Within and without

I am currently stranded, trapped within a void. My house is a multistory affair divided into distinctly separate living quarters. My family owns the entirety of the large suburban construction but due to reasons of finance we rent out all but the ground floor. Due to this arrangement there is a hallway shared by all the tenants from which branches off a locked door that is the entrance to what I can refer to as my home.

After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.

Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.

To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.

Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.

Labyrinth

 The internet has always been a mystery to me. A vast sea of information populated by attractive entertaining aquatic life as well as the occasional unpredictable virtual killer whale and spontaneously emerging pixelated Cthulhu. For example I was once, for some academically motivated research matter, searching "Chernobyl" and clicked a photograph of an animal mutated by radiation on google images, this appropriately landed me with a virus that caused a continuous uncontrollable stream of pornography to flow across my screen. Which, perhaps, classifies me as another victim of the Chernobyl Disaster.

 In recent times I had deluded myself into thinking that I had more or less mastered the ever swerving poorly lit maze that is the world wide web. Of course I was not as adept at skillfully gliding through the internet as some of my acquaintances. One of whom, I shall refer to here as Big K for his identity protection and my consequent physical safety, used to often boast the fact he had dived into layers far below the accepted levels of the web. Proudly proclaiming that he had voyaged one thousand leagues under the surface of the internet, where other more innocent users blissfully surfed, with the use of special hacking equipment all in search of ever darker variants of pornography. Which I suspect is, while indicative of the fact he can navigate his way through the virtual labyrinth admirably, a sign that he has gotten lost within the far larger labyrinth of life in general.

 Nonetheless I was happy with my own comparatively basic knowledge of this pixelated universe, proud of the daily virtual survival skills and instincts I had developed with time. I could now successfully navigate myself around youtube while carefully avoiding all related videos that let out the dangerous air of potential long term mental trauma. I could create and manage multiple virtual identities around cyberspace, entering and exiting communities as I pleased, free as a cybernetic social butterfly. I even worked out methods to cheat certain systems with the creation of multiple accounts and mildly fraudulent behaviour. Perhaps all this had made me arrogant.

 However I was brought back to reality and shown how shallow my knowledge of this realm really was by none other than this site, blogger. There is an area of this site which allows me to observe the various statistics and backstage facts relating to my blog. For example, everyday before I write, I venture into this zone, observe the number of views my page has had that day as well as resignedly sigh at the now familiar zero which sits smugly under "number of followers". There is also a tool within this virtual control room that allows me to see through which channel and websites people are getting to my blog. These are displayed as enticingly blue links to be clicked on.

 Wondering what my third top source of traffic was, I clicked one incomprehensible jumbled collection of letters composing a link to see what wing of the maze it would take me down. The screen window turned white and began to load, my anticipation growing with each passing second then, after a moment, a page materialized kindly bringing to my attention that the page did not exist. Which means that people have somehow been entering my blog from an empty space occupied by an overwhelming amount of nothing.

 How is that even possible?! As far as I knew when a "page not found" appeared, it was a dead end, a blocked path within the maze from where I would then need to retrace my footsteps. But according to the blogger information center there exists some phantom like figure who is capable of slipping through this solid wall and on the other side, apparently, lies this blog. Is it an internet ghost wondering around the online maze? If so are there many of them? Perhaps four, each with a different bright hue all in hot pursuit of an obese spherical yellow binge eater. Clearly the labyrinth of the world wide web is full of more sinister mysterious occupants and mystical loop holes than I had previously imagined.

 If this was not confusing enough, my top source of traffic after that link turned out to be a pornographic website which bares absolutely everything except some relation to my blog. I would hereby like to apologize to the internet gods, ghosts and pac men for my prior arrogance. This world is still as mysterious and unpredictable as ever, a forest that cannot be understood by a mere mortal such as myself. Never again shall I display any pretense of comprehension instead choosing to fearfully navigate my way around its twisted corridors like the clueless worshipper within the temple of the gods that I am. I'm sorry.

Personification

 Tonight I feel, in a word, cold. In two words very cold. In fact, I feel so cold that I could, if the opportunity were to present its self to me, simply go on a long and tenuous descriptive journey purely around the subject of how cold I am. To accurately convey the sheer coldness of my current being, imagine that you are eating a bucket of ground ice, while sitting in a fridge, which is its self situated atop a boat floating in the freezing Atlantic Ocean. Just nearby the Titanic is sinking and desperate survivors are swimming up to your boat for help but you kick them away, I currently feel as cold as your dark twisted heart as you mercilessly dislodge a dying child clinging desperately to the side of your vessel.

 If I were to demand to see the cruel individual responsible for my frosty fate, I would more than likely be directed  to a mirror since it is none other than my own mind that made the conscious decision to go out and see fireworks at a local park with companions despite the temperature. However what I require at the moment is not the rational analysis of my own poor judgment (especially in not taking my thick woolen trench coat purely for the reason that it still stank of alcohol and punch which would have been a minor draw back with hindsight considering the heavenly warmth it would have provided) but some figure at which to direct my, unfortunately all too metaphorically, burning anger.

 I would currently give anything, well, my entire present monetary fortune (which amounts to about three pounds and twenty six pence) for Jack Frost to appear before me, a personification of the natural phenomenon which caused my legs to feel like ready made fish fingers before defrosting and my arms like pain flavoured ice lollies. Though I am not usually the physically violent type, far preferring to psychologically wound the opponent with skillful verbal jousting, I would readily kick the chocolate flavoured soft ice out of Jack Frost to vent my sheer frustration at this bone biting, brain numbing, scrotum climbing cold.

