Hvad er vi efterhånden ikke afhængige af? Store dele af middelklasse er på stærk medicin for at kæmpe sig igennem deres hårde middelklasse hverdag. Unge som gamle ryger som skorstene og maler deres lunger mørkere og mørkere, alt sammen for at lette stressede situationer – måske skyldes det svigt, eller et oprør der egentligt forlængst er forbi. Vi er ikke mindst afhængige af nyheder – og hvorfor skulle vi ikke også være det. Vi er oplyste, har uddannelse og hvis vi ikke kan komme til en computer mindst en gang i løbet af en dag, føler vi os afskårede. Jeg kender det fra mig selv. Vi er uendeligt bange for at følge os uden for. Selvom vi i nutiden gerne ser os selv som individer, er vi så kede af at afvige fra den store kollektive pærevælling. Til at hjælpe os har vi nu sociale værktøjer som facebook, myspace og twitter. Nu kan vi stalke vores venner og bekendte 24 i døgnet – og vi skal gerne være helt sikre på hvad de andre har lavet i løbet af dagen, har fået at spise og hvem de var sammen med til festen i weekenden. Også dette kender jeg fra mig selv. Kollektivet, denne atavistiske foranstaltning som vi engang imellem forsøger er skubbe fra os er en så inkarneret del af os alle sammen at vi aldrig nogensinde bliver foruden den. Det bliver kun værre. Eller bedre? Bringer alt dette, os en tand tættere på den ideelle verden, hvor alle ved alt om alle? Vi kan intet skjule længere, og vi retter os lige så stille ind og bliver til sidst en fuldstændig grå homogen masse på smertestillende medicin.

Idag søndag d. 22. november har jeg tjekket politikens hjemmeside mindst 4 gange for at blive opdateret på verdens situationen. Jeg ved at Kessler fik klø og at Ward ikke ligefrem var fair i kampens hede. Jeg ved at Røpke trækker sig som formand for Region Hovedstaden og jeg ved hvordan man laver en sprød Tempura. Det samme ved vel et par hundrede tusinde andre, som ligesom jeg er dybt afhængige af et fix nyheder et par gange i døgnet. Det er ikke ligefrem agurketid, så vi skal nok få vores fix. Hvis ikke der er nogle politikere som indgår tværpolitiske forliger for at få ekstra magt, langt væk fra fordumstidens idealisme, så er der i hvert fald en eller anden nyhed og det forstående klima topmøde, vi kan muntre os med.

Men hvorfor? Fordi vi er ansvarlige verdensborgere, som vil have del i ALT for at føle sig som en. Vi vil for en hver pris være så oplyste som vi kan blive, også selv om vi både skal sluge sovepiller, piller mod migrene og nu også en RedBull for at kapere rædslerne som omgiver os.

Hvor jeg vil hen med det her? Jeg ved det ikke, men det skulle bare ud.

*Hurraayyy, hurrray* Der Stromberg ist wieder da mit neuer Staffel und neuen geilen Sprüchen.
Der beste aus der ersten Folge war der Kommentar zum Spenden für Brot für die Welt: “Ja wer weiss denn, ob die sich von meinem Geld ein Brot kaufen…vielleicht kaufen sie sich davon ja auch ein Brotmesser um Touristen abzustechen.
*muuuuahahahahahaha* xD

Läuft übrigens Dienstags Abends nach ” Two and a half men” , was auch eine uuuuultra coole Serie ist. Dienstags ist allgemein momentan DER beste Fernsehabend: Eine Stunde Simpsons, eine Stunde “Two and a half men” und Stromberg. *woohooo* Ein Paradies für Sitcomjunkies…

