still dead. sorry everyone.

Fin

An ode to Influenza

An ode to Influenza

By Undivine Intervention, Suds and KJ

..

..

..

Influenza, Influenza, Influenza divine
You are so slimey
You resemble aged swine
Your nature is whiney
And so is your hiney
This is because you talk out of your ass
And it's mildly disturbing that it's also from where you pass gas.

You come during spring and summer and bring
utter misery and doom and gloom within
My muscles and my head
My brain is so wet
You get in through my hole and up my nose pipe
And your little germlings run about as if it were christmas night.

Influenza, Influenza, Influenza so fine
You'll hurt me, You'll kill me, still won't you be mine
Crawl under my sking up and far up my nose
I'll still stop the doctor from striking you blows
But if you should cheat on me with another
I'll chop you, I'll slice you with my grass cutter.

'Cos Tom, Dick and Harry
Are all suffering from this malady
And Anne, Jane and Alice
Are mourning the loss of their sanity
So therefore i say, time and time again
I don't wanna be left out, out cold in the rain.
I hate antibiotics and want to suffer in peace
Influenza, oh Influenza, come embrace me please.

You are so sublime, Influenza of mine
Your touch, though slight, consequentally has a giant's might
When you dance, my fair darling, the angels sing
My nose becomes runny and my ears start to ring.

And now it is over, our love affair
Why, oh why is life so unfair?
And now as I stand upon the bend
I see my life coming to a cruel dead end
The doctor says I'm running out of time,
Influenza, Influenza, you have always been mine.

The Adventures of Anj and Tammy Chapter 5

Chapter five

...

...

“Have a nice day!” I said, plastering a stupid grin on my face.

Tammy was not in the best of moods. “Why the hell do we have to go undercover as McDonald’s employees?” she asked, dusting sesame seeds off her hands.

“ONE, we’re getting paid, TWO, we’re getting paid, and THREE – McDonalds is the forefront of Dr. Alikakka’s evil scheme!”

“Ah. Now tell me why we couldn’t have just snuck into his lair via the sewer?”

I rolled my eyes. This child clearly did not get it.

“ONE, because we’re getting paid, TWO, because we’re getting paid, and THREE – because I just did my hair and I wouldn’t really appreciate it taking on the odor of human fecal matter.”

“Ah.”

“Tammy! Anjalie!” called Mr.BossFernando, the manager of the Kollupitiya branch. “Bring up another six boxes of hamburger patties from our holding area in the sewers!”

“Aye aye, Boss!” I said, snapping my heels together and giving the man a quick salute. “Come on, Tammy!” I said, grabbing her wrist. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for!”

“I thought you wanted to avoid the sewers at any possible cost?” she said sarcastically.

“Aaaapo! If you want to be all high-and-mighty then you’re free to go to Arpico, hari da, missy?”

“What? Anj, I-”

“Sssshhh!!! Follow me!”

With a dramatic flourish of my right arm, I threw Tammy through the back door and bounded in after her. Needless to say, the result was not pretty.

“URGH!” she exclaimed upon landing in a pile of pig muck.

I rolled my eyes. “Can’t you be serious for once? Look where you’re going, will you?”

“Oh, sure!” she sneered. “After all, you always know what you’re doing, right?”

Now you know me, no? Sarcasm rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

“Huh? Yeah, I usually do.”

“Oh, God. Nevermind.”

I shrugged. Really, sometimes Tammy was just too strange. Like her reaction that day in Form two when she found me eating peanut butter and poll-sambol sandwiches; or when I wore my underwear over my trousers and a nose ring to scare away the evil spirits living in the canteen…and lets not forget the day she made Milo™ with TWO SPOONS OF CHOCOLATE ONLY! (dundundunnnn!!!)

“Anj? Anj? ANJ! I’ve been talking to you for the past ten minutes! I bet you weren’t listening to a word I’ve been saying!”

“I WAS!” I cried indignantly. “You were talking about Merl Aunty’s thyroid condition!”

“No, I was actually wondering how much time we have left before the hamsters are released.”

“Oh. Well, I’m close enough.”

“Indeed.”

“What were you saying again?”

“I said, I was wondering how much time we have.”

“We have until four hours after the next power cut.”

“Four hours until after the next power cut?”

“Four hours until after the next power cut,” I replied, nodding. A sick sensation was spreading through every fibre of my being like tuberculosis in a washing machine. Something was defenitely wrong here. I could feel it.

“Four hours until after the next power cut…” I repeated, scratching my chin thoughtfully.

“Four hours until after the next power cut!!!” cried Tammy in panic.

Oh no! I thought. Not this again!

Concentrating all my energy into a little plastic teacup, I realised that the only way to get through this was to communicate telepathically with Tammy.

Tammy! I telephathicky-fied.

Anj? Anj, wtf is going on??AAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You need to calm down, woman. If you don’t, it means Dr. Phlemulus has already won!

You’re right! She thought, and paused to contemplate the absurdity of the situations we end up in.

Can you explain this strange phenomenon? I asked.

According to my calculations, she thinked, it would appear that the odiferous fumes of this sewer are interrupting the impulses in our liddle neurones, hence we cannot communicate with each other through speech…and all we can say is ‘four hours after the next power cut.’

But why that?

She shrugged. I dunno.

A pause, then;

I have an idea!

What? I asked.

I brought with me these custom-made gas masks from that time we posing as sewage technicians to steal the Jade Buddha back from George Bush and return it to China in return for our bounty of bounty!

I like bounty, I reminicised. It tastes nice, for coconut.

Here! She said, throwing me one. Wear this!

Thanks.

Once we were properly attired, I opened my mouth to speak.

“That was a great idea, Tammy,” I said, patting the lass on the back.

“I know,” she said, grinning (although I couldn’t see this since we were both wearing gas masks).