 All I can do however is stamp my feet, rub my hands and curse the current climate as well as the rising cost of gas and electricity bills. Two other things I wouldn't particularly mind being personified to manifest themselves before me as a subject of my anger at the generally conceptual, the Price Rise Pig and the Bill Building Bird. Perhaps I could design them, little fable characters for the new age kids living through an economic down turn. Goodbye tooth fairy who takes childrens' teeth, hello the fat fairy who causes child obesity. So long Santa Clause who leaves you presents, welcome Pawnshop Pixie who takes your stuff at night but allows your family to eat for another few days.

 So the moral of the story is, its winter so wear a jacket when you go out, even if it does have the repugnant scent of stale alcohol wafting around it like vultures around a dying animal. God, its cold.

Anime Review #1 Puella Magi Madoka Magica

 Since its already fast approaching midnight and I don't have the energy or temporal leeway to write another long article, I shall post an anime review I have just finished writing thus revealing to the world that I am in fact a geek (by the world, I mean my extremely small impermanent readership but hey, they mean the world to me).

Puella Magi Madoka Magica Review

 Studio Shaft can probably be classed as one of the great trolls of the current anime industry (though in my opinion the glorious spot of number one anime troll must be given to Gintama for all its fake film trailers, deceptive series finales and general attitude) and one of its crowning achievements, the ever gleaming polished trophy taking the pride of place within their large cabinet of trolling accomplishments, has to be Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

 The story that the original trailer would have you believe goes a little something like this: One day, a young innocent inexplicably pink haired high school student called Kaname Madoka saves an adorable fantastical animal called Kyubei who offers her the chance to become a magical girl and fight the evil witches who terrorize the human realm. Joined by loving trusting friends, Madoka ventures on a journey of personal growth and discovery to fight unhappiness in the world.

 The studio originally publicized the anime as a heart warming cute affair, the sort of series with an ever-present gentle fluffy pink atmosphere, that would provoke tears and smiles. In this respect they did half deliver, except the tears were that of sadness and the smiles upside down. The entire series is a brilliantly orchestrated crescendo of misery, starting off on a more or less positive mood it quickly begins its light jog down the steep hill of dark tragedy and by the latter parts of the show the jog is a blurring sprint that would blow Usain Bolt out of the metaphorical water.

 By the second half of the series I no longer had any faith in my increasingly unstable emotional relativism because every time I thought I was the most depressed I could ever be, the next episode would come along and prove me totally utterly wrong. This is definitely a show to watch with a phone that has the Samaritans on speed dial in one hand and a box of tissues (To be used for wiping away tears, just to point out in case of any misunderstanding. Yes, there are a lot of supposedly teenage girls who like they’ve only just been weaned off breast milk, running around in cute little frilly dresses and yes the opening does involve the naked title character going through some strange process of reverse cytokinesis. Nonetheless the tissues are for crying into and nothing else) in the other.

 To accurately gauge the levels of sheer animated depression induced by the series, imagine the latter episodes of “Steins; gate” thrown in a blender with the final few episodes of “Mirai Nikki” and Mufasa’s death scene from Lion King. Leave mixture to settle for three minutes then add four table spoons of “Welcome to the NHK” episode twenty-three. Stir thoroughly then pass through a filter to remove any remaining rogue fragments of happiness and the result will be something approaching the levels of bleak sadness in “Madoka Magica” in the same way that beer has alcohol content approaching that of vodka (which, incidentally, you will need to consume a lot of to get over the heart wrenching emotionally scarring scenes within the series).

 The animation is, as expected of Studio Shaft, so high above the top notch that there’s no more ruler to measure by. The art style is that of the standard cute type anime, with physics defying big bouncy beautiful attractive sensual… hair and biologically impossibly large shiny eyes. The true artistic power of the studio manifests its self when the characters enter the magical realm of the witches that is often composed entirely of Shaft’s trademark combination of colouring pencil and animated collage (as seen frequently in “Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei”). This chaotically artistic scenery combined with the cute style characters creates a strange interesting effect that is probably enjoyable even for those who find highly physically disproportionate character designs irritating. There are other demonstrations of Shaft’s cheeky nonchalant surrealism (as seen often in “Bakemonogatari” and “Nisemonogatari” the sort of scenes which seem to say, “yes, this bedroom has no walls, what of it?”) that also help to make the series visually stunning. This combined with a beautiful, addictive and suitably mystical sound track, mostly classical though some not, makes the show worth watching just from a sensory perspective.

 The plot is also far more complicated, both narratively and thematically, than it first appears (Though really viewers should have braced themselves for heavy philosophical content when they first saw Latin in the title). It is often observed that while at first glance they may seem like polar opposites, the genres of science fiction and fantasy are in fact neighbouring countries on the large map of fiction who share a very loosely controlled boarder (no passport checks or anything, let alone barbed wire or armed security measures). Madoka Magica hops easily across this line as the series matures, with rather surprisingly enjoyable twists here and there, the story works as an intelligent deconstruction of magical girls although the ending (of the television anime series, there is a film finale on the way) is a little lackluster. The story and atmosphere is, in short, what you might get if you combined a less pretentious “Evangelion” with a less battle-centered “Mirai Nikki”, that is to say, excellent.

 Taking all this into account, a more accurate summary would go a little something like this: Kaname Madoka, troubled by a nightmare of an approaching apocalypse, one day encounters a strange fantastical creature with blood red eyes and bone white fur. The being offers to grant one wish in return for a life of servitude to several millennia old war between magical girls and witches. Stepping into the dark shadows hidden behind the ordinary life she took for granted, will Madoka be able to resist temptation and see friend from foe? Can she unravel the truth of the centuries old conspiracy and protect those she cares for before the monster of her premonition arrives?

 Sounds good doesn’t it? It is.

Chaos

 This morning I was expecting to wake up to the sound of panicked screaming, the subtle tinkle of glass shattering in the distance, the incessant shrill wail of a car alarm and the hungry crackle of uncontrollable flames. As I lay entrapped within the folds of my comfortable bed last night, I worried about how I would have to step over all the mangled bodies, some suicides, others not, as I walked towards the bathroom for my morning session of bladder emptying. I imagined how I would be forced to toast my morning bread on the burning corpse of some stranger while slicing another cadaver into bite sized chunks for topping.