Man sollte die anderen Abende der Woche auch umgestalten….”Desperate Housewives” und “Lipstick Jungle” brauch kein Mensch!
Ich würde sagen den Montag beginnen wir mit etwas Navi CIS und für das intellektuelle danach noch eine Runde Ally McBeal. *seufz* Wie ich diese Serie vermisse, unglaublich! *schnief*
Dienstag wäre ja eh geklärt.
Mittwoch ist und bleibt Frauenabend, aber ich wäre dafür Sex and the City wieder auszugraben und Greys Anatomie gaaaanz schnell wieder zu senden. *auf Entzug ist*
Donnerstag dann ein wenig Scifi-Abend.
Beginnen wir doch mit StarTrek Voyager, dachach Babylon 5 und für die ganz harten noch Akte X.
(hätte ich mittlerweile endlich mal Dr. Who geschaut, würde ich ihn sicherlich gegen Babylon 5 austauschen bei den positiven Kritiken, die ich immer so höre *g*)
Soooo was fehlt ist der Freitag…mmh naja Freitag ist eigentlich Filmtag. Aber neeeeee… Buffy fehlt ja noch und….
Moment. Buffy könnte man ja auch an den Mittwoch Abend ranhängen. Iss ja auch eher son Frauending. *an Spike denkt…mhhh*
Und die Männer können sich an Buffy erfreuen, na da ist doch jeder zufrieden.
So und was mach ich mit meine restlichen Sitcoms?
Wo tuhe ich nun noch die ganzen anderen Sitcoms hin? –> Cybill, Malcolm Mittendrin, Scrubs, Dharma und Greg, Will und Grace,  Absolutely Fabulous (ein kleiner Geheimtip von mir. Es  kommt nur leider seeeehrrrr selten und wenn, dann auf Arte oder Nachts auf Vox. Es ist aber uuunglaublich witzig ist…meine Eltern dürften es kennen!)

*OMG*, ich habe meine ganzen Trickfilmserien vergessen *waahhhhhhh*
Hach, ich habs schon schwer… ich bin wirklich zu bedauern.

cause after school, i went to nicco’s

with an empty stomach…i had to walk quite a distance from the bus terminal down to his house. but its ok, cause there’s food waiting for me there, wahahaha. so the first thing i did when i finally arrive, was to demand to be served with food. unfortunately, it was self-service only, so bleh…

there was pasta and asam pedas, but i just tried the pasta as i didnt wanna get my hands dirty eating rice.

oh did i tell you why i went to his house in the first place?
it was to shisha.

so after i finished eating, we went to set the shisha up.
ok, i admit that i know nuts about setting it up, so i just watched over as the other guys set it up. and nicco tried to be ‘creative’ and filled the base with sprite instead of water. crazy dude, but its actually very nice with sprite! hahah

the good thing about having shisha at nicco’s is that you can get unlimited supply of tobacco, refill charcoal anytime, and his house being on the first floor, we just spread a mat on the corridor and smoke there. it was relaxing, or should i say…chilling

unlimited supply of tobacco + refill of charcoal for shisha is the sex! the amount of flavour you get from the tobacco is gold! and the puffs of smoke is super thick! and you really can get high from smoking shisha, lol! well, all of us got high, to the point that we were laughing our ass off, cant do much actions, and one of us were on the verge of puking, the other sweating like a mad junkie. all of us couldnt stand properly for a moment, haha. i’d say that the effects of shisha is somewhat similar to that of laughing gas.

this is how similar they are: they make your heart race super fast, they make your head run fast as well, and make you dizzy, and by that, it constitutes you to being high.

and i lol’ed at the packaging for the shisha flavourings. they have those gross pics on your ciggie packs, haha. what better way than to send them this message. *cough*sarcasm*cough*

ugh, and i gotta meet my group to discuss EMP today, the meeting time is supposedly now, and i will leave the house after i publish this, haha. sorry in advance joo guys.

I Drove the Truck and my Mom Sold the Smack - GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS -  There is nothing in this world that compares to the love a mother has for her son, and vice versa.  Some say it’s genetic, others say it’s a mother’s instinct, but either way it’s one hell of a bond.  Take for instance when the boy was in little league.  Mama was always there cheering him on and she washed his uniform after every game.  Same goes when the little genius was valedictorian.  Mom was in the front row gushing like a school girl and she even baked a special cake shaped like a graduation cap, tassel and all.  But what happened when junior turned out to be a junkie?  Was mama there  there to fix him up?  Yep, and they both made some fast cash on the ride over, until things got ugly.