Suddenly, we heard voices approaching fast around the bend. “Shit!” hissed Tammy as we both ducked behind a pair of large plastic C.M.C garbage bins.

“What men aiiyo come what, no?!” exclaimed one.

“Aney what will you men what come, so?”

“No, meya! Big Boss hari ants in his pants-la itsims.”

“They’re Dr. Alikakka’s evil Henchaiiyas!” whispered Tammy. “Daymn! And they’re speaking in some strange primitive language! What do we do now?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Let me handle this.”

“Anj, NO-!”

But it was too late. I stepped into the light and view of the three evil henchaiiyas.

The tallest one, the one with a handlebar moustache and a blue sarong raised his head to greet me.

“Aah, Nangi!!!”

…

To be continued…

Under the sea

Just in case you were wondering...

These were the balloons at my birthday party in December. YAAAY Andre and Stephen!!

For originality, 100%!!

...And for those of you who were wondering about the puppies...look how big they are!!!

They is faaaaast asleep. Awww...

Untitled for the meanwhile

say its made up entirely of writing/text.
world im a bisexual bunnyrabbit
i dont really care. :D

...

Himansu, you are the biggest retard in the universe...but thanks for posting this for me anyway!

What Himmy was really trying to say was that HE was a bisexual bunny rabbit, and that this entire drawing is the result of my studying...its made up completely of words, as those who know my studying technique will observe. Look closely. Can't you make out the different factors affecting migration? No? Oh well.

The adventures of Anj and Tammy 4

Th Adventures of Anj and Tammy

Chapter 4

...

The cheque lay in my hands like a little neon Pink Made in Taiwan Handwarmer.The Velvet Hippo Accountant (Rupert), usually an amiable fellow, glared at me from amongstthe surrounding (metaphorical) shards of fractured Productive Employee Image that Anj and Ihad so casually destroyed.
He was also very very jealous of the money that i was now thedoting owner of.

''You and I will go far my friend,'' i whispered to the cheque.

"PSSSSSST!!!!"

Anjs forehead and eyes peered over the windowsill.I frowned. This was not right, our office was on the 7th story above the Galle Road, therewas no WAY anj could have...

''SCALED THE WALLS USING A ROPE MADE OF DENTAl FLOSS!!!!!!!!!!???????????'' i shrieked, ever the one to err on the side of caution.

Anj sniggered at my utter gullibility.

''no, you fool, i came up in the lift and THEN climbed out of the next door window.''

Anj and i had relocated from the window to a store room, one floor below. At this rate wewould never get out of this building.

''At this rate, we'll never get out of this building!''

''Well, at least listen to what i found out when i PRETENDED to be a lil crazy...dont COUGH at me like that!!..''

''Ok, so what DID you find out? By the way, Mr. BossPerera gave me a cheque for $100.''

''ReeeeallY,,we need to cash it SOON!'' Anj explained, eyes widening.''Everythings starting to make sense now...rememeber the Saustifigous Plague Bearing Genetcially Modified Hamsters...''

''Yes, anj, that image remains vividly imprinted on my retinas.''

''Well,'' she enthused, waving aside the sarcasm stemming from not having eaten for the last12 hours. No marmite, remember? '' After I fled the building, i saw the Evil White Catstaunter past, and i followed it...to the Lair of Dr. Phlemulus.''

''HOW??? You were only gone for like 7 mins!!''

''...TIME WARP,random physics phenomena, time flies when youre having fun, tammy, i DONTKNOW! it just happend!''

''ok, ok, so, and THEN????''

Anj paused for thought and breath. She sat down on a convenient box, and solemnly watcheda startled familly of hoonas scuttle out accross the floorboards.

'' Phlemulus has amassed all the hamsters in holding area under Mc Donalds. Theres a swarmof THREE THOUSAND of the vicious sqeeatures, waiting for Phlemulus to unleash them intothe water system. I SAW THEM!!!''

''Sqeaking masses of fur, fleas, leptospirosis and Saustifigous Plague?''I inquired politely.

''YES!!!''

''****!!!!''

''Finally, i managed to sneak away unnoticed, although i did see that diabetic white felinetwitch suspiciously. BUt, i DO know when they will be released, 4 hours after the next power cut.''

''And when exactly is that?''

''Four hours after the next power cut.''

''Aha. I see.''

There WAS a flaw in this statement, i was pretty sure, it was just proving difficult to see Where exactly...

''Four hours after the next power cut.'' I muttered to myself.

''Four hours after the next power cut.''Anj repeated after me.

''Four hours after the next power cut.'' I turned and glared at her.

''Four hours after the next power cut?''She stAred back at me, a puzzled look on her face.

''Four hours after the next power cut!!!''I raised my voice in panic.

Eyes wide with fear,we both screamed.''FOUR HOURS AFTER THE NEXT POWER CUT!!!!"

Why do I keep saying that? I thought,as blood rushed to my frightened brain. I tried tospeak that very thought aloud, instead, i yelled.''FOUR HOURS AFTER THE NEXT POWER CUT!!!!''

With a crushing feeling of dread, that was mirrored in anj's eyes, i realised that these were now the only words i was physically capable of uttering. Roll on Saustifigous Plague..........

Merry Christmas!!!!

We had fun :)

Merry Christmas, all!!!

The Adventures of Stickagent Man2

The Adventures of Anj and Tammy - 3

Chapter three

......

“Tell me I’m dreaming.”

“You’re dreaming.”

Tammy turned to face me, aggravated. “Gee, thanks!” she said sarcastically.

“You asked.” I said, shrugging. “Now, are you ready to listen to my theory?”

“Shoot.”

“Okay. So, we both know that the evil genius, Dr. Phlemulus Alikakka lives in a secret laboratory under a bush in Peru, right?”

