.jpg)
The world is crying for your help. It wants you to save it. The icebergs are melting and the summer is getting longer and hotter. Everything is going belly up.
It isn’t the only one crying either. Al Gore is crying, about truth and inconvenience and stuff. The bin men are crying too, because you’ve put a bottle top in to recycle when that just isn’t possible. And the government are crying because they think it will get them votes.
Everyone is crying that the world need saving, the world is in danger, the world is getting hotter and will explode into a million, billion pieces tomorrow if you don’t stop driving RIGHT NOW!
But I’m staying dry-eyed. Because I don’t care.
Don’t take this as a lack of ignorance on my part. I’ve researched some things and watched that documentary people keep going on about. A rational part of my mind tells me that recycling is probably a good idea. But an even larger part of it thinks about sandwiches and shiny things, and it is this side that wins. Every damn time.
Part of the reason is that global warming isn’t an immediate threat to me. I can’t see species of butterfly dying in front of me. I’m too far to see the melting icecaps. And when the hot weather rolls out, I’m thinking about laying in the park with an ice cream instead of seeing it as the world-ending threat that it is supposed to be.
Also, I’m young and therefore rebellious. Everyone is crying to save the world, so I’m taking the opposite stance. I don’t save the world! I’m an environmental terrorist.
Whilst this may conjure images of a Captain Planet villain, what it mainly entails is running around with a bag of cans and plastic and putting it in people’s (heaven forbid) green bins. Just to spite them.
This is because I am young and I am right. Even if every other person everywhere else tells me the world needs saving, they are wrong. The only right people are those that agree with me, and they will only stay right as long as they think everything I think. It’s a nice easy way to see the world.
Sure, maybe the world dies a bit, but until I can watch an ice-cube melt in a second simply by holding it outside, I don’t believe the world is in any danger.
The fact that I will eventually inherit this (probably seriously damaged) world doesn’t really occur to me, the same way that when I drunkenly punch a hole in the wall of my house it doesn’t occur that I will inherit it when my parents die. No, instead I just carry on my drunken wreaking spree.
It’ll only be when I’m older and wiser, when I stand at the cracked wall and tut. The whole house will now be structurally unsound because of my actions, and I’ll wish I’d cared way back then. I may even invent a time machine to kill myself, thus stopping myself punching the wall, but also creating a time paradox at the same time.
And in the same way, there I’ll be in the future, living in a boat because 90% of Earth is underwater, wishing that I’d just listened to everyone else and recycled my plastic (but not bottle tops) and my tins and my paper. Then, maybe, the world would be alive and well, and not crying itself to sleep every night.
But until then, I’m young, and there are sandwiches and shiny objects to look forward to.
:P
PS. The following are not true: I don’t put cans into people’s bins, I don’t drunkenly punch holes in walls when drunk, and I would never risk a time paradox to try and kill myself in the past.
PPS. The following IS true: I care more about sandwiches and shiny objects than global warming.
Monday 21 July 2008
Saturday 19 July 2008
Ctrl + F5
Or Refresh
Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Atomic Bomb
I remember a day, not so long ago, when this blog used to be daily. It was a fun time, filled with flowers and skipping through fields and sunshine. Nowadays, blogs are rare occurrences. They pop up every so often, with no thought to sticking to a schedule. They get written, they get posted. The end.
There are several reasons to why this is. The first is laziness. Why write something when I can be out partying, or lying in a park, or playing videogames, or just doing something that feels less like work? There is no reason why, at least at the time, so I don’t write.
When I do get round to writing, it is to write other things. I’ve recently been accepted into a 5 day networking event in Edinburgh, an off-shoot of the TV festival taking place at the same time, and I’ll be meeting a whole bunch of big media types. You know, heads of channels and stuff. This means I’ve got to make sure I have a script to bring with me, so I can casually break into their suitcases and leave it.
Lastly, I like my posts to be of a certain quality. I could easily stick to a schedule if I just posted a funny video or a quick thought, but this seems lazy. So instead, I post nothing. Because obviously that makes sense.
But whatever the reason, what the lack of posts mean is that I get friends complaining that nothing new has appeared, less readers, and a horrible feeling every time I go and attempt to post something new. It’s off putting, seeing the long gaps between posts.
So here, right now, on the 19th July 2008, I propose a new schedule. From this time onwards, posts will appear on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Sure, I may get inspired and write more, but the gist is that there will always be posts on those days.
This will (hopefully) give me chance to write when I feel like it and keep to something bordering on regular. Maybe I’ll find that I write more, and add an extra day. Maybe not. Time will tell.
Guess you just have to look forward to Monday now. Until then, go to www.drhorrible.com and watch the videos contained within. At least until tomorrow, because then it’ll cost you.
