Rewriten Disney song.

Ok, I'm not sure if I've done this one before, but here you go anyway.

I can show you my cock
Shining, shimmering, splendid
Tell me, princess, now when did
You last let your heart decide?

I can open my flies
Take you wonder by wonder
Over, sideways and under
On a burning carpet ride

I'm sort of stuck for the rest of it...any ideas?

I used to be love drunk - but now I'm hungover --

-- sorry, I tried Slipknot, but Tinkeroo prefers punk-pop.

I'm not blogging as much on here anymore, so my apologies.
- Although I'm not sure who I'm apologising to. Who reads this anymore?

Anyway, I've finally given up and turned to Tumblr. It's honestly so clean and simple, I swear the vicar could use it, and she's only just found out how to use folders in My Docs.

So, if you're interested - http://rigroganoff.tumblr.com

If you're not, eh.
- a

Super-Productive Day.

I've spent this afternoon watching films, and apparently disproving the theory that I'm butch. I honestly cry at everything - other than not being able to afford it, that's one of the reasons I'll usually say no to the cinema.

I hadn't seen Beauty and the Beast in about eight years, and it used to be my favourite film. Today I cried for the first time while watching it - and no, it wasn't because he looked better as a beast. They always do.
And then - bloody hell. Last night I started watching The Bodyguard, and I have to say, Kevin Costner does grow on you throughout it, so if you haven't seen it, don't write him off at the start. I've just finished watching it now, and the ending is truly awful. It finished with him guarding a bloody priest!

Anyway - watch them both. That's all I've done today. And cried.
What a super-bloody-productive day that was.
- a .

'Fancy English.'

I was just accused of using 'fancy English' because I used the word coherent. teehe!

Get thee to bed, Francisco

Long time, no blog.
Sorry, my lovelies, I'm just feeling a bit crap at the moment, to put it lightly, and nobody really gives a shit about whether or not I post anyway.
I have to finish a graph for tomorrow, but it was due last week. I honestly hate graphs. We have computers, why make us draw them? Especially when mine are usually less than accurate.
Oh, and I have an essay on Hamlet to do for... Tuesday.
Brilliant.
And I've lost every note I've made on the thing.
Bloody brilliant.

I do, however, know Spock's entire dying speech.
Which is something.

- a.

Just watched Valkyrie.

That Hitler dude wasn't all that nice, was he? And is it just me, or have my moobs got bigger?? I bet I've just put more fricking weight on and it's decided to get all up in ma chest. Wait-how would you know about the size of my moobs. Silly question.

Primark tomorrow. Give me a longish length of rope right now and I swear to God I'd do it.

Shit! I hope my moobs haven't got bigger; they might not fit in my work blouse. Great.The last thing I want is to pop out in front of some sweaty chav trying to return a moist 50p t-shirt they bought six months ago without tags or receipts.

Too much information here?

Why are we doing this anyway?

Ok, so the other day I read Bladon's emo blog post about how there's very little point to life and I left a comment attempting to reassure him (though I'm sure it had VERY little effect)that there is a point to life in procreation.

I'm going to go back on that. Throughout our lives we are working and working. We are told to work hard so we can get a good job which will let us work some more for, all in all, very little point. So what if I get a load of money? What's money going to do? Yeah, I can buy a load of pretty stuff, but what's the point in that? I wouldn't even be able to enjoy the worthless material possessions because I'D ALWAYS BE FRIGGING WORKING!!!

Then, if we do have children and continue our species, they're only going to have to work hard so they can find good work to work at to earn moeny which they will have no time to feel the benefit of because they will ALWAYS BE WORKING!

Essentially, we work until we're too old to work, when we have no livlihood, and therefore even less reason to live than we did before. Our bodies pack up and we feel constantly ill.

Then we die.

Every second is a second closer to death. It actually is. I know it's not healthy to think this way, but it's an actual fact.

I hope to God that I find something worthwhile to fill the space between now and inevitable death. We all start off with these big plans, and it looks like the majority of us won't even make it to university at the moment. I would be surprised if more than a very few people actually achieve what they wanted to.

Having said that, perhaps it's good to never be fully satisfied with life, because then you feel the urge to strive for better things. I suppose when you stop feeling the need to better yourself, you truly have no point to life.