“Right.”

“And do we know what his uncle does for a living?”

“He’s a….plumber?”

“Exactly!”

“Oooookaaaaaayyyyy……”

“And what is his favourite animal?”

“The…umm…uh…”

“Take your time.”

“Hamsters?”

“Very good. And what are Hamsters?”

“Cute?”

“Besides that.”

“Furry?”

“Nope.”

“Small?”

“NO!!!”

“Then!?!?”

“They’re rodents!”

Comprehension dawned on my companion’s features. “Ooooh!” she said.

“Indeed! And what do we know about rodents?”

“The plague!” she gasped, and clasped her hands over her mouth in horror.

“Exactly!”

“So what you’re saying is that Dr. Phlemulus is planning to release little hamsters infected with the plague into the plumbing of this city and unleash a wave of terror to turn its populace into mindless flesh-eating zombies?!”

“Yes!”

“NO!”

“Yes!”

“NO!!”

“Yes!”

“NO!!”

“YES!”

“NO-”

“Look here, ladies,” interrupted our boss, who’d been observing our diatribe for the past fifteen minutes, “either get some work done, or get out. Labour’s expendable, you know.”

“CAPITALIST!” I screamed.

“Plebian.”

“CORRUPT, BIGOTED MISER SCUMBAG-”

“Anj!” wailed Tammy, embarrassed.

“-ANTISOCIAL REPUBLICAN-”

“Slave.”

“-TERRORIST SATANS INCARNATE-”

“Flunkey.”

“-PROCRASTINATING NARROW MINDED IMPLODING-”

“Lapdog.”

“-CHICKEN HEADED SMELLYFACE SPOOTHEAD!!”

“Imbecile.”

“MEASLES!”

With a final cry, I threw myself out of Tammy’s cubicle and ran down the stairs, raving like a lunatic.

Sighing, my boss gave Tammy a cheque for a hundred dollars. “Here,” he said. “Get yourself some sleeping tablets. And while you’re at it, get Anj some professional help.”

“I think she’s beyond that, sir.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Indeed, sir. Goodbye.”

.........................

NOTICE : It's come to my attention that people are taking offence at the title of my blog. Therefore I'm open to suggestions. Seriously, this is getting annoying. Grow up, will you? I'm not a satanist!

New arrivals!

The newest members of our family, to go along with the other four dogs, three cats and human peoplelies! Aren't they gorgeous? L rescued them off the steets in Nuwara Eliya. Seriously, who the hell is retarded enough to abandon animals this cute?!

Stick(agent)man, Episode 1

Episode one of the new and improved Stickman!!!

Click to enlarge

Hands

The adventures of Anj and Tammy 2

Chapter Two

...

a continuation, while taking a break from practicing eeeeeeeevil bmat questions which should be banned as an instrument of long term torture and causative factor of profound psychological damage.

ahem....excuse me, this is the first thing creative ish tht ive written for about ...er.mmm/...you can guess how long...so edit as u wish as long as u dont kill me off by fire, water or surgical maggots gone wrong.( im writing as me, btw, as in...from iinside tammys mind)

ahem. (again)

"No Marmite."

"...Marmite"

"...ite..."

Those foul words of doom seemed to resonate inside my skull and i felt as though i was drowning in a sea of Marmite-less-ness trauma. Waves of pain engulfed my toes and my head began to throb, as Anjs voice seemed to recede into the background. A red and magenta haze surrounded the office and everything turned blurry.

(Cue for Puddle of Mud background music)

Indeed.

From the depths of my shock induced loss of consciousness-as-such, i felt a slap accross my face. Thwacked out of this state of Marmitelessnessfreakedoutedness, I opened my eyes wide.There was Anj, raising her hand to slap me again.So, i poked her.

Now those of us who know/love/loathe/pluck the eyebrows of (take your pick) anj, know that, when poked, she emits a new sqeak/squeal evrytime. This was Squeak Of Outrage No. 78643, Version F.

Facing each other, and realising the Gravity of the Situation at Hand, we put aside a small difference in communicative style. For, what is a poke/slap/potato kokis amongst friends? Nothing. (well,maybe not the potato kokis.)

Slowly, we exhaled.

Exhales

inhales

exhales

inhales

inhales.........

woman, ur turning a darker shade of purple

EXHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALES.

"The time," I muttered, "has come for us to make a plan".

"A WHAT?"

Yes, we have to resort to organisation. Psych urself up...or, down, as it were.So, (speech marks irritate me, sorry anj,)

T: We have no marmite. What are the implications of this besides not being able to make marmite sandwiches?

A: "Not make marmite sandwiches"???? How can you SAY it so calmly????Dont you realise, freakling, we are doomed doomed DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMED!!!!!!!!

(Anj begins to wail) (I begin to wail) ...female sympathy pains.

T: enough of this wailing men, theres something worse than not being able to make marmite sandwiches.

A: Worse??? What do you mean WORSE???? there is nothing worse!!! NOTHING I TELL YOU, NOTHING!!!!!!!!

(anj looks at the water cooler for inspiration.) (American Water looks back and sighs.)

T: Oh yes there is, you know what i mean.

Evil music and white fluffy cat belonging to Evil Genius wanders in.

A:Gasps

T:Yup.

A:GASPS

T: I KNOW.

A: NO.T

T: yes.

(guys who are getting a sense of deja vu...deal with it...tis a girly thing and wont change anytime this side of the next millennium)

A: Well. Well...I think i know how to deal with that.

T: (Now its my turn to gasp) You do??? What? HOW?

......Please wait till episode3 for the absolute genius and general smart-ness of Anj to be revealed.

The amazing misAdventures of Stickman continue!!

The product of my Common Law class. Click to enlarge.

The Adventures of Anj and Tammy

Chapter One

...