 To my extreme surprise I in fact arose to the pleasant sound of civilization as we know it not collapsing and had a peaceful morning in a reassuringly non post apocalyptic world. Contrary to my expectations, it turns out that failing to write a blog post for one day does not result in the immediate end of the world. Which I suppose is, although a little disheartening, generally a good thing. Especially considering that my excuse in the event of being held responsible for the termination of the human race would have been quite poor. Standing atop a smoldering mountain of rubble looking down at a disgruntled mob of rag tag survivors seeking vengeance and simply stating, "I'm sorry everyone for causing the apocalypse, I didn't write my blog post for yesterday because I was having a Halloween horror film fest," probably would not have tamed their anger.

 However if its any consolation to anybody, it wasn't that good a film fest. For one thing we watched about one and a half films which probably doesn't quite constitute a film "festival". At best, with extreme optimism, it was a film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside", though realistically speaking it probably didn't even achieve that low height and was perhaps something more akin to a film "birthday-party-of-that-unpopular-kid-in-school-who-isn't-even-bullied-because-the-bullies-haven't-even-noted-his-amazingly-insignificant-existence-yet".

 This lack of actual film watching was due largely to the presence of beer in the lower levels of the house and the general tendency for teenagers to migrate towards the presence of alcohol and consequently, in this instance, away from a showing of the "Rocky Horror Show" but this did not necessarily make it an enjoyable night.

 The first wheel was presumably invented when a caveman, lets say Ugg, found a circular piece of rock and decided to attempt to roll it. Having found that this was extremely entertaining and potentially useful, Ugg then contacted his friend Arg via the use of vocal cords and together they created the second wheel. That night, celebrating the invention and hopeful future mass production of wheels, the two cavemen entrepreneurs hold a party. Its held in Ugg's cave and Arg arrives a few minutes late, carrying a chunk of mammoth leg as a present. He walks into the cave, where a roaring fire has already been lit and is just about to call out when he spots Ugg, sitting in the shadows, making out with Ugga, the girl from the cave next door. That was the invention of the third wheel.

 Winter is apparently the season of romance and relationship forming because the number of couples seem to be increasing exponentially. They spawn in the slightly shady corner of every room in a house holding any thing remotely like a party, multiplying and infecting every possible location within a domestic setting like some sort of romantic mold growth fueled by desperation and alcohol. And this film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside" was no different.

 I was at all times throughout the evening, a third wheel if not more. But at least a third wheel is something, its a tricycle. True, tricycle's aren't the most popular of transport means but at least toddlers still enjoy them so the third wheel is a vital role in bringing happiness to toddlers. Of course what brings about this realization that being a third wheel is a relatively good role, is the experience of being a fifth wheel.

 Even then you can still find comfort in the fact that vaguely important fifth wheels do exist in the world, those wheels attached to the back of big range rovers for example. There, presumably, in case some thing like a randomly occurring shard of diamond on the road manages to puncture one of the monstrously thick tires made specifically not to be punctured. Indeed the event is extremely unlikely to occur but the fifth wheel is an important back up, an existence necessary to give emotional and mental comfort to the paranoid range rover driver.

 The seventh wheel however, the seventh wheel is inconsolable. There is nothing like sitting on a sofa and realizing that you are in a tight competition with the empty beer bottles strewn across the floor for the number one spot of most obsolete object in the room. And taking into account the fact that glass beer bottles can be near endlessly recycled and reused, as well as at some point having had the honour of containing the beautiful happiness inducing substance known as alcohol, whereas you are just a purposeless pile of flesh sitting on stuffed leather while using up oxygen that the three other couples making out in the room presumably have more of a dire need for considering all the panting their making, you are probably the champion of unnecessary existence.

 So the moral of the story is, I need another bottle of beer or three.

Collision

 I am an invalid. Not in the sense that I am not valued or necessary to society though that is in fact true (I suspect I am one of those people who are making minimum positive contribution to the world around them since I am distinctly unhelpful, currently unemployed and not even likely to spend money, the one redeeming trait of the undeserving rich, to aid capitalism. A fact that I am rather proud of since this means that every positive I might take away from the society I add nothing to, therefore becomes a profit for myself in its entirety with nothing given back.) but in the sense that I am injured.

 Today I was injured in a truck related accident. Of all the things that it is considered mortally precariously to be involved in an accident with, one being a unicycle and ten being a jumbo jet, a truck comes in at around seven point five. The incident occurred this morning while I was out on my morning jog (to those who believed that I thought I avoided all forms of exercise like the plague, I would say that the plague was notoriously difficult to avoid, hence the high death count. The Duke of Edinburgh bronze award which I officially started two years ago and have predictably managed to procrastinate completing until this time, requires a minimum of one hour of extra curricular energy wastage every week maintained for one month).

 My jogging route takes me, first from my house to the local park. This route involves crossing a rather busy road where I have had quite a few near death (that is to say, near in the same way that Brixton is near Chelsea) experiences and numerous irate horns honked angrily at my general person. The sort of road which trucks hurtle through quite frequently, with speed enough to quickly transform any careless J-walkers (I have always wondered what the J in J walkers stands for? Jurassic? Japanese? Judgmental? Jewish? Jelly?) into a splatter on the road spread thinner than my grandfather's hair (which must be very thin considering he has been dead these last eight years).

 I made it across this perilous River Styx like road with some help from the zebra crossing ferryman, and entered the park which, according to my normal slightly optimistic running schedule, I would run four laps of in twenty minutes. There is a fifteen meter long section of the park where the path upon which I jog is flanked by two chest high metal fences, one marking the circumference around a basket ball court and the other a defensive barrier acting as noble protective custodians of the childrens' play area. Therefore if a spontaneously appearing truck were to drive at me while I was on that short stretch of pedestrian paving, there would be no way to dodge it.

