Modern

Well three cheers for the mobile age. Just minutes hence some vital emotional restrainer wound as a safety measure amongst the rusted gears that compose my mother's mind, after much straining, suddenly snapped. She declared that she had had more than enough of witnessing my idle wasting of life span and demanded that I go do my homework (which, rather predictably, I have procrastinated for the last ten days of my holiday). In order to enforce this she emphasized that I do not use the computer until I complete my allocated dose of work.

She was, however, utterly unaware of the capability of modern mobile phones due to the excellent work of which I am currently able to write this post without the clatter of keyboards or the squeal of the door to the study containing the computer. Thereby avoiding detection by my mother's bat like qualities (that is to say, she is capable of hitting people extremely hard and causing fatal injuries).

So hurrah to technology for making it easier to betray my mother's expectations. Thanks to the advances in science and with it the mobility of gadgets, I can now betray my mother where ever and when ever I so desire. I could fail to fulfill her optimistic expectations while on the move or while in my bed or even while on the toilet taking a shit. The possibilities are endless.

Of course as tools become more and more useful, the technology involved becomes more and more compact and complex. When I was a mere infant the only phone I handled was a tacky affair crudely constructed out of plastic yoghurt pots and string. It wasn't that useful but I roughly knew how it functioned and could easily articulate what had gone wrong if an error ocurred, usually by shouting something like "The strings gotten caught on the tree, you dipshit!"

However these days I carry a mobile phone around with me and when something goes wrong I haven't a hope in humid hell of comprehending its exact nature. Yes the screen says that I am in a place without signal but what actually is a signal? And how is it that I seem to get a signal if I move just three meters to my right? Is a signal like an invisible version of a string on my childhood yoghurt pot phone? If so, is there an invisible tree standing in the three meters between the area of acceptable reception and no reception? And who in this instance is the dipshit to be held accountable?

It does feel somewhat overly trusting and dangerous to depend so heavily on something whose inner workings are a complete mystery to you, nonetheless I will continue to utilize this technology because it is a tremendously useful tool.

For all I know there may be a complicated magical mystical system that allows me to send a text in exchange for a portion of my soul so that even as I needlessly transmit the three letters "LOL" in response to someone's utterly unamusing text, I'm dedicating a chunk of my very metaphysical spiritual existence to Satan. But I will still text "LOL" with a perfectly straight face regardless.

If you now think that continuous use of an unfathomable power is a stupid thing to do, think of it this way. If you were to interrogate Harry Potter (a fictional wizard who has now apparently become the unreachable role model for my generation) about how exactly magic works, he would probably break down and cry, confessing that really while he could cast spells, he had no idea of how the system actually functioned. Admitting, amongst much general weeping, that he just used the incomprehensible power of magic because it was useful and that he was the dipshit responsible.

But this ignorance did not stop him using magic to fight and defeat Voldemort in a severely anti climactic cinematic culmination of several years worth of pointless vacuous rubbish. Similarly I am not allowing my lack of knowledge to come between me and defeating my mother. Let the battle continue!  Let me be victorious! Hurrah for technology!

24

 The number twenty four. First discovered after the number twenty three, the history of the number twenty four is connected deeply with our own. For example the Edinburgh Municipal Fire Brigade was founded in the year 1824 and a failed Soviet coup occurred in the year 1924. Even more strikingly, by the march of the year 2024 I will be 28 and if this wasn't enough evidence to back up the importance of the number 24, those born 4 years after myself will be 24 years old in the year 2024. Coincidence? I think not.

 However if it is not sheer chance then who has engineered it this way? Perhaps there exists some secret society, a covenant of 24 followers. A devout cult whose members pray to 24 24/7. And this secret organization has, today, spun me into their conspiratorial web for this is my 24th blog post! (I usually detest exclamation marks, trying to force their enthusiasm or surprise or excitement on the reader without any respect to his/her actual emotional response but today I'm making an exception on the account of it being a celebratory occasion!)