It was a dreary October afternoon when I stumbled into that office, drenched in sweat. I remember the dull hum of ceiling fans, circulating the same rancid air and not really being of very much use to anyone. I remember the sound of my heart, beating fast and loud, drowning out all coherent thought. I remember the look on her face, twisted with worry. She opened her mouth to speak, but I heard nothing. I’m not exactly sure as to whether she said anything at all; but that day – that day – everything was different.

“Anjalie?” I finally heard her say. “Anj, what’s wrong?”

Still unable to respond, I flopped onto her desk, paying no heed to the paperclips that dug into my flesh. I may have bled, but who knows?

“Anj,” she repeated. “Anj, talk to me. What happened?”

I sat there for what seemed to be an eternity, staring blankly into the depths of her eyes, gaping like a fish out of water. My life had turned to clay. Everything was stagnant. It was almost as if time had stopped. I could no longer hear the ticking of her broken clock, the one that looked like Mickey Mouse but was actually Bruce Springsteen. The clacking of fingers on keyboards seemed to have ceased, and I could see no evidence of life on the street below. I could feel little rivers of perspiration running down my back and pooling in my underwear.

“Anj!”

I finally found the strength to speak.

“W-water…”

“What?”

“W-w-wat-water…”

With that worried expression still etched onto her features, she dashed towards the filter and returned with a plastic cup filled with icy-cold H2O. At that point I paused to appreciate the nature of the cup. Closing my eyes, I observed that it had an exceptionally positive natural energy, very much unlike that of my boss. Running my fingers over the rim, I noticed that this positive energy was being nulled by the presence of an uncharacteristic chip – that is to say, a stumbling block in that little cup’s walk of life. Its weathered exterior, once displaying a bold motif of Tweety Bird, was now-

“Anj, you’re drooling.”

Aah, my saviour. She was always doing this; rescuing me from the forces of ignorance.

“Tammy,” I cried, clasping her hand.

“What?”

“Tammy!”

“What?”

“TAMMY!”

“WHAT?! Ew, Anj! What did you just wipe on me-?”

“TAMMY!” I screamed. I was getting desperate. If Tammy didn’t pay attention to the fact that I was crying hysteria into her bosom, then no one would. Granted, she was the only one who tolerated my melodramatic outbursts.

“Uhm…are those eggshells in your hair?”

“Never you mind the eggshells,” I said, and, gazing determinedly at her skeptical expression, pulled a couple of slimy pieces from my head. “We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“A crisis?”

I nodded.

A pregnant pause followed in which we heard nothing but Thareef giggling excitedly as he raced past our cubicle towards the ladies toilets with his camera in his hands.

She slapped her forehead. “Oh, God. What have you done this time?”

“I was innocent!” I cried, and beat my breast.

This defensive mechanism failed to work, however, and Tammy threw the Tweety Bird cup at my head. It missed and hit the accountant, a pink velvet hippo named Rupert. In this way the object lost a lot of its positive energy, and having gained much of Tammy’s negative, became a destructive force, one that was particularly harmful towards pink velvet-

“I KNEW it! I knew something would happen. Why, Anj, WHY!? It hasn’t even been a week since that last escapade of yours!”

“Look, it’s like I keep telling you – I never aimed that giant wad of putty at the Spanish Ambassador, okay?”

“Yes, but while that’s true, you can’t overlook the fact that you were actually aiming at the Orphanage!”

“HEY! They were getting on my nerves!”

“Just because little Billy didn’t lend you his crayons!?”

“They need to learn how to share, al’ite?!”

“He’s six years old, Anj!”

“So?! When I was six I lived in a cardboard box with sixteen other little siblings. We had only one crayon between us all, and we still managed to share!”

“That’s bullshit. You have two sisters.”

“Yes, well, a little putty never hurt anyone.”

“Explosive putty?!”

“Whatever,” I said, and returned to the topic at hand. “Like I said, we’re in the midst of a crisis.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to help you this time.”

“But you must!” I exclaimed. “The fate of the world as we know it rests upon your weary shoulders!”

Tammy ignored me and continued to ramble to herself. “How was I to know that she was trying to demolish the orphanage? Why does this sort of thing happen to me? Why am I cursed with a friend like her? Did I remember to hang the washing out to dry? When did I-”

I grabbed her hand again and gave her what I hoped was a pained expression. She snorted. Chortling inside, I knew she had given in.

“Alright, you’ve got me,” she said. “What’s the big emergency this time?”

“You might want to sit down – this may come as a bit of a shock.”

“I gathered as much from your emotional display,” she replied, amused.

Taking a deep breath, I counted to ten. Then I let her have it.

“There’s no more Marmite™.”

Her scream resounded like a tidal wave crashing against the shore.

To be continued...

Poochie

Happy Birthday to the littlest sibling, Poochie! Of course you won't be able to read this (at least not now, seeing as you're only three), but in due course, when you're thirty, balding (Thathi's defective genes'll probably get you, knowing our family's luck) and well endowed in the midrif area, we can both take a trip down memory lane.

It terrifies me a little, how fast time flies. Moments are fleeting, intangible things in our world. Like the day I first saw you. I thought: 'damn, are all babies that ugly at birth?!' and then had to reprimand and remind myself that you were my sibling, and that I had to be nice. Of course I never bothered to think like that when THE Sibling was born, but I was only five then.

Will you remember when I first held you, and worried that I'd let you fall?

Will you remember when F, A and I made all those special trips to Thathi's place, just to watch you sleep?

Will you remember that pillow I sewed for you on your first birthday, that was really uncomfortable and unbelievably ugly?

Will you remember when Sibling made you cry, and then squealed and poked you some more because she said your lower lip did that weird pouty thing that made you look so damn cute?

Will you remember that day you found a slug and called it 'Poochie'?