:D
Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Atomic Bomb
I remember a day, not so long ago, when this blog used to be daily. It was a fun time, filled with flowers and skipping through fields and sunshine. Nowadays, blogs are rare occurrences. They pop up every so often, with no thought to sticking to a schedule. They get written, they get posted. The end.
There are several reasons to why this is. The first is laziness. Why write something when I can be out partying, or lying in a park, or playing videogames, or just doing something that feels less like work? There is no reason why, at least at the time, so I don’t write.
When I do get round to writing, it is to write other things. I’ve recently been accepted into a 5 day networking event in Edinburgh, an off-shoot of the TV festival taking place at the same time, and I’ll be meeting a whole bunch of big media types. You know, heads of channels and stuff. This means I’ve got to make sure I have a script to bring with me, so I can casually break into their suitcases and leave it.
Lastly, I like my posts to be of a certain quality. I could easily stick to a schedule if I just posted a funny video or a quick thought, but this seems lazy. So instead, I post nothing. Because obviously that makes sense.
But whatever the reason, what the lack of posts mean is that I get friends complaining that nothing new has appeared, less readers, and a horrible feeling every time I go and attempt to post something new. It’s off putting, seeing the long gaps between posts.
So here, right now, on the 19th July 2008, I propose a new schedule. From this time onwards, posts will appear on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Sure, I may get inspired and write more, but the gist is that there will always be posts on those days.
This will (hopefully) give me chance to write when I feel like it and keep to something bordering on regular. Maybe I’ll find that I write more, and add an extra day. Maybe not. Time will tell.
Guess you just have to look forward to Monday now. Until then, go to www.drhorrible.com and watch the videos contained within. At least until tomorrow, because then it’ll cost you.
:D
Saturday 12 July 2008
Sleep, Or Lack Thereof
So I’ve been having trouble sleeping.I know, I know; as far as insightful opening lines go, this one ranks pretty low, but it does have the benefit of being true.
Night after night after night (That’s right, three nights) I’ve laid in bed, sleepless. I try to fall asleep, but the act of trying just makes things harder.
One reason why is my breathing, something that seems to be hard to do recently. Here lies the initial spark of insomnia. I can’t breath so therefore I can’t sleep. One follows the other, like day follows ‘ice cream sun’ (If you spelt it wrong). You ever tried sleeping whilst holding your breath? Really, really hard.
But breathing is hard to fix. He set yourself a rhythm, breathing out more than you breathe in, then you think of anything that isn’t oxygen related. Years of having asthma has taught me that it is often not the fact you can’t breathe that is the problem, but the fact that you know that you can’t breathe.
So anyway, there I am, breathing rhythmically and thinking of anything I want. I count sheep for a while, but stop when I realize that my mind can do anything with these sheep, and making them jump a fence is really boring. I start to ask myself questions. Really mundane things; I don’t want to keep myself up with complicated philosophical questions.
What is two plus two? Four!
Who is a nicer person: Hitler or Alison Janney? Certainly not Hitler!
Which is better: water or squash? Brita filtered? MISTAKE!
Suddenly I’ve answered a question with a question and started a reaction that will last almost all night. It’s not even like it was important.
Of course the water is Brita filtered. With this question you’d always take the best water and the best squash. But that answer doesn’t change my previous one; I prefer squash no matter how filtered the water is. So I’ve started this chain of questions for no godly reason.
Because now I’m wondering whether you could filter fizzy water. Would you lose the fizz? How about squash, could you filter that? Would you just get water out the other end? And then, would there be orange gunk in the top bit? And coke? What happens if you filter that.
Of course, without access to a Brita filter and the drinks or, at the very least, the internet I couldn’t find out the answers. So all I’d have was a bunch of pointless, unanswered questions floating around in my head. And this, in turn, leads to no sleep.
You’d think that after one night of this, I’d be tired enough to fall straight asleep the next night. And you’d think right. But I only seem to be sleeping for a couple of hours before waking and repeating the same process again and again.
So here I lie, typing this, tired to the bone. There is no reason for me to be mentioning this apart from one thing: If anyone has a Brita filter and ready access to coke, could you do me a favour?
:P
http://kokosowa.deviantart.com/art/insomnia-and-the-city-91479694
Friday 11 July 2008
Death with a Pretty Face
When she stands in the rain, she doesn’t get wet. She wears a hood anyway, more for effect than anything.
When it’s hot, she doesn’t sweat. Despite the black that she wears, her temperature never rises. She is forever cool, forever collected.
She’ll stand still for an age, ever patient. All she ever does is watch and smile, because human life, when viewed from the outside, is extremely entertaining.
When you finally notice that she’s there, which only happens once, you’ll fall in love. Once she has your heart, your soul will follow.