 As it happened there was a truck in the park today, a vehicle which was being used to transport the tree branches that workers were trimming in order to castrate the powers of nature within the domesticated greenery. Just as I was on my fourth lap, the obese white truck parked its self squarely in between the two fences, completely blocking my way. Through my hazy sweat and fatigue filled vision, I vaguely saw the two blurred figures at the front of the truck signaling for me to go back ten meters or so and run across the completely open flat grassland from where the fence surrounding the basket ball court ended.

 As I recognized this attempt to navigate me, despite feeling worn by the exhaustion of physical movement I gritted my teeth in frustrated irritation. The concept of being moved at another's command fundamentally annoyed me, furthermore I had already run a good fifteen meters, to have to waste that non-refundable energy for the sake of a single lazy truck seemed like conceding a minor defeat to the world. Hence, dazedly mentally conjuring up something inspirational and courageous along the lines of "a true man must not giving up on his dreams and run on forwards whatever adversary might await" or something, I charged on towards the stubbornly stationary truck like a desperately unfit bull at a giant matador.

 Then, at the last possible second, I changed course ninety degrees to my left, grabbing hold of the bars protecting the childrens' play area and heaved myself swiftly up onto its precarious metal frame. During the run my brain had clearly suffered some natural disaster, possibly the disproportionate amount of sweat pouring out of my pores flowing into the cranium through my ears and flooding the brain, since it seemed to me at the time that the most logical course of action concerning the fence was to, using legs still shaking weakly from the exercise of a good jog, attempt to athletically vault over it. I leaped, my black running tie fluttering elegantly behind me then I caught the tip of my shoe on the fence and fell forward into the playground, face painfully making contact with the firm muddy ground.

 It also seemed that during this process (to be exact within the nanoseconds starting from my unfortunate loss of balance on the top of the fence to the graceless gravity dependent arc through the air as I fell, followed by the harsh introduction to the grassy ground) I pulled a muscle at the back of my leg which is why I have been hobbling around the house. A poor crippled victim of a truck related accident.

Fashion

  On this day, after many years of slow reduction through various camp speech mannerisms, actions and choice of clothing, the last crumbling vestige of what could roughly be referred to as my masculinity departed from my outstretched arms. Gently floating away out of my desperate reach, like my prettiest laced hat in the lukewarm summer breeze (due to my current depletion of masculinity I am unable to fashion a more manly simile).

 The final straw that broke the camel's back was probably less akin to a straw and, metaphorically speaking, closer to a brick aggressively hurled downwards onto the animal's unprotected spine.Today I sat myself down before a table mirror and used purple eyeliner while a cheesy pop song, whose lyrics basically consisted of reiterating the singer's desire to become a glamorous super star, played loudly in the background. In my defense, the latter had been orchestrated by four females who had decided to aid me in my make over and the mirror, or in fact the bedroom I was in, did not in fact belong to me. Furthermore the eyeliner was being applied in order to allow me to look like a certain anime character (Kaiki Deishu from Nisemonogatari) since I will be attending a convention in cosplay tomorrow.

 Nonetheless, I admit that this was another large step towards the crucial wavering borderline of opposing genders, the all important division which I suspect I may be dangerously close to slipping over. Before the eyeliner incident, to regain an average amount of masculinity after all the other tremendously camp things I'd done I would have probably had to spend many months in the gym (the balance system being roughly about one bench press per camp hand movement) plus several mandatory hours of laddish sexism. However taking this new eventuality into mind, it may only be a matter of time, perhaps the point has already been reached, where it is just far easier to make a visit to the sexual organ swap shop than the alternative years of gym attendance.

 Hence the issue of the purple eyeliner, potentially the tipping point, is a key matter that must be settled by a higher authority. As I stand in the defendants block of the metaphorical courtroom of gender division, standing trial for excess femininity, all seems lost. I cannot deny that I knowingly and willingly allowed the use of purple eyeliner on my person, attempting to deceive the judge and jury will only result in a heavier sentence. Such an act may result in me being given sixty years in the gym or perhaps even sent to the operating table. However there is one argument, one defense that could turn this case around for me.

 It has always been believed and upheld that the pinnacle of manliness, the height of macho, is courage and the ability to stand firm in the face of those you fear. This has been true for as long as men have existed from the days of the cavemen facing rampaging mammoths, to the much chronicled image of knights battling dragons and even to today, where the actions of soldiers heading into war are commended and celebrated. Furthermore, one commonly experienced phobia, one terror that many people share, is the discomforting sensation of something pointed and sharp approaching the naked eye. In that sense, the use of eyeliner is the ultimate triumph over terror, the supreme display of courage that surely demonstrates the sheer overwhelming butch powers of whoever undertakes the act.

 I appeal to the court that I am merely a forerunner of this new brand of masculinity which will permeate popular culture in a matter of years. If anything my overwhelming masculinity as a pioneer against terror and crusader of courage should be recognized and celebrated. The sheer amount of macho involved in the act of applying eye liner should be enough to annul all of my previous debts of femininity, leaving me a free most definitely man.

Appreciation

  The appreciation of some things change with time and maturity. For example some books, when read at the age of ten, felt completely incomprehensible and hopelessly dull but when re read at the age of sixteen felt like the most profound as well as the most exhilarating literary excursion ever. Of course that infantile experience of incomprehension and the realization that there is still a whole universe of literature to be explored is important in its self (The educational equivalent of tough love. Like Spartans of literacy casting their young children out into the textual mountains of unfamiliar vocabulary and complicated imagery, left to fend off the hungry subtle thematic nuances armed only with the alphabet and a vague grasp of grammar) but in terms of appreciating the text for its true worth, a later reread is most definitely worthwhile.