Will you remember running to Thathi every time G, Sibling or I did something you didn't like, and then complained that we were 'troubling you'?

Will you remember that time Haalmassa and I fell asleep and you couldn't stand the thought of being alone so you jumped on our backs and pretended like you weren't trying to wake us?

Will you remember pointing at L's dog's crap and screaming: "PUDDING!" ?

Will you ever remember the atrocities you commited regarding a certain kitty by the ungainly name of 'Chicken'?

Will you remember that you cried everytime we left, even though we promised to come back?

I hope so. Because moments like these mean everything.

Here's to the littlest Poochie.

Happy Birthday :)

Moonlight

Shadows

Head

Through the looking-glass

A reflection of an alternate reality. I basically filled the whole page in pencil, and then erased the design. Interesting effect, yes? Am slightly dissppointed the eraser wasn't the best...so i couldn't go into as much detail as i hoped...

Jungle

Completed at work. Yes, i know- I'm a very efficient and productive person. Thing is though, why bother working when there're other people to do it for you?

Icky Icky

Frog

A frog, by my cousin chaya!

Anime

This little obsession was all Anya's fault. I swear. It has nothing to do with me! Okay, fine. Maybe it does have something to do with me. But just a little. I drew these about two years back, so forgive the somewhat...stunted style.





Vash, from Trigun. Honestly, everyone should read that manga. It's something something something; a mix between the wild west and star wars. It's one of those psychologically screwed up comics, with a healthy dash of blood and gore. Thoroughly enjoyable.



























This was initially supposed to be a character sketch of Cain. The manga, by Kaori Yuki (the same woman who did Angel Sanctuary, for those of you who care), is as messed up as anyone could imagine. As you may tell, i tend to enjoy psychologically screwed, thriller-type...stuff.














A character sketch for a comic i was supposed to develop with a friend. Nothing came of it, though. Such a shame...

12am

Tis a pig! I think...















Mother Nature, perhaps? God knows...


















I will not take any credit for this pic...it's actually Himansu's. He hasn't put it on his blog, though, so i thought i would...and yes, i know it looks nothing like me! Oh well.



















Joblessness abounds at 12am :)

Quiz me

Take this stimulating quiz, created by yours truly. Believe me, it's nothing like you imagined.

Go here

url : http://www.quizyourfriends.com/quizpage.php?quizname=060703005728-587643&

The God of Carrots

Disintegrate

More doodles.

One of those days...

Kaleidoscope

In our darkest hours

Nostalgia

I discovered my f4 almanac within the depths of an ancient cardboard box last night and couldn't help feeling incredibly old. I mean, this was three years ago. I hadn't even taken my OLs, and now...I'll be leaving behind the monotony of school life forever. Kinda depressing, actually. Anyway. I thought i'd share some extremely random things (no wonder we're considered the 'reject class'!!) with the rest of the world. Bear in mind that they are, as i have already mentioned, extremely random. Revel in our randomness! MWahahahhaaaa...

…………



Tammy's hand!! 100%BS :P
Try figure out what it says. I can't, and I have the original!
And people tell me I think too much...


















Rasha's logic. Don't even ask.








..................

The amazing (mis)adventures of Stickman™ continue!!


After his last tiresome adventure, Stickman™ decides to venture towards greener pastures by educating himself in the art of nasal decoration. His faithful pet, Stick-bat™, roosts peacefully from the brim of his hat in a desperate attempt to keep away from the light. For, as Stick-bat™ discovered, little illumination can irritate one whose eyes are closed. Stickman™, who is still pining after Stickgirl™, somersaults gracelessly over a stampede of wild Uranium Stickchickens™ (famed for laying platinum eggs) and lands SPLAT in a mud puddle. Stickman™ bursts in to tears. Feeling sympathetic, a chicken makes its way towards him and…craps on his toe. Stickman™ squeals with disgust and Stick-bat™ is woken from his dream about flying maggots. Sniffling in surprised drowsiness, Stick-bat™, unaware of his surroundings, lets go of Stickman™’s hat and plummets earthwards, landing headfirst in a pile of chicken deposits. Slightly miffed, Stick-bat™ gazes Stickman™ with an expression of puzzled devotion. Stickman™, on the other hand, is not puzzled. On the contrary he is pretty pissed off. He yells. He screams. He wrings the neck of the offending stickchicken and is brained by a blizzard of 2lb platinum eggs.

Dripping gray matter and cerebrospinal fluid, Stickman™ staggers off
and collapses on a nearby…pile of manure. He shakes his sticky little fist at the sky and curses the heavens, daring the deities to make his life even more miserable than it already is. That’s when Stickgirl™ saunters by, her BATA™ flip flops a-flipping and a-flopping on the pavement. She sees Stickman™ sitting in a pile of manure and utters a loud and degrading “GROSS!!” before clamping her nose shut. Stickman™ colours and is just about to explain when a large ORANGE CRATE™ (filled with oranges) falls from the sky and flattens him. Manure flies in all directions, and a generous portion lands on Stickgirl™’s new dress. She wails in anguish, and with one last pitiful moan, turns on her heel and flees, only to be intercepted by…

…StickBulldog™, who, lathering at the mouth (he swallowed a can of shaving cream), lunged for Stickgirl™’s slender throat. Stickgirl™ let out a supersonic wail and sprinted for the nearest tree. StickBulldog™ galloped after her, baying as he went. Stickgirl™ reached the nearest tree. Alas! It was a 20ft coconut tree!

“Daymn!” yelled Stickgirl™, stamping her BATA™ slippered feet. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Stickman™ appeared. Bespattered in the excreta of various species, Stickman™ lunged at StickBulldog™. StickBulldog™ paused in mid-bark. He took one sniff at the aura surrounding Stickman™, turned tail and ran like heck across the street. Stickgirl™ turned to face stickman.