 Considering my long winded verbose writing style, these 24 blog post behemoths combined can probably create a good sized book to be sold in WHSmith alongside all the other deeply meaningless celebrity autobiographies (and mine would have the advantage in the celebrity autobiography market of actually being written by me, though this may be slightly outweighed by the disadvantage of myself not actually being a celebrity).

 

 

 Nonetheless, despite my best efforts, I still appear to have minimum readership. Zero followers. Twenty four posts, god knows how many words (or he would know if he existed which is a really rather murky grey area at the moment) and yet, zero followers. What? How? Why? Who? Where? When? With whom? These are questions I ask myself when I see my follower count (although the last four questions were possibly irrelevant but I ask them anyway because I am a thorough individual) which is still a colon followed by a solid stubborn zero, a combination of symbol and number that, incidentally, perfectly mirrors my shocked expression every time :0

 I have more than once discussed this issue with my underlings and the response I got was either that I should include more cute cats or cut down the words I waste in rambling. Ignoring the former as I refuse to bow down to the vulgarly low standards of internet popularity, the latter is a difficult suggestion. This is largely due to the fact that my posts are composed of nothing but rambling, cutting away the rambling would leave absolutely nothing behind which, might precisely be the source of all my problems. Namely that my blog, like a broken camera or a child with ADHD, has very little focus.

 With a clear focus comes a target audience, with a target audience comes an audience and with an audience comes readership. Therefore what I need is some subject for me to concentrate all my posts on. However I have no job, nothing of interest happens with any reliable regularity in my school or family life and I have no interests that could feasibly involve a blog such as botany or animal experimentation. One topic I could attempt to cover is some social injustice that enrages me, something I find absolutely unforgivable to the extent that I am willing to dedicate my blog to pursuing the injustice's demise. Like a knight fighting a terrible dragon, I could brandish my pen that is mightier than the sword and write aggressive campaigns against the said injustice.

  

 

 ....There is however, one problem. I really have no social injustice I would willingly dedicate this blog to. I am the sort of horribly cynical and unhelpful human being who, whilst being perfectly aware of the fact that there are a multitude of things wrong with the world as a whole, is too unempathic and lazy to feel even the slightest need to do anything. The only things that passionately enrage me are petty day to day issues such as casual Americanizations, blatant marketing, irritating adverts and mild illogical phrasings and ideas. I could make them the main focus of my blog but as social injustices go, they are less of a tremendous dragon to be fought by a courageous knight and more of an irritating worm to be cruelly crushed by some malicious child. There's really only so much I can milk from that petty topic before the metaphorical udders begin to bleed.

 Then, as it lies bleeding to death at my feet, where would I be? On the run from the metaphorical RSPCA for needless cruelty to a topic. Unplanned and frantically shoddy writings mindlessly fleeing from the pursuit of the police and the angry animal rights activists (who are exactly the sort of people capable of maintaining a blog about social outrage, spewing out a post per day on the cruelty of eating eggs or whatnot). Soon, apprehended and arrested, I will be forced to stand in a court of law, surrounded by stern animal lovers and bestial romantics.

 "And why, Mr Galanthus, did you milk the topic until it bled?" asks the judge sternly, glaring coldly at me from his majestically high oak podium.

 "For internet popularity," I mumble ashamedly, hurriedly adding, "your honour."

 "So you pushed a meager topic far beyond its capabilities for blog readership you say?" he affirms accusingly, an accusation in response to which I can only give a silent downcast nod, "Then," he announces, "you are indeed guilty."

 I sigh shakily and feel tears spill out from the corners of my eyes, my entire body sagging with depression as I await my sentence. The Judge continues, "Guilty of losing your way," an unexpected warmth enters the Judge's deep booming voice echoing around the courtroom, "Why do you need to gain popularity and readership? Why can you not do it just for your own creative entertainment? I for one, preferred it when you were just writing your pointless and unfocused, but nonetheless honest thoughts" With that he smiles slightly, a paternal reassuring grin and before I know it, I'm out of my own defendant box, legs propelling me towards my savior.