A Boston junkie was arrested for forcing her 23 year old son to drive the delivery car while she bought and sold heroin and other drugs around Gloucester and neighboring towns. Apparently the woman had been advertising the drug delivery service on Craigslist for the past year and has offered for sale pot, cocaine, mushrooms, heroin, opium and a vareity of prescription pills.   Both mother and son were arrested when the lad got so stoned off some marijuana that he nodded off behind the wheel and drifted into a hot dog cart where two city cops just happened to be having lunch. (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091021/ap_on_fe_st/us_odd_mom_son_heroin)

Momma smack plead guilty to charges of possession and distributing heroin, and possession of a controlled substance.  Her son was charged with knowing where heroin was kept, driving while intoxicated, running a red light and conspiracy to deliver narcotics.  After the wreck the son was pinned by the wheel but moms was able to escape and run home.  When Police arrived said they found her flushing a large quantity of drugs down the toilet and ended up recovering 10 individually packaged bags of dope worth some $1500 in her bedroom.  Too bad they got busted.  They’re about the only place in Gloucester other than Dominoes that guarantees delivery in 30 minutes or less.

      11:59 pm

I Drove the Truck while my Mom Sold the Smack - GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS -  There is nothing in this world that compares to the love a mother has for her son, and vice versa.  Some say it’s genetic, others say it’s a mother’s instinct, but either way it’s one hell of a bond.  Take for instance when the boy was in little league.  Mama was always there cheering him on and she washed his uniform after every game.  Same goes when the little genius was valedictorian.  Mom was in the front row gushing like a school girl and she even baked a special cake shaped like a graduation cap, tassel and all.  But what happened when junior turned out to be a junkie?  Was mama there  there to fix him up?  Yep, and they both made some fast cash on the ride over, until things got ugly.

A Boston junkie was arrested for forcing her 23 year old son to drive the delivery car while she bought and sold heroin and other drugs around Gloucester and neighboring towns. Apparently the woman had been advertising the drug delivery service on Craigslist for the past year and has offered for sale pot, cocaine, mushrooms, heroin, opium and a vareity of prescription pills.   Both mother and son were arrested when the lad got so stoned off some marijuana that he nodded off behind the wheel and drifted into a hot dog cart where two city cops just happened to be having lunch. (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091021/ap_on_fe_st/us_odd_mom_son_heroin)

Momma smack plead guilty to charges of possession and distributing heroin, and possession of a controlled substance.  Her son was charged with knowing where heroin was kept, driving while intoxicated, running a red light and conspiracy to deliver narcotics.  After the wreck the son was pinned by the wheel but moms was able to escape and run home.  When Police arrived said they found her flushing a large quantity of drugs down the toilet and ended up recovering 10 individually packaged bags of dope worth some $1500 in her bedroom.  Too bad they got busted.  They’re about the only place in Gloucester other than Dominoes that guarantees delivery in 30 minutes or less.

Well kind of . . . at least for rats.  Really you should just read this article which discusses findings that indicate that processed foods high in salt, fat, and sugar might affect us in similar fashion that addictive drugs do.

Why is this a sign of the apocalypse?  Well probably because it kind of suggests that a good number of us might be junkies . . . junkies for junk food.  And hell, have you ever seen a junkie do much of anything worth shit besides be all crazy for the next hit?  No, you haven’t, because they’re fucking junkies.  Point is, a sign of the apocalypse doesn’t have to be a stray asteroid or the dead rising from their graves.  It just as well may be a nation full of fat ass food junkies looking for their next fix . . . all the while missing the inevitable alien invasion fleet.

Just sayin’

Note: I’m not about to claim that I am better off then these junk food junkies mind you.  I fully admit that I have a serious addiction for things like candy, burgers, and frozen pizza.  But heck, at least I can admit the addiction.