“Is that a new cologne?” she asks, ‘cuz it stinks like shit!”

Stickman coughs to hide his unease and mumbles something about heavenly punishments. Stickgirl™ finds herself in an awkward situation. Just because it’s polite to kiss the stick-chap who saved your life, it doesn’t mean it’s very pleasant. Anyway, like an answer to her prayers, an ORANGE CRATE™ falls from the sky and flattens him. AGAIN! Stickgirl™ this as an opportunity to flee, and races as far as possible from her putrid-smelling admirer. Just then, when Stickman™ wonders if things can’t get any worse a thunderstorm breaks out and its starts to rain…

The rain falls down on Stickman™, washing away excess orange pulp. Suddenly Stickman™ realizes that the rain is washing away all the colours in Sticktown. Stickriver is awash with a multitude of hues and three stickpeople bathing in it come out indigo, blue and cyclamen. Stickman™, on the other hand, is preserved from the redistribution of pigments and remains his original colour. Peeping out from the depths of the ORANGE CRATE™, Stickman™ gets a splash on magenta on his nose. Stickgirl™ is now nowhere to be seen. Registering this obvious fact, Stickman™ pauses. Then he bursts into tears. Stick-bat™ squeaks sympathetically. Sitting down on the ORANGE CRATE™, Stickman™ ponders his next move.

Just then, Johnny Depp saunters by, and who, being a super-hunky superstar has also been spared of the overall redistribution of pigments (Stickman™ is spared only because he is the tragic hero of this tale). Anyway, chance has it that Stickgirl™, just returning from the public showers and also preserved of re-colouration, spots Johnny Depp from 150miles away. She squeals and runs after him, and upon interception is asked for her hand in marriage. She, being a devoted fan of the character, accepts. Unfortunately this whole scenario takes place in front of Stickman™, who, upon the exit of the happy couple, rips off his big toe and chucks it into the river. He curses God before proceeding to the nearest cliff. Yes, suicide is clearly the best option.

Stickman™ stares down the crevice, hot, salty tears pouring down his sticky little cheeks. He takes a deep breath in preparation to jump and curses heaven one last time before…a large ORANGE CRATE™ falls on his head. Stickman™, who had not really the guts to commit sera puku, screams as he is shoved off the cliff. He plummets a squajibillion feet before he is blinded by a sudden flash of light….

And Angelina Jolie appears. Lara Croft (aka – Anj Jolie) causes Stickman™ to levitate three feet above a rocky precipice (cross Lara croft with Harry Potter and see what you get). Stickman™ dangles unconscious, so close but so far from his doom. But then Lara Croft gets hit in the face by a southward bearing wind, carrying Stickman™’s unique perfume of eau de orange et shit (the thing is, no matter how bad a guy looks and how crap his personality is, a bad smell is definite grounds for dumping him). Angelina Jolie does just that. Stickman™ hurtles towards his doom at terminal velocity. Luckily today is, as has been said, not your average day in sticktown. It is the day of the annual stickmattress carnival, where stickmattresses of every shape, size and density converge down in stick-gorge for their annual celebration of the unique nature of their species. Fortunately where Stickman™ is about to fall to his death is the site of the164th weight competition, where the heaviest, softest but fluffiest mattresses gather to judge their own greatness. Yeah, but then they all see Stickman™ hurtling downwards and move out of the way as they dislike blocking the path of continuity.

The background music becomes sad and sorrowful as Stickman™’s mangled corpse is squished by the heavy mattress of the year. The ORANGE CRATE™ descends, slowly, but with a sad air of fatefulness, and drops for one last time (in this episode at least), landing upon Stickman™’s shattered cranium.

HOWEVER WE OVERLOOKED THE SMALL PRINT IN THE CONTRACT(stickman™ is immortal) SO DESPAIR NOT, FAIR READERS, AND WAIT IN ANTICIPATION FOR THE NEXT EPISODE OF STICKMAN™!!!!!

.........

The logic of a 14-year old...

1. The sudden death of the Tellitubbies has not been solved due to the fact that most people hate Tellitubbies.

2.J'adore les jellybabies

3.'Chemistry' is just another way of teaching kids chemical warfare.

4.Coffee drinking makes you legally high.

5.HaNdWrItInG Analysis is AlL BALONEY

6. You are made of endorphins. When you grow they gey erased.

7.As you get older your sense of gravity opposition weakens. You sag.

.....

I...can't think of anything else to say....

Tunnel

This was mostly done, would you believe, on paint. Anyway since i'm somewhat poorly coordinated you must excuse the flaws.

I must say, i'm not too disappointed... :)

Life

My life in a nutshell.

Beast

Dunno wtf this is...but I still think it's pretty cool.

Having your cake

I am not a rational person.
I don't think I ever will be. Therefore I feel free to admit that I strongly believe in having your cake and eating it too. Unfortunately for me, others don't, and because of this i will crawl back into my little hole before someone else gets hurt. Too late for that now. Does time really heal all wounds? Is it possible for someone to not want healing because they don't want to forget? Everything is so much simpler when you block it all out.

Don't listen, don't speak, don't breathe. They're watching your every move. You can't afford to be yourself when the consequences are dire...for somebody else. To quote that song by U2:

You've got to cry without weeping,
Talk without speaking,
Scream without raising your voice

The silence here is deafening.

I think I'm going mad.

Doodle

Yes, i know i shold be studying, but i can't resist a doodle now and again. God knows what the heck it is... Vine lady? The unincredible bush? Boob tree? We can only assume so much...

Pandemonium

Aah, Vijay. Who could forget this brown-nosing assistant librarian? With his good looks and boyish charm, he's always in the centre of attention. This attention may be mostly negative, but that is of no concern to us.