 However there are things that don't seem to improve no matter how many years or experiences are accumulated. Events, ideas or objects which seem as worthless at the age of sixteen as they were at the age of six. I admit that there is a certain comfort in knowing that no matter how much time passes and no matter how altered I may become, there are some things which stay stubbornly the same. Nonetheless it is quite problematic and rather irritating when the said ever valueless thing seems to be universally accepted as mesmerizing and moving. This thing, for me, is fireworks.

 A passionate colourful blossom composed of several million brightly burning particles, vividly flourescent for an instant then withering to float away in the cold night wind. An instant artwork painted on the night sky to fade in a moment, leaving nothing but a ghostly shadow of smoke behind. Indeed fireworks are pretty, an extravagantly beautiful spectacle for the retinas. However I also thought that James Cameron's "Avatar" was quite an extravagant and beautiful spectacle but if they had somehow projected Avatar onto the night skies several times a year, every year for the last sixteen years of my existence, I would have stopped going after the second showing.


  In the same way, I would be able to show the extent of profound amazement  expressed by everyone else at the sight of fireworks only if I were a caveman who had magically time traveled from the prehistoric days to see the luminous aerial display for the first time in my life.

 However as a caveman I would probably show the same amount of awed wonder at the sight of a car or a television or just a toilet flushing but nobody claims that the movement of water down the porcelain U-bend is a moving and beautiful sight to be celebrated (even though it probably took about the same amount of scientific and engineering genius as the fireworks to get it to the standards it maintains today). Couples don't hold hands and cuddle while sitting in front of a urinal nor do parents excitedly drag their children off to go see the toilet. Perhaps its the infrequency of the fireworks that makes it special, maybe if we only flushed our toilets once or twice a year we would appreciate it more and hold festivals in celebration of the toilet, which would, noxious fumes and all, still be more enjoyable than the overly hyped irritating fireworks celebrations of today.

 However, no matter how much I might argue or object, in the end the only response I seem to get is "but its so pretty and nice, how can you not like it?" Even my more cynical and depressed associates, with whom I often rant concerning the many ignored petty flaws of the world, seem incapable of being bored of fireworks. Hence, in this matter, I am completely isolated. Somehow, every single person I have ever talked to seems to enjoy fireworks and will go to lengths such as travel just to go see the repetitive unchanging dull light show every year. So what is it? What is wrong with me? Why can I not like fireworks? Somebody help me! Teach me how to like fireworks! Please!

How does everyone else in the world maintain their appreciation of fireworks? Is it biological, am I a genetic mutation? Or is it through nurture?

 Are all babies taken from their cribs at the earliest stage of infancy and placed in a Clockwork Orange style cinema where they are shown endless reels of how fireworks is wonderful and other similar ideas necessary for a human being to function effectively within society? If so, can I enter the cinema as a late comer because I appear to have missed not only the screening of "How Fireworks Is Wonderful" but also "How Not To Be Socially Awkward" and "General Morality"

 Or if it isn't by nurture but by fundamental human nature then what can I do? Is there some sort of operation I can have to implant that all important fireworks appreciation cell which all homo sapiens other than myself seem to share. What if, in the future, we made contact with aliens and the only way to distinguish between human beings and aliens was by that single feature of fireworks appreciation? I'll be mistakenly identified as an illegal alien and deported to some far away planet at the ends of the galaxy, exiled and alone. Somebody, please, teach me how to like fireworks!

Paris

 After observing my complete inactivity from afar, out of the range of noxious fumes emitted by pajamas worn all day several days in a row, my mother has finally put her foot down. And underneath that firmly descending foot lie all my hopes, dreams and aspirations of spending a relaxing half term. She has decided she will throw me out onto the streets.

 However not out onto any ordinary street but the streets of Paris. She has made the executive decision that I will be spending three days of my half term holiday alone in Paris for no apparent reason. She has claimed that her motive behind this illogical course of action is the improvement of my French language skills but I suspect her chief ambition is to simply get rid of me for several days.

 I can, of course, vividly picture the disapproving faces of the minority of people who read my blog. Shaking their heads from side to side and wondering what on earth I am complaining about. I am to be sent, after all, with some allowance and organized lodging to what could be considered one of the cultural capitals of the world. The center of art, fine cuisine and fashion (as well as racism, riots and right wing power but those demerits are obviously far outweighed by the positivity of a single baguette).

 Though this may, at first seem like a golden opportunity to study culture and fine arts, the one overwhelmingly negative factor is language. I am a being that thrives on eloquent communication, nothing gives me greater pleasure than the beautiful stringing together of an elegant and possibly offensive metaphor. To talk, to tell, to freely swim within the vast seas of vocabulary. To surf on the waves of words or to feel the gentle ebb and flow of a good narrative. To ride on the cheerful back of a pun or word play. These make up about seventy five percent of my will to continue living on this miserable spherical dung heap floating depressingly in space.

 The French however, typical of their generally unhelpful nature, speak French. A language which spans before me as a dry barren alien plain. Filled with hostile shadows, renegade grammatical irregularities and cunning pronunciation problems, all lurking just outside my peripheral vision, waiting for the first chance to strike the damning blow of public humiliation. In French I am a fish without water or to clumsily construct in the enemy language, like a gorilla with arthritis trying his hand at origami, "un poissons qui n'a pas d'eau"

Paranormal Activity

It starts gradually, creeping up on its unsuspecting victims with menacing patience. First the signs are so subtle they go unnoticed, then slowly the people begin to sense that something is wrong and it has no intention of stopping. Soon the situation escalates, enveloping all in a whirlwind of negativity and by the time the people realize the full extent of its power, it is already too late. This phenomenon is that which is often experienced several days into a holiday, when a person, suddenly without anything to do, falls into a habit of pure laziness. Unable to even build the motivation to venture to do anything remotely constructive, they spend their days lying motionless, physically and mentally decaying. This is known as, Abnormal Inactivity.