Today has been terrible. I’ve been fighting nausea and fatigue all day and I’m pretty much hateful right now. It wouldn’t be a good night to come over to my house. I’d probably glare at you and make you rub my feet and bring me food that I decide I can’t eat and then yell at you about it.

But who cares. I need to get on with the rest of the story, right? I left off with admission to the hospital, so that’s where I’ll pick up.

Saturday September 26. I’d spent several hours in the ER, doped up with a little dilaudid that was only sort of taking the edge off the pain. Luckily the ER doc that night figured that after two trips to Patient First and two trips to the ER in one week, I needed to be admitted so they could dig a little deeper to find out what was going on. So they wheeled me up to my new home: Room 547, on the orthopedic surgery ward. Just because.

My room was private, which was nice. I sat the bed up and tried to get my barings: There was a bathroom and window to my left, and the door to the hall and a curtain for privacy to my right. A nurse named Rose wrote on a white board in front of me “9-26-09.

NURSE: ROSE / CNM: JILL / GOALS FOR EXCELLENT CARE!: / 1. PAIN CO

NTROL / 2. COMFORT.” The way she wrote “excellent care” looked like “excell

ent carleel.” I bring this up because it’s actually more interesting than it seems. You see, in fact, the window and bathroom were ACTUALLY on my right, and the door and curtain my left. I was actually oriented backwards. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, and it took me a while to figure it out. I think by the 5th day or so, I realized that I recalled starting off in a different room with a different setup, except that I didn’t remember being moved to a new room, and also, the room number was the same and the white board had the same “excellent carleel” on it.

Needless to say, I’m fuzzy on the exact happenings and order of events. But I’ll give my version.

Rose, a 55-60 year-old Latina woman with a thick accent, and my first of 20 or so nursed I would come to know and love, went on to set me up in my room. She took blood, which was an hourly event it seemed those first several days, (and not an EASY one by any means, considering I was so dehydrated that my body was, like, actively decaying. Once a needle reared its ugly little head, my blood vessels instantly turned to mush and collapsed, so the nurses had to poke me on average 5 times for one blood-draw session. Hell.) She weighed me, just by pushing a button on the fancy bed, but she kept saying “Fitty-fie. Fitty-fie? Fitty=fie.” Eric and I were like, “55 what? grams or something we don’t know? Not pounds. That doesn’t make sense.” And she would grin and shrug and say “Yes, pounds. No? You’re no fitty-fie?” Now, even though I was seeing backwards and hearing wah-wahs, I knew that was crazy talk. “Do I seriously LOOK 55 pounds Rose? Have you EVER met an adult of average height who weighed 55 pounds? Are you really a nurse?” “It must be broke, the bed. It not weighing. I put down 120. That what your papers say from when you came to ER last night.”

Whoa.

Before I got sick 2 weeks prior, I weighed myself at the Y, where I work out 2-4 times a week. I’d been doing really well with my workouts, lifting and running and lots of yoga, and I was looking fabulous and healthy and I was loving my trim, muscular figure. I stood on the scale that day out of curiosity, since I hadn’t checked in a while. Not because I was looking to lose weight or anything. I was a happy size 6 or so. I was about 132.

It dawned on me that 12 pounds in less than two weeks probably wasn’t healthy. I looked at my arms for the first time and I was frightened. Not only were they beginning to turn black and blue from all the poking, but my skin was stretched thinly across my bones, and my fingers looked like those of a near-death old lady, all boney and skinny. What was happening to me!?

(The weight loss only got worse over the next 9 days, since I didn’t eat a single bite of food for two weeks. We speculate I got down to 114 or less. I’ve been eating fairly well now for about 2 weeks, and am only back up to 119.)