Himmy and i really went to town with this :D
True, my almanac's rating has suddenly shot up to "R", but one cannot deny that if you squint really really really hard, this could actually look like Vijay! Pardon the fact that this caricature is 'anatomically correct' (is it though?)

We really need to find something more constructive to do with our free time...







The God of Carrots! I must say, DW looks smashing!
(DW, Tammy and I)


















Sketch of a model from a random magazine. Speaking of mags, doesn't it piss you off that all of them consist of 95% ads, 3% editor's notes, and an additional 2% of articles addressing issues that nobody cares about!?
Yes, i know that this woman looks disfigured. So sue me.









Aah, my baby. Our piece for the art exhibtion- a 6ft box. All sorts of paint - acrylic, watercolours, wallpaint - on plywood. We discovered too late that the wood absorbed most of the paint, making the scenes seem dull. Sighs. Damn our cheap-ass school to hell. Himansu and i really did a lot better than i anticipated. GO, TEAM!
(Special thanks to everyone else who helped, too!! Rarararara ; Zainab; Lakmini...etc)








Mucked around with Himmy's 'Transformation of the Parasite'. Sorta looks like it's on fire...
















xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.............................xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A Levels began on the 15th of May...i'm going insane. So far i've messed up History unit3, and Bio W1. Joy!
Also, I am moulting.
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Was really flattered when Charlotte pointed out that someone (Dilsiri, right?) liked my art enough to put it up on his blog. God, i love you. You are the cream in my cream bun, the mango on my mango tree, the issa on my isso vade, the -

Ookk....and here i am descending into mental freakoutedness. I'd better sign off before it spreads.

Until next time,
Farewell.

Monotony

It's difficult to adjust to the monotony of life just as you've begun to enjoy it. Life's a bitch. Had my hair cut - now i look like a mop (and i'll have none of your smart-ass comments!).
Its strange how people adjust to boredom.
For example, i tend to either write or draw, however my sibling (the middle one, the most annoying, and the most likely to end up crucified) enjoys spending her time glued to the computer. Even now i have been given an alotted time - she says: "you have one minute", i think: "who gives?"

Anyway, the point is that its somewhat disturbing to watch my sister's eyeballs fizzle and contract from excessive exposure to the radiating monitor. Somehow i can't seem to fathom why or how she enjoys it so much...i mean all she does is repeatedly browse through people's Hi5 profiles after all....must be that age...

After conversing with himmy on the subject matter of their conversations, we both came to the conclusions that:

a)She's on crack
b)She needs immediate attention from an expert
c)She is extremely jobless
d)She needs to shave her legs
e)She needs to get enough sleep to realise that people are incapable of donning polka-dotted tables.

Obviously by now you have noticed that i do not approve, however do not be alarmed at my evilness - this is all part of the big-sister therapy she is recieving...humiliation is the best medicine. Or maybe not, seeing as in some cases it can drive one to commit suicide (but lets not think of that).

anyway.

Until next time.

An experiment with geometrism. Somehow i like the background best - it resembles mosiac. Come to think of it, in my old house my sister and i designed a mosaic pattern on our bathroom floor...

















Doodles come naturally to me when i'm on the phone. If i'm ever talking to you and it suddenly seems like i'm not paying very much attention, then it's because of this. This particular piece has not very much significance, therefore i won't waste time trying to psychoanalyse it (like FNT would).








I did this in response to the start of a new school term sometime last year.



















Random dooldle

Chaos

An extremely random collage of mine. Used black card as a base, mostly because I didn't have anything else. The cuttings were taken from a series of Femina magazines.
the top right-hand corner is completely chaotic, not because it represents my soul (which i guess it does, now tht i look at it) but merely because i couldnt't be bothered.
Be confused!

C'est la vie

Ah, life.
The weather here is totally unpredictable. One day it's boiling hot; the next day it's pouring with rain. Today was eventful in its uneventfulness in that many uneventful things occured. Am i confusing you? Thought not.

The rain stimulates many things, our minds not being one of them. Today, i flunked two tests. Not uncommon (screw the Nazis...and who gives a shit about what type of restriction endonucleases are needed to sufficiently dismantle the plasmid of an agrobacterium?). I DID, however, manage to concentrate enough to realise that unless the school starts feeding us actual food instead of wicked things (such as the much dreaded cow snot within the chicken pies and the puppy poo in the chocolate cake) we may actually survive our required 12 years of education without having to succumb to the death that results from food poisoning. Honestly...

Today many of us were free. Free like birds. Free like birds with wings. Free like birds with wings who...fling...things.

Right.

ACTUALLY, that's all bullshit. We were not free; that is unless you feel that not having lessons amounts to freedom.

Anyway, that's besides the point.

the point is that when we were jobless, Luke and Lulu pleated my hair and i looked pretty. Then all the flowers bloomed and, as soothing music drifted by like sailboats on a calm sea, the sun caressed my pretty little face and everyone loved me.

Sorry, got a little carried away there.... O.o

All insanity has resulted from the mentalfreakoutedness associated with sitting ALs, especially since they're in LESS THAN A MONTH!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEE!!!!

Peace be with you, brothers.

or sisters.

or animals.

or Luke.

....wtf?

Time

This is actually my grandmother, taken about 70 years ago. It's actually quite creepy when you think about it...how time flies....
I think this is at Kingross beach in Colpetty...OR, i could be mistaken. Heck - for all i know it could have been taken during my grandparents' honeymoon on some remote beach off the coast of Jaffna! Anyway, i just thought it would be interesting to put this up. It's pretty.

Singing mushrooms!