 Today, in order to break out of that horrible cycle of destructive passivity, I organized a trip to watch Paranormal Activity 4 with two other escapees. I did not have high expectations of the film having seen its predecessor, Paranormal Activity 3 which had been as imaginative in its contents as it was in its title. A pointlessly teasing and dull cinematic endeavor, complete with characters more two dimensional than a hedgehog on a highway and a plot so shallow that even a suicidal infant would struggle to drown in.

 There was, all in all, absolutely nothing that could be referred to as a point to the film. No intelligence, no message, no plot, no moral. If I were to, as a sort of charity, attempt to excavate (by ploughing through what is essentially a mountain of cinematic excrement) some sort of moral out of the film, it would be that no matter where you are; be it your bedroom, your bathroom, your kitchen or your mother in law's cozy suburban house; the place, even if it seems perfectly safe one moment, can suddenly be turned into a war zone so you should keep up your guard.

 Therefore, with expectations so low that a legless dwarf could vault over it, I ventured smiling maliciously into the rapidly darkening evening to head for the cinema. Wearing my black gloves to keep my hands snug, my dark long coat to shield me from the cold and my top hat to harass people sitting behind me.
 As previously organized, I met Underling Sinister (One of the new girls who entered my school this year. An ever smiling, ever cheerful figure with a scholarly knowledge of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the darker dimensions of Youtube). She too had spent the last couple of days trapped within the confines of her house, aimlessly seeking mental freedom on the internet. Due to prolonged isolation and lack of proper conversation, she had acquired about herself the atmosphere of a long lost sailor who had drifted lost in the seas (left with no one to talk to other than the fish in the surrounding water and his own shriveled testicles whom he called David and Nicholas) to finally reach shore and humanity one again, decades after his sudden accidental exile. In short she seemed extremely elated to be able to have a conversation and more than a little mentally unhinged.

 Third and last to arrive was Doctor Sasha (A polish karate expert with an experience in medicine, meaning he can act as both the breaker and fixer of people. His generally sharp facial features are somewhat reminiscent of either a penguin or an owl, the debate continues.) Finally our trio was complete and preparing to mockingly laugh at a poorly made horror American film, consequently irritating everyone else in the room, we marched confidently into the cinema.

 It is common knowledge that there is nothing in the world that cannot be improved with a bit of sugar, except possibly diabetes, hence our natural course of action, having bought the rather overpriced tickets, was to head straight towards the pick and mix stand. There we deliberated our choices for a good few minutes, measuring up weight versus potential flavor and enjoyment. Eventually, after much careful consideration, we collectively bought a packed bag with the same weight and emotional value as a baby.

 At this point I would like to point out that I do not usually buy things, my primary source of income is to scrounge and beg, my secondary is to steal, this has been my policy for so long that now the very idea of actually using my own money feels like a sacrilege to some ancient religious custom. However today, drowning in the euphoria of not sitting at home crying in a darkened room, I spent money on both my own ticket and even more shockingly, a portion of the sweets.

As we walked towards the screen indicated on our tickets, the gravity of the situation slowly dawned on me. I had, going against every personal protocol, chipped in to communally buy sweets. The only way I could possibly redeem myself, to be able to ever look my scowling self in the mirror again, was to somehow make a profit on the expense of my two companions.

 Screeching alarm bells wailed excitedly in my head, accompanied by rotating red lights for further urgency, in response to this, a cacophony of hurried clattering military footsteps began at every corner of my brain to swiftly merge, accumulate and gather within the section of my mind labeled "mission briefing". In a matter of seconds the soldiers of thought all stood in form and rank, neatly assembled, ready for action. After a moment of disciplined silence, the general, a weather beaten man with a greying beard and broad shoulders, stepped forward.
 With hawk like eyes he surveyed the ordered crowd before him, his glare cutting through to the heart of every man present, then opening his mouth, decorated with a well maintained moustache, he announced in a gruff voice, "The mission is to consume as many sweets as possible. We have paid for about a third of those sweets, we must eat at least two thirds to have an acceptable profit. Time is of the essence, I hereby commence Operation Dessert storm." In response a determined roar rose from the crowd as one, ignoring this, the General waved his hand for the projector to plaster a quick diagram onto the wall. Then, hushing those still talking excitedly amongst themselves, he pointed at the picture.

 "At present," began the General, allowing his deep authoritative tone to resonate within my mind's briefing hall once again, "The bag of sweets is in the hands of one Underling Sinister. However luck appears to be on our side today, we are currently walking towards the seats with Dr Sasa at the front, our unit, Veritable, in the middle and Underling Sinister trailing at the back(as can be seen in step one of the diagram). Therefore we will inevitably receive the central seat between the two and it is absolutely traditional that the bag of food is left in the care of the individual sitting in the middle." He paused, pointing at step four of the diagram proudly and continued with a tone of strong satisfaction "In this way our unit, Veritable, will gain control of the sweets."

 Silently cheering on my good fortune and the excellent work of my brain brigade, I sat myself down next to Dr Sasha, deliberately ensuring that there be an open seat next to me where Underling Sinister would naturally sit. My triumph was complete, either the food would soon be held in the confines of my arms which would make eating them efficiently an easy task or Underling Sinister would choose to hold onto them in which case it would eliminate Dr Sasha from the competition.

 Just as Underling Sinister seemed to be lowering herself into the seat however, my hungry victorious eye met Dr Sasha's and a quick flash of understanding seemed to run through him like an electric shock, "Oh no you don't" he hissed at me. Then he called to Underling Sinister, suggesting "come sit next to me!"
 A surprised murmur ran through the assembled members of my brain brigade, even the General, for a second, seemed flustered, opening and closing his mouth at this unexpected turn of events but regaining his composure a second later. "Doctor Sasha... A true tactician," he murmured huskily, almost absent-mindedly to himself, "He's turned the situation around for himself from worst to best in a single move. Simultaneously ensuring he is closest the food and our unit, Veritable, the furtherest."