I think the next couple of days came and went without me noticing much. I just let the dilaudid drip drip drip into my veins. I complied with the constant drawing of blood, and the blood pressure/pulse/temp checks every couple of hours, and the stream of doctors and nurses and nurses and doctors that were coming and going and going and coming. My IV stopped working at one point; popped out of my vein, threatening to infiltrate, so they had to re-do it, which was a nightmare. Took four different nurses trying to find a single vein in my body that would hold it. (I forgot the story before about having an infiltrated IV in the ER. Movie scenes are made of this stuff: I noticed the IV in my arm starting to bother me. I looked down at it, and it sorta looked swollen. I asked Eric if he thought it looked funny, and he said no and went back to his text message or whatever. Then I watched it grow. and grow. and grow. Before I knew it, it looked like a golf ball was stuck under my skin. And FELT like a golf ball was stuck under my skin. I started screaming and Eric looked up from his phone, and turned a wrong color. He sorta muttered and shot out of his seat and stood there for a second, frozen and watching it. “Do something!” I yelled. He snapped out of it, and ran out of the room yelling for a nurse. He kept running back in, checking the progress, his eyes popping out of his head, and running back out, yelling “uh…nurse? nurse? um, NURSE! HELP! HELP! SHIT! IT’S ABOUT TO BLOW! HURRY! HELP! and I was shouting “IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT! HELP!” and at last as they just sort of sauntered in and said “Oh. It’s infiltrated. Here. Let me get that for you.”)

So I slept when I was awake and was awake while I slept for the next three days. And the doctors all fought over me, each one with her or his own theory about what ailed me. The most widely accepted idea, though, was pancreatitis. The hospitalist, a sweet, soft-spoken woman with the very faintest of a European accent, came up with it, and told me the treatment was to not eat and manage the pain until it cleared itself up. Not eating was no problem, since I really just couldn’t. I had no interest, nor the ability to hold anything down. She ordered a clear-liquid diet for me, since they HAD to bring me food everyday, so for the first four days, my breakfast, lunch and dinner came on a tray and sat in my room for an hour until they were removed, untouched. And every meal was identical: A bowl of either beef broth or chicken broth, red jello, an apple, grape, or fruit punch juice cup, and a protein juice box thing. And I told them for four days that I was vegetarian and could not eat beef or chicken broth, nor jello, but that it didn’t really matter because I wasn’t going to ingest anything anyway. Finally on the fifth day they left off the jello and gave me vegetable broth. I attempted one sip of the broth, and it tasted like salt water. Yum.

Then Tuesday happened.

Oh Tuesday. The worst day I’ve ever spent on planet Earth.

A surgeon named Dr. Moore walked in my room. To this day, I’m not sure why. He’d been consulted in the first couple of days in case they needed to do exploratory surgery, but it was determined that since they were all going with the pancreatitis/virus theory, surgery wasn’t necessary. So really, at this stage of the game, he should have been signed of the case and gone on with his business. But I didn’t really have the wherewithal to know that, so when he loomed over my bed (this is still in the backwards-room period,) and told me it was time for me to come off the dilaudid, I didn’t know what to say. I panicked on the inside, but I didn’t want anyone thinking I was a junkie and had become terribly addicted to the drugs, so I just said, weakly, “Are you sure?” “Yeah. You’ve been on this stuff too long. You don’t need it anymore. Laying around is doing nothing for you. You need to get up and move around. I’ll order them to stop the dilauded and give you a little ibuprofen, and tell them to get you up and walk you around. Let’s get you outta here tomorrow.”

I was stricken with the utmost terror. I KNEW that my pain was in it’s prime, and I could only lay there and do nothing (so I thought at the time,) while they cut me off from the only thing that was saving me. Within an hour, I was screaming, twisting, writhing, begging, pleading, grabbing, sobbing, hyperventilating. I wanted to be in a coma. I can’t say I never wanted to just die, actually. Eric was absolutely beside himself. He begged the nurses to do something, but their hands were tied. They gave me my tylenol or whatever, and stayed out of my room, I think so they didn’t have to face me and witness the horror. Eric eventually convinced them to call Dr. Moore to tell him that it was a huge mistake and get me back on some drugs, but he was unreachable. Right after he left my room, he’d run off to lock himself up in surgery. So for several hours, Eric could only watch and hold my hand, as I faced the most horrible torture I could never have imagined.