So after all that, what I'm ending up saying is that we need to work, because without work we have even less point in this pointless existance. We are stuck in one giant loop of doom.


Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to Gary Jules' version of 'Mad World' and cut myself.

Ok, the ranty pants are officially removed.

Cynicism for the win!

There's some sort of quote from something which says something along the lines of 'Inside every cynic is a disappointed idealist.'

Yeah, I've heard that. I'm not cynical because the world has disapointed me, I'm cynical because I'm a grumpy bastard. I'm a grumpy bastard who enjoys being a grumpy bastard.

So there.

Maybe I am disapointed...who knows? I certainly don't. If Freud were her, he'd put it down to some sort of sexual repression. That's not saying much though. He pretty much put all the world's problems down to incest and sexual repression.

As you can tell, my mind isn't quite awake at the moment, so I can't actaully be arsed to put anything of worth.

Have just been watching 'Braveheart' on Film4, and now cannot repress the urge to say:

"They can take our lives, but they cannot take our FREEEEDOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!" *Insert sound of triumphant Scotts here*

It's a very good film, it really is. There does lie a real problem in that what with all the romanticised notions of the opressed Scotts whoare raped and pilliaged on a daily basis by the English, people tend to forget that the ruling classes did pretty much the same thing to thier own people back in the 14th century (or whatever it was)

Again, there was no point to that. Therefore, as ever, my post ends unsatisfactorily.

"My mum told me not to talk to strangers"

I'm in love.
With Matt Smith.
Mmmmn - Friday night, stood literally less than a metre away from him as he played guitar and sang his little heart out. Let me know if you can think of a better way to spend a Friday night.
So, anyway - I love piercings. It's a well known fact. I was convinced that I'd spotted a tongue piercing while he sang, which just added to his obscene perfection, but El wasn't convinced.
So I tweeted.
And he responded avec:
"@rigrog Haha. Well I dunno if I can say. My mom told me not to talk to strangers."
AND THEN
I was out during this tweet, so I wasn't sure as to whether he'd actually responded to my original one. But it turns out that he tweeted back to me twice while I was in blackpuddle:
"@rigrog You gone quiet now? Lol. How are you? Yes it was a tongue piercing you saw.x"

Matt Smith asked me how I was, I screamed a little in sheer delight, and asked him how he was. So, I'm in a really good mood now.
Also, my favourite film was just on channel four.
Honestly, what isn't attractive about "Thomas Gabriel" in Die Hard 4.0?
He's intelligent, muscular, and unhinged in a really good way.

-A

My apologies for that post. Matt Smith is a beautiful, beautiful man. If he'd started up a twitter conversation with you - well, you'd be just as ecstatic.

Why are all our teachers insane?

Seriously, your guess is as good as mine.

There She Goes, There She Goes Again.

Christ Almighty. Well, prepare to be bored by my agonies. It's happening again. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I've had a case of the 'Ooh Mr Darcy's.'

It started with a slight preference, then it moved to the tummy flips. Yes. The Tummy Flips...I've actually used the word 'tummy' in day to day conversation; if you had any human compassion, you'd shoot me now. Put me out of my misery.

Ok, so yesterday, I'm going about my business when the person in question walks past. He catches my eye, and I do a bit of a double take, feel slightly odd. Tummy Flip. God...I hate myself.

I assure myself it was just a momentary thing, just in that split second, something is attractive. Maybe it's the light, I dunno, but nothing important, nothing to set too much store by.

My theory was *ahem* totally proven today, when I walked past the same guy, and exactly the same thing happened.

Yes, I know. Underneath it all I'm just a great big poofter.

Shitey Moses!

I'm just going to have to hope it's a phase, all my adventures into this field end in tears. I'm just going to have to treat it like a Big Issue seller; ignore it and hope it goes away. (Ugh -that was mean of me.) I've been disappointed too many times, and frankly, I've known now, for some time that I'm not meant for this sort of stuff, I invariably make a fool of myself.

I suppose I'm cursed in the fact that everyone I find attractive turns out to be a total wanker and doesn't find me in the least bit attractive, but the men that do find me attractive just so happen to be over thirty...and often bald.