She won’t say a word. She won’t need to. You’ll know what will happen, what needs to happen. You’d walk with her for eternity if you could. You can’t.
The journey will only seem to take a second when you’re with her. At your destination, she’ll lean into you and whisper in your ear.
You’ll forget what she said, almost as soon as your hear it. The harder you try to remember, the more it will float out of your mind’s grasp.
But you’ll know it was wise. You’ll feel at peace; with the world and with yourself. You’ll smile, without realizing that you are smiling alone.
You will always remember her and you will always love her, but you will never see her again.
She’ll be standing in the rain, waiting for the next person to glance at her, to notice that she has been standing there all along.
When it’s hot, she doesn’t sweat. Despite the black that she wears, her temperature never rises. She is forever cool, forever collected.
She’ll stand still for an age, ever patient. All she ever does is watch and smile, because human life, when viewed from the outside, is extremely entertaining.
When you finally notice that she’s there, which only happens once, you’ll fall in love. Once she has your heart, your soul will follow.
She won’t say a word. She won’t need to. You’ll know what will happen, what needs to happen. You’d walk with her for eternity if you could. You can’t.
The journey will only seem to take a second when you’re with her. At your destination, she’ll lean into you and whisper in your ear.
You’ll forget what she said, almost as soon as your hear it. The harder you try to remember, the more it will float out of your mind’s grasp.
But you’ll know it was wise. You’ll feel at peace; with the world and with yourself. You’ll smile, without realizing that you are smiling alone.
You will always remember her and you will always love her, but you will never see her again.
She’ll be standing in the rain, waiting for the next person to glance at her, to notice that she has been standing there all along.
:D
Thursday 10 July 2008
Mr. Dog and His Red Balloon: A Child’s First Philosophy Book
Mr. Dog was the blackest of poodles. His best friend was Billy Johnson, a little boy who would often give him biscuits.
But Billy was seven, so most of the week Billy was at school. During this time, Mr. Dog’s best friend was a balloon.
It was red and it was shiny. A white string hung from the bottom, and helium kept it in the air.
Mr. Dog loved his balloon. He loved it as much as he loved bones and digging in the garden and chasing cars (Actually chasing cars, not the song from Snow Patrol. He did find that song mildly catchy though).
He would knock it with his paw and chase it as it bounced down the garden path. He’d let it go, letting it float up, before catching the end with his teeth.
One day, he sneezed. This wasn’t usually a problem for Mr. Dog, but this time stopped him grabbing the end of the string. The balloon floated away.
Mr. Dog chased it: through hedges and across roads and over fences. But it never came down again and soon the poor poodle lost sight of his round, red friend.
This didn’t stop him however. He refused to give up on his friend. He wandered the streets until the light began to fade. Soon it was night and it was at this time that Mr. Dog met an owl. They come out at night, don’t you know.
The owl was perched on a low branch of a tree. He looked friendly, so the dog approached him.
“Excuse me sir’ said the dog ‘Have you seen a red balloon on your travels?”
However, even though both spoke English, their points of reference were so far removed that the owl didn’t have a clue what the dog was saying. Instead, he just flapped his wings.
The dog never did find his balloon, but he never stopped trying. Billy came home to find that his dog was missing, but not amount of ‘Missing posters’ ever got Mr. Dog back.
The End
:D
But Billy was seven, so most of the week Billy was at school. During this time, Mr. Dog’s best friend was a balloon.
It was red and it was shiny. A white string hung from the bottom, and helium kept it in the air.
Mr. Dog loved his balloon. He loved it as much as he loved bones and digging in the garden and chasing cars (Actually chasing cars, not the song from Snow Patrol. He did find that song mildly catchy though).
He would knock it with his paw and chase it as it bounced down the garden path. He’d let it go, letting it float up, before catching the end with his teeth.
One day, he sneezed. This wasn’t usually a problem for Mr. Dog, but this time stopped him grabbing the end of the string. The balloon floated away.
Mr. Dog chased it: through hedges and across roads and over fences. But it never came down again and soon the poor poodle lost sight of his round, red friend.
This didn’t stop him however. He refused to give up on his friend. He wandered the streets until the light began to fade. Soon it was night and it was at this time that Mr. Dog met an owl. They come out at night, don’t you know.
The owl was perched on a low branch of a tree. He looked friendly, so the dog approached him.
“Excuse me sir’ said the dog ‘Have you seen a red balloon on your travels?”
However, even though both spoke English, their points of reference were so far removed that the owl didn’t have a clue what the dog was saying. Instead, he just flapped his wings.
The dog never did find his balloon, but he never stopped trying. Billy came home to find that his dog was missing, but not amount of ‘Missing posters’ ever got Mr. Dog back.
The End
:D
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