This was also when I started noticing the nerve pain. Not only was my gut being shredded to pieces by a tree grinder, as if that wasn’t enough for one little body to experience, but now my legs and arms and back had started to prickle and burn. I remember it starting gradually; I noticed it first when I sat on the toilet. The backs of my legs were really sensitive. Over a brief period of time, it grew more and more intense, until I couldn’t stand for anything to touch them. I was face down on the bed, hoisted onto my knees, trying to touch as little skin to the bed or sheets as possible. The only thing I had to help me deal with all of this pain was my Bradley method training, from when I gave birth to Adelaide. So Eric talked me through some guided meditations, and with every ounce of strength I had (which, as you can imagine, wasn’t a whole hell of a lot,) I tried to lay quietly and go to another place. I had to. I couldn’t be there. It was too much for ANYONE to handle. Especially someone who’d been in terrible pain for two weeks.

When they finally got Dr. Moore on the phone and told him that the headache pill he’d let me have wasn’t doing the trick, and that they’d never experienced a patient in so much pain before, his response? Get this. “Get her up and make her walk around. She needs to snap out of it.”

Eric’s rage broke loose, and he stormed from the room, yelling threats and beating his fists on the counter. I heard a nurse yell something about calling for security. Eric had paged my dad by then, who came rushing in. Somehow he managed to calm Eric a little, and after one look at me, he took charge of the situation. (May all the gods and goddesses bless him.) Calls were made. People were contacted. And then the Palliative Care Nurse was there to rescue me.

If you’re not familiar with hospital structure, Palliative Care is the pain management department. Those doctors and nurses specialize in pain management specifically, and often treat patients who are dying, who have intense and unique pain. When Jennifer, my angel, came to my room, all I could do was breathlessly and voicelessly ask her through my tears, “Are you here to help me? Please help me? Please? I can’t anymore. I’m giving up.” She asked me what my pain level was on a scale of one to ten. “Twelve.” She assured me that she was going to help me, and she didn’t break her promise. She put me on a continuous dilaudid drip, with a pump (the button I could hold and give myself boosts when I needed it every few minutes,) along with a host of other types of medications to deal with the nerve pain and the muscle cramps and the sleeplessness, etc. etc. I couldn’t thank her enough. I still think my next born has to be named Jennifer Palliative Care Sasser Strom, boy or girl.

For the first time since I’d arrived, I was close to comfortable. My pain was down to a 5 or so, which I could handle. I was able to actually relax muscles I hadn’t realized I was tensing, and I finally got some much needed rest. Now, the AMOUNTS of narcotics it took to get me there had everyone terrified. The nursing staff kept calling to double-check the dosages, because they’d never administered so much before. Jennifer explained that pain meds work in balance with pain. If you have the pain to counter the meds, you’ll tolerate more meds. In other words, she said, if Eric, a healthy man of 175 pounds or so, not in pain, were to get that amount of dilaudid, his heart would stop. Mine only slowed to a little closer to a normal and healthy pulse.

So enough about the pain. Let’s get to the good stuff. The purple pee. The medicine sweat. The giant tabs of glucose and the bright-blue liquid morphine in a syringe I had to swallow. The standing up and fainting. The inability to urinate for days on end, and what Eric and I would do to try to make it happen. Falling off the potty seat and hitting my head. It’s all so good. But I’m all so tired right now. Like I said before, it’s been a bad day. I wanna puke a little, but also wanna keep my stew in me in the hopes it’ll stick to my boney little ass. I also want to toss my wired daughter out the window instead of doing the bedtime fight. (Did I just say that- or type that- outloud?) I’m just so exhausted and hurty and yucky and, well, ya know, diseased. I need to go lay in bed so I can’t sleep for the next 6 hours. It’ll be good for me.

…More to come later. I’ll get to the good, gory details about body fluids and stuff very soon, I promise. I know you’re all on the edge of your seats, right?

1º Episodio, el programa dura 45 minutos, pero aqui se dividio en 4 partes, el 2º Episodio Natalie estara en Hawai surfeando y con otras aventuras extremas. el programa es genial, espero lo disfruten. 

Parte 1

Parte 2

Parte 3

Parte 4

Bad news…for you and you and you and you and you:

Well, not bad news as yet…but movement of sorts. My dad received a letter on Friday referring him to another doctor requesting that he turns up on Wednesday afternoon. So it is likely that things will be a bit clearer from then, so that kinda knocked me a bit.

My dad was a bit quieter today though although he did raise an eyebrow at how much I had paid for the new iPod Nano. Fair enough, for his holiday last year, I picked up two cheap Nano rip-offs for him and mum for a small fraction of that price, so for the fact of hearing music, he has a point!

And then the football was rubbish.

And Liverpool fans wont be too happy (lets be honest, they never are…and they’ll be able to blame it on everyone else…before showing what a great sense of community spirit they have) at the fact that they lost today because a beach ball scored against them.

I’m really peeved because we had a team full of balloons and none of them were able to score. It’s kinda funny because you read in the morning papers how angry our fat, overweight and lazy striker is at the press for stating that he has poor control, is always offside and is scoring less…whilst also having a pop at the fans. Funny because I don’t think was the fans or medias fault that the game finished 0-0 but a large part of the blame can be apportioned to the rotund Antipodean striker.

Yes yes, I’m overweight too but I don’t get paid in excess of 15 kubricks a week to be in reasonable shape. Football is a simple game, it has to be to appeal to so many people the world over and the best don’t always win, in fact, they have no right to. However, when players are being paid around five times more than their opponents, there should be a better level of performance from them.

So yeah, not the best of days, came home and basically, inertia creeps, complete waste of a Saturday night (do I link to a Whigfield video???? No, but she should always hold a place in our hearts for knocking Wet Wet Wet off of the number one spot – god bless you Whiggy and before you slate me for being uncharitable, she probably saved Marti Pellow’s life. Can you imagine how smug and conceited that junkie would have been if he held the record for longest UK number one? Jacqueline McCafferty summed up that junkie rather succinctly) but got some stuff done and set myself up for getting more out of tomorrow.

Anyways, an absolutely rubbish Saturday…so heres some better Saturdays and the best song from their new album – aye, a bit of a departure from the usual chin stroking indie pish I fire on here so lap it up…..a rare Velvet Underground bootleg track will get us back on track tomorrow:

Broto, segura essa…
As pessoas <del datetime=”2009-10-14T01:55:47+00:00″>imundas </del>me mandam parar, <em>eu não quero parar.</em><strong> Eu tenho vontade de foder com tudo e enfiar tua cabeça numa lata de lixo (old school – á lá Stray Cats, mesmo). Sabe o que é dramático? Você me dizendo pra prar com tudo, pra parar de falar, e pra parar de falar incansávelmente sobre </strong><strong>sexo, facas, sangue, ereções, entranhas, bacons e rum</strong>. Aquelas que mais me amam são aquelas que eu mais implico. Aquelas pra quem eu dedicaria horas a fio de carinho sem pensar, pelas quais eu me deslocaria até o inferno pra ver tal sorriso ou passaria uma tarde do lado delas, caladinha.