Today, i recovered from the depths of my extremely musty wardrobe, a document of significant significance. That is, of course, if you consider a random piece of verbal diarrhoea inspired by the sweat-induced aroma of our form4 classroom during a particularly dull (not to mention riotous) chemistry lesson significant. At least Tammy and i were doing something constructive. lol. Her contributions will be bold, and mine will be...normal. Prepare to be amazed, confused and just...wonder what the heck is wrong with us! By the way, it remains title-less, plot-less and devoid of any intelligent thought whatsoever. Also, it is incomplete, but Tammy's agreed to chuck bits in whenever. ANywayyy...

...

There was a pink velvet hippopotamus called Rupert. One day he was sitting on a log and thinking about life. He sneezed violently and a wad of fairy dust flew out of his nose. Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of Singing Mushrooms™ . They sang and danced around the log in red and yellow polka dotted skirts. They sang:

"Rupert Boyle, Rupert Boyle, he freed us from the dreaded mosquito coil, Rupert Boyle..."

Rupert was amazed, and even a litte jealous. He had never in his life been the proud owner of a red and yellow polka dotted skirt. His rage consumed his being, and he, opening his mouth wide, ingested them entirely, destroying an entire civilisation of mushroom thingeys.

Suddenly his stomach began to rumble, the seams of his velvet skin broke under the pressure and...the Singing Mushrooms™ erupted out of his stomach.

The Singing Mushrooms™ saw nothing but hatred, and, taking out tiny little weapons of mass destruction, blew the pink, velvet hippopotamus up into smithereens. Bits of blood and flesh flew around the clearing, staining the little mushroom's skirts bright blue. His polystyrene innards cascaded out. They reacted with ions surrounding the mushrooms and depolymerised to form poly 1,2 diethene. A sweet scent erupted from Rupert's bloodied carcass. The Singing Mushrooms™ narrowed their eyes. The fragrant fragrance that transpired into their surroundings, reminding them of Mushroomland™ in the springtime, could only mean one thing. This was the work of an ester!

"Come out!" called mushroom#1.

"Not on your life, buster!" bawled chief mushroom#2. "Poly 1,2 diethene is a deadly toxin! I don't want to die, but...ARRRGH!"

M2 was dead (so was M1). The other mushrooms cowered into the voluminous-ness of their skirts. Tears poured from their tiny liddle eyes. Their leaders were denatured. They were a stateless, leaderless species. What was to become of them?

"What is to become of us?" they wailed.

Then, from the violet tinged clouds came the answer to the questionability of their fate....

"YOU WILL DERIVE THE KINETIC THEORY OF MATTER!" boomed a loud voice from the sky.

"We will what?" asked mushroom#3, whilst the rest of them quivered in fear.

"YOU WILL DERIVE THE KINETIC THEORY OF MATTER!"

"WOW," gasped mushroom#4. "A talking cloud!"

Just then it started to rain. It came down in buckets, flooding the clearing to such an extent that Bangladesh looked dry in comparison. The Singing Mushrooms™ panicked, for, if exposed to excessive amounts of H2O, they would turn into varying different species of plants and animals, ranging from polpala to uranium stickchickens™ . They had not, however, forgotten about the violet tinged cloud, trailing its cool misty fingers through the forests ferny floor.

"Aah," said mushroom#27, an expert on biochemistry. "It appears that our purple saviour is slowly (but surely) respiring anaerobically to depolymerise to form varying compounds of which the main components present are H2O and sodium stearate!"

And surely enough, little soap bubble formed in midair, bursting to release a gentle fragrance that would have put Givenchy™ out of business.

"FOOLS!!" thundered the voice.

The little mushrooms (now differing species of plants and animals) jumped; those with poor balance landed on their heads and died. Then, as the fog thinned, the Singing Mushrooms™ spied the graceful, majestic figure of....

(To be continued)

Nyclatopia

A wise man once said: "Never attempt to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig."
Why is it that we persist in trying to achieve the impossible? Is it our unfailing ability to admit that there are things far beyond our comprehension? Are we simply gullible and naive; brainwashed into believing that anything is possible, as long as we set our minds to it? Or is there really some truth in our faith?

Two hundred years ago, if you'd told someone that we would be walking on the moon, they'd have committed you to a mental institution. Similarly, if, when you were five, you told your parents that your ambition was to become a tea-plucker in some remote village on an island a few thousand miles away from your current home, they'd laugh. Comparing these two examples now, which one seems the most unrealistic? Now that we have gone as far as space, how can one settle with the ordinary? The expression: 'the sky's the limit' is no longer viable to us.

Nyclatopia is a disease that results from the deficiency of vitamin A. Patients are cursed with poor eyesight in dim light, however when there is enough, their visual acuity is restored. It can be said that much of society suffers from this disease, although not literally. People tend to only notice what's put in front of them. For example, during the early 1930s, the international community was completely oblivious to a horrific famine in the USSR, which resulted in the deaths of up to 10million individuals. Few seem to want to venture into or to challenge the less obvious aspects of life. This is because everyone wants hope. In fact, they thrive on it. By ignoring those nagging voices in the back of your head, and pretending that a war in some far off country isn't affecting anyone, you may be making yourself feel better in the short term. However, you are also single-handedly contributing to the destruction to the one thing that all religions and teachings in the world place particular emphasis on, and life's driving force - hope itself.

It is hope that makes us want to achieve the impossible; to put in that much more effort. It inspired us to walk on the moon, to fly, and to design. Hope is what holds together humanity. Hope that there is love, hope that there will be peace, and hope that hope will be kept alive. Of course, to ensure that this happens, we cannot conform. If we give in, then we too are like nyclatopiacs - blind to everything that is not obvious. Progress, be it social or economic, will not be hindered as long as we believe in ourselves. It has been said that 'the reasonable man persists in adapting himself to the world, whereas the unreasonable man persists in adapting the world to himself - therefore all progress depends upon the unreasonable man.' Whoever said that the sky was the limit is clearly wrong, for in reality, there is no limit whatsoever.