  Which is why I have decided that despite not having any readership, I will keep my writing style and subject entirely unchanged.

 I shall leave my blog completely unfocused, deeply shallow and thoroughly pointless. I will not cut down my long winded meaningless rambling, I will not display any pitiful pretence of social outrage and I will not bow down to compromise for the masses. It may be a lonely road but at least it's my road.

Alone in the Mansion

 The once crowded mansion stands empty, its heavy oak doors, which once shone with a refined polish, now sit in slow lusterless decay. Those poorly maintained gates have been motionless for a few hours now, no one has entered or left since the rusty creak of the last departure which echoed forlornly through the dusty corridor. The fading gray rooms are filled with the desolate silence of an abandoned building, gone are the days when the sound of snide and mocking but nonetheless happy laughter had bounced through its sparkling structure. All have left to pursue a vast and varied life outside its thick impenetrable walls, all but one. This is the Bachelor Mansion.
 The lone figure sits hunched malignantly by a fireplace black with soot, a cold empty fire place in the shape of a heart. In the figures twisted malicious hands is clutched a once fine china mug, its pristine white surface now stained to a dull yellow. The mug contains a deep dark brown fluid, tar like both in appearance and texture, very strong tea without milk or sugar. Very bitter tea. Very very bitter tea.
 How did it come to this? There used to be others here with me. All snidely talking about the foolishness of love and the stupidity of relationships, mockingly discussing romantic ideals or viciously insulting those clueless fools roaming outside the mansion. Now there is only me, me and my thoughts which provide no comfort at all.
 I'm certain everyone has experienced that one long distance race at school where the five or so non athletic friends line up at the starting line, smiling humorously at each other. After a brief minute of amicable discussions its decided that all of them will take it slow, go at a nice jogging pace, take it easy, cruise it, chill. The starting pistol is fired into the air and one secretly competitive supposed comrade suddenly breaks rank, running with all his strength so as to get as far ahead as possible before the others realize they have been deceived. In that instance, everyone shakes their heads and roundly agrees that the one former comrade dashing aggressively ahead is, to put it mildly, a complete dick and should be excommunicated from the alliance of the non athletic.
 However this time round, we all agreed to take it easy but all except one, at the sound of the starting pistol, revealed themselves to be secretly competitive dicks charging headlong down the path of romantic success. By the time I realize what's happened and decide to quicken my jogging pace, that is at present infinitely close to a walk, it's all too late and my former comrades have crossed the finishing line, cheering as they do so. I watch them celebrate, teeth gritted and all I want to do is take the starting pistol and take careful aim at those distant , now coupled, figures.
  I thought we were all on the same boat, all proudly sailing under the fluttering banner of "Awkward", the academic cynical types whose only knowledge of love came through a study of biochemistry, a bunch of social outcasts united by our ability to insult romantics in Latin. Now "Amicus" has turned "Hostis", "Callidus" has turned "Stultus", they have all recently dived into the surrounding oceans to leave me bobbing up and down on the unstable raft, feeling more than a little bit nauseous.
 Riding the wave of a drunken kiss or holding onto the helpful dolphin of previously hidden charisma, my former fellow sailors swiftly move across the ocean to reach their own idyllic islands, overgrown with convenient coconut trees and pretty flowers as I watch on from a distance. My last fellow bachelor sailor dived from the raft a few hours ago, or rather was gently pulled into the waves by an enticing mermaid (I sincerely hope that this is a mermaid of slightly older, more brutal, less Disney type myths which will go on to ravenously shred and devour the ex-comrade turned turn coat). Now I stand alone, realizing suddenly that my raft has developed a hole and is sinking fast. It's either swim or drown from here and I haven't done much swimming since I received my Kellogg's Frosties 200meter swimmer badge seven years ago.