My Monster Match is The Mummy, apparently. But when the description opens with: “Has anyone ever told you that you look sharp in linen, and white is definitely your color? From head to toe, you are the best dressed of the zombie clan.” You know something’s flawed in their testing procedure.
Hmmm…
Found in the comments of some code I wrote last year : “We are sexier and more clever than their simple scripts.”
I don’t recall writing that comment, but everyone else at work is frightened of that particular piece of code, so I’m the only one that touches it. I must have been in a odd mood that day.
Questions
Another one of those “get to know your friends” questionnaires arrived in my mail today. Frankly, most of the quesions were dull ones, that I’d seen on other surveys but I thought these ones were sufficently different to post up here and give you lot something to think about.
“Pick one :love, beauty or creativity.”
“If you were another person, would you be friends with you?”
“Who are your second family?”
Pleasing
Things I have just remembered: I have a large bar of Green and Blacks organic dark chocolate in the fridge at home.
Hurrah!
Harry/Dave
Two of my favourite things: Dave McKean art and Harry Potter novels. According to this article (about a cartoon adaption of the book “The Day I Swapped My Dad For Two Goldfish” that McKean worked on with Neil Gaiman), Dave McKean has been named as the Art Director for the second Harry Potter film. This should be good…
Now if only the next book would hurry up…
Plans
OK, deeply pissed off now. Tonight, I hurried home from work, because we had someone coming to see the flat at 7:30. I made such alarmingly good time that I was able to go to the gym before they were due here, get back, shower and have dinner with 15 minutes to spare to give the place a quick tidy.
Have they showed up? Have they fuckery. Not so much as a “sorry, found somewhere else” phone call. That would be the polite minimum that I’d expect.
They’re not the first to do this, but I find it infuriating that people will make an appointment, and then entirely fail to keep it. I mean, what I wanted to do this evening was to stay late at work and catch up on a few odd jobs for 9A and Electricana, leave the office in time to get to the gym for nine-ish, and then collapse into bed with a Harry Potter novel, but because someone has said that they’d be somewhere at 7:30, and I’d agreed to be there to meet them, I rushed home, and shelved all my plans.
This, kids, is why you should always do what you say you’re going to, and at the very least provide an explanation if you fail to stick to what was agreed. Because otherwise people will want to kill you with a big stick.
Waving
Or, of course, it could stop raining ten minutes after I post that. I love the view from my window. It ain’t the Antrim Coast or Richmond Hill, or any of those other places, but as views from an office window go, it’s pretty fucking splendid.
Drowning
Christ, when Autumn arrives, it doesn’t piss about, does it? Maybe it’ll stop raining in time for spring, if we’re lucky.
Syndication
I could get to like this sense of achievement thing. I’ve just finished the first version of some code that’ll allow us to syndicate the content of Ninth Art. This pleases me immensely. If you look at the front page of this site, you’ll see what I mean. One line of code, that you could run on any website you wanted, and it’ll spit out whatever the last update of 9A was. Hurrah!
Anti
Good fucking grief, what is this? “Assume Alasdair’s a miserable sod night”? Walking home this evening from seeing Amelie (about which more another time) Andrew observes that I seem kind of tightly wound, which confuses me slightly, and then I get home to find a flood of e-mails saying that sitting about my room moping isn’t good for me. I’m touched by the concern, kids (and slightly less touched by the “It’s no wonder you can’t get laid if that’s how you spend your time” mail) I can only assume it’s the bit about “songs of loss and regret” that’s got everyone calling me a miserable sod.
So point the first – I defy anyone to listen to a song with lyrics like:
“I made a golden promise
That we would never part
I gave my love a locket
And then I broke her heart
And it’s such a sad old feeling
The fields were soft and green
And it’s memories that I’m stealing
But you’re innocent when you dream”
and tell me that’s not a song about loss and regret. Were I in another sort of mood, yes, it could set me to sitting about my room, moping.
But fuck that. Sideways. With knives.
Point the second – I spent last night attempting to write a love story. Or at least, the pitch for one. Every time I try and write it, it twists and turns on me, and I put it aside for a while. So every so often, I come back and spend and evening locked in mortal combat with it.
When I am trying to write this story, I have a very mixed playlist. I mean, if I’d written that blog entry earlier, I would have had Voice of the Beehive, or maybe the Pixies playing. As it is, I wrote it after I’d downed tools for the night, and was unwinding, and just letting the playlist wind through.
The candlelight, whiskey, and listeing to the rain: I *like* all those things. They help me relax. What, you’ve never just sat and listened to the rain? Are you even human?
So once again: I am not a miserable bastard, you fuckers. I suspect that what had Andrew asking was that I seemed kind of distracted after Amelie, partly because I really enjoyed the film and was being all soppy where no-one could see (or something – you must have some idea what I mean), and mostly because I was trying to nail down an idea in my head that I’ve been incubating for the last few weeks. I still haven’t managed it, but y’know, I’m sure it’ll come to me.
I mean, I’d be lying if I said my life has no down points at the moment – I’m a little worried about finding a new flatmate, because my oldest friend and former flatmate has just left the coutry. But y’know, if the worst thing in my life is that one of my best friends is going away to get married and live a happy life, then yes, I do know just how lucky I am.
So don’t you fucking dare tell me I’m miserable. Or I’ll smile at you.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to light some candles, drink whiskey, and listen to songs about murder.
Which probably makes me a sociopath, according to you people.