 The General abruptly stopped his musing as he realized his men were still standing determinedly, awaiting an order. He sighed a deep resounding sigh, "We've been left with no choice," he boomed mournfully, "Move our unit, Veritable, next to Underling Sinister! We have no other option, its this or give up on the sweets."

 Cursing my opponent's quick thinking, I tiredly hauled myself up from the seat into whose silky depths I had sunk, following Underling Sinister in order to sit next to her and more importantly, the food. However quite suddenly, in the already very darkened cinema room, my foot caught on something, nearly sending me sprawling forward onto the carpet floor. I looked down in surprise to see that Dr Sasha had in fact erected a defensive barrier, a border control, in the form of a raised foot, a trap set to trip. I tried a second time, however as I took one step forward to lift my foot above his leg quickly, deliberately and maliciously, he raised his own leg higher.

 "Sir!" shouted one of the newest recruits to the mind military, his voice filled with barely contained panic "the enemy has created a blockade! His leg is acting as a reactionary wall across the narrow walking space between his chair and the chair in front! There's no way we can cross!"
 "Damnit!" roared the General, "We don't have much time, the film could start any second now!" he paused here, deep in thought, then after a moment he turned to his second in command, talking with slow firm control, "The enemies blockade is predicting and reacting to our movements, correct?"
 "Yes sir!" replied the second in command.
 Slowly a small smile appeared on the General's ragged features, "This is crazy but it might just work," he paused, breathing in deeply, then "If the enemy is reacting with prediction to our unit's movement, we simply need to take an unpredictable course of action!"
 The members of the mind military all slowly looked up, confusion, uncertainty and just a tinge of hope illuminated in all their faces. The second in command articulated all their thoughts with a wavering simple, "Sir, what do we do?"
 In response the General's smile transformed into a large vicious grin, he opened his mouth and shouted one word, his voice sending a tangible blast through the room like some form of sonic explosion, "Jump!"

 I a third jumped, a third vaulted, a third dived over Doctor Sasha's raised leg. Coat flapping behind me, both legs in the air, I had a second of satisfaction in knowing I had outwitted my enemy. Then the tip of my shoe caught on Dr Sasha's raised leg, tipping my face forward as I rapidly neared the ground. A thinly carpeted floor is still surprisingly painful when it makes contact with your face at high velocity. Nonetheless, with aching features and disheveled tie, I had managed to overcome the defensive lines of the enemy. Shakily I sat myself next a laughing Underling Sinister, deeply exhausted but satisfied in the knowledge that I had avoided the worse possible outcome.
 As the film started, however, the other two gradually lost interest in the food, choosing instead to focus on the poorly made horror film. In my mind, the General smiled with satisfaction, this was precisely what he had expected, then barked one simple command, instructing a single move that went against all cinema going conventions set before it. A revolutionary act that broke the fundamental laws of battle but nonetheless brilliant. Slowly I reached across with trembling hands and gently plucked the bag of confectionery from the distracted Underling Sinister.
 Holding the multi-coloured sugar coated hoard preciously in both hands, I smiled a wide malicious grin, victory was mine, though the battle had been long and tough, it had ended with my triumph.

 Though on hindsight however, the true victor was perhaps the cinema for getting myself and two other hapless teenagers to not only invest in overpriced tickets for a film that turned out to be even worse than its prequel which had been pretty appalling in itself but also to purchase an expensive bag full of diabetes. Well, you win some, you lose some and you won't last long, if you can't learn to focus on life's small victories and ignore the defeats.

Badger

 One of the current hot topics on the televised lips of every newscaster in Britain seems to be the postponing of the scheduled badger culls. The news today was regularly punctuated with footage of the opposition who, rather naturally, opposed the government policy; along with some self proclaimed badger defenders; celebrating the failure of the cull, while the governmental authorities desperately stressed the fact this was a set back as opposed to a cancellation.

 The main motivation behind this planned bestial genocide, other than the conservatives looking for a suitable replacement for fox hunting, seems to be that badgers are partially responsible for causing the spread of TB within cattle. Essentially it is Cows versus Badgers, which sounds like the title of a very poor quality monster movie which will nonetheless go on to have quite a large cult following purely because of how ridiculous and cheap it is. A cinematic triumph portraying the battle between two mighty beasts, fighting to determine who is the superior mix of white and black. Perhaps there could even be a high budget sequel in which Michael Jackson joins the battle.

 The war however cannot go on forever and at some pint a judgment must be made on which of the two animals should be prioritized. When considering this, there are several factors that should be taken into account and placed gently into the metaphorical scales of justice. No one, not even the people who campaign for the right of badgers, would suggest that cows are fundamentally bad or evil and less deserving of life than badgers. This therefore means that, in terms of base value (since badgers aren't, relatively speaking, especially endangered either) the cow is no worse than the badger.
At this point the scales are even. Then what tips the balance is the addition of financial value to the cow side. The fact that products of cows are considered a source of valuable income for farmer's bank accounts as well as a delicious income for our digestive systems, makes the cow a lot more generally valuable than redundant badger.

  If any self proclaimed guardian of monochrome woodland animals in danger declared that they could compensate for the financial advantage the cow has over the badger, to even out the value scales, purely with the magnitude of their love for the badger. I would suggest that they had a rather peculiar sexuality and probably took pleasure from poking a stick down a badger's burrow, so to speak; liked adding more white stripes to the badger, if you know what I mean; enjoyed putting it right in the badgina, to be more crude.