Minha mãe sempre se preocupou muito comigo, excesso abusivo gera compensação. Hoje eu acho que não andaria por ai aos 1<strong>3 ano</strong>s com uma garrafa de 51 na mão se ela não me ’superprotegesse’, mas toda mãe tem disso. Elas pecam, são humanas.. O meu defeito é não ver isso tão claramente, porra, as <em>mães são pessoas funcionais.</em> Como é que tu descobre que elas quebram e continua vendo o mundo todo do mesmo jeito? Depois que eu soube quantas quadras ela andava com o <em>passo apertadinho dentro dos seus belos sapatos clássicos pra</em> trazer o sorvete <strong>inteirinho</strong> pra mim, aí sim que eu aprendi.
<em>Amor não é andar por aí coçando o saco e pegando nos peitos dela em público</em>, amor é fazer sem esperar nada. Isso de sentimentos é muito clichê, apesar de sempre parar neles.. Hoje não quero.
Hoje eu quero agradecer aos <em>filhos da puta </em>que se preocupam comigo e não se importariam em andar horrores ou como o meu humor está, eu sempre <em>machuquei</em> as pessoas que mais amo. É inconsciente isso, prefiro até me afastar delas, serve como proteção pra minha amizade destrutiva. Você pode achar que eu sou uma pilantra e ando por aí como se não soubesse o valor das coisas, eu posso ficar meses seguindo você só pra ver aquele teu meio sorriso de longe, <del datetime=”2009-10-14T01:55:47+00:00″>ou cortar teu lindo pescoçinho com a minha faquinha de estimação (Lola!)</del>

Eu, a minha bipolaridade e a falta de saco pra assuntos <em>medíocres </em>agradecemos se tu ainda for um daqueles que andam até a minha pessoa e me fazem sentir segura nesse mundo escroto com o teu puto abraço apertado. Seila, nunca agradeci essa merda toda, sempre achei que fosse uma espécie de bônus por estarmos vivos, mas hoje eu acho que não. Eu acho que pouquíssimas pessoas merecem meu respeito e gratidão, e infelizmente talvez metade delas não saibam disso.
E não é hoje que vão ficar sabendo. (HAHA) Enfim, eu falo demais.. Meus dedos estão treinados pra isso antes de dormir, não me brote com críticas, se isso aqui me faz bem.. vamos jogar isso aqui!
Amanhã vou começar um conto, erótico talvez.
Hoje eu vou tocar meu violão, comer tudo o que me der vontade e deixar os gelos até derreterem na minha boca. Enquanto eu penso, eu tenho todos esses meus complexos e particularidades mil, mas eu ando leve e feliz por aí. E você, se sente bem?

Durmam bem, <em>endiabrados</em>.
<del datetime=”2009-10-14T01:55:47+00:00″>Durmam bem  endiabrados.
</del>

Falta ação, falta emoção.
Eu vivo num mundo aleatório, sempre foi assim. Aqui em ‘União’ eu só me fodo realmente, queria algo pelo qual me dedicar e ocupar todo o meu tempo livre que eu só uso pra fazer merda. Ontem eu tive uma puta briga com a minha mãe, que eu não canso em dizer que é a pessoa que eu mais amo no mundo, e também a que mais me faz mal. Fiz a minha malinha e quase me mandei pra qualquer lugar longe dela. Não adianta fazer isso pra fugir dos problemas e toda essa porra continuar estacionada. Se eu preciso reaprender a viver com ela, é isso que eu vou fazer. Preciso dar um jeito nas coisas, ver como ela funciona pra me adequar nisso, e sinceramente, não vejo problema em ser convencional pra veer aquele sorriso na cara dela.
Me brotaram algumas pessoas ontem, que me devolveram uma coisa que eu perdi desde qu e cheguei aqui.. a fé em mim mesma. Não digo que eu me orgulho dos meios, mas sempre tive os resultados que eu queria.. agora não. Agora quero me importar com os meios, quero fazer o meu, o certo pra poder defender isso com todas as minhas forças quando eu precisar. Pra não desistir e deixar as coisas espalhadas, todas sem fim.
Vou reorganizar coisas, desde o meu quarto até o meu coração. Agora que eu já aprendi como se deve fazer, vou começar mais uma vez. E não vou parar, nunca mais.
Me desculpa, meus queridos.
Estou insaciável, incansável e com o nariz mais erguido que nunca.
Eu sou a dona do mundo, nada que tu diga vai me quebrar. Não reclame da minha postura, nem me diga coisas dispensáveis. Estou tolerante mas sem tempo pra formalidades, agora só vou fazer por mim. Meu bom humor exagerado desa manhã fez toda a diferença, não tenho mais tempo pra perder aqui.

Rush Limbaugh