 However one alternative and feasible method of evening out the balance on the value scale is to make the badger too, like the cow, financially profitable. Perhaps, since if they were farmed for meat it would destroy the entire objective of preventing a badger cull, they could be milked. Although badger milk does sound like some obscure innuendo or disgusting variety of cocktail rather than an actual straightforward drink. Nonetheless there is some hope, coconut and soya beans have both successfully made it into the milk market and comparatively speaking badgers are a lot closer to cows, the alpha within the milk industry, than either of those two examples just by having nipples.

 However if the idea of lactating badgers doesn't seem too appealing or appetizing, there is an alternate labor market into which the woodland mammals could enter. Furthermore with this way, the extremely loving guardians of the badger can have a two fold satisfaction first in knowing that they are supporting the animal's right to exist by being paying customers and second in the pleasurably amorous service its self.

Personal

 As the damp air grows colder and the gnarled trees grow balder, the time is fast approaching the celebrated eve of Halloween. The night of the supernatural, when the terrifying ghosts of the dead are said to wander amongst us and the even more terrifying juvenile delinquents, who are still unfortunately of the living, more than definitely loiter malignantly amongst us, armed to the aggressively gritted teeth with eggs and insults.

 I am also, unfortunately, still entirely unsure as to what to wear as a Halloween costume. Last year I wore a dead child, lovingly constructed out of cardboard and red paint, on my head but that has, rather cruelly, been specifically banned by the hostess of this years Halloween party.

 Hence I have decided that, in the manner of a true problem solver, I shall procrastinate thinking about the costume until absolutely necessary (that is to say, on the night) and for the time being ponder about the major Western festival proceeding Halloween, the festival of Christmas (entirely ignoring some other slightly minor festivals such as the celebratory burning of the effigy of a dead terrorist bomber. I am not referring to some obscure annual Bin Laden hating celebration, which in all probability exists, in the Southern United States but to the long running British festival of Bonfire Night.)

 No other festival in existence places such a damning emphasis on desolate loneliness than Christmas. Not only is it commonly celebrated in union by romantic couples, Christmas also enforces the giving of presents and cards to loved ones, friends and family. Which then  automatically marks out, highlights and isolates those with few caring friends or family.
 I for one remember one particularly depressing year when I received the grand total of one Christmas card. A cheaply manufactured thing, probably bought en mass at WHSmith but nonetheless treasured by me, occupying the pride of place on my windowsill for the best part of a year, as proof of the fact I was not entirely devoid of amicable companionship within this world.

 The interior of the card was, to put it positively, minimalist. A white space occupied by the mechanically printed words "Merry Christmas" under which was written my name, scribbled carefully in the dead and shriveled worm like handwriting of my friend, Underling Book, and another accompanying sentence of well wishing. It was not that much but it was more than enough. The fact a card had been sent to me with intention of being sent to me, proven via the messy writing which would, to the untrained eye, appear like Arabic, was more than sufficient evidence that the sender cared about me.

 However the latest card manufacturing companies would deny me even that scrap of happiness because according to their adverts people now need to go to new lengths of personalization, involving adding photos of the recipient and choosing pointless humorous fonts, in order to create a greeting card that proves they care. Which would, by default, suggest that in their expert opinion, the dear Christmas card I received (with Underling Book's near encoded writing of well wishing) is worth very little sentimental value due to the fact that it didn't have a massive photo of me cropped onto it combined with a hilarious punning title in the style of some tabloid newspaper or a poster or some other god forsaken format which has been granted the license of being sufficiently caring and festive in the eyes of the bloated greed-filled executives of greeting card personalization companies.

It has always been the ambition of humans to leave a legacy in the world, some sort of sign of their existence, to confirm their place within the universe, to leave a notable mark in society. The rulers of ancient civilizations did this by creating epic monuments, personalizing blocks of stone to leave as an indicator of their short existence on this planet. Now it seems everyone wants to be in on the act, desperate to make some personal, uniquely distinguished mark of their own on everything from a greeting card to the clothes they wear.
This trend of personalization appears to be spreading like an uncontrolled marketing infection. With decorative stickers being sold to personalize everything from your keys to your phone as if the amount of crudely made glittery diamond shaped plastic you attached to your iPhone case would help reaffirm your place within the world. Perhaps soon there will be a day when everything is personalized, every gift and every possession stamped with your face on it to confirm that the object did indeed at one point belong to you. Sperm given in at a sperm bank, each cell complete with a smiling microscopic photo of the generous man who sacrificed a minute of his time and exercised his hand to make the donation. Or organs given in for transplants, all meticulously engraved with the name and caricature of the now deceased donor. Perhaps even children put up to adoption with a photo of their not very responsible biological parents super glued to their back.

 This mad wave of commercially encouraged uniqueness further causes an inflation in the value of personalization and raises the bar indicating what the bare minimum socially acceptable display of caring is. Before the arrival of the customizable cards, the simple greeting or congratulatory cards brought at a news paper agents to have someone's name hurriedly scrawled in must have seemed sufficiently personalized and caring.

 Therefore it is only logical to assume something else more personalized than the current cards on offer will soon appear on the market, a vicious cycle that will continue escalating until it is no longer sufficient to just print with normal ink because normal ink is what every non-personal and therefore uncaring people are using in their greeting cards. Then what personalized liquid can you use to write your message? Why not use your own blood? After all, nothing is more personalized than your own DNA. But should you print the message on paper? Paper is what all the non-personalizing cold heartless people are using, why not used the far more personal alternative of your very own skin to show the recipient that you really care?

A truly terrifying image of the potential near future. Indeed at present it seems the one most truly frightening thing in the world is the development of personalized greeting cards which will ultimately and inevitably result in human self mutilation and destruction.

 Now that gives me a sudden blindingly bright flash of artistic inspiration, since I have often heard it said that the best creations in horror are based off the real fears of the creators, perhaps I should go to this year's Halloween party dressed entirely in personalized greeting cards. I'm sure such a costume would receive a frightened scream or two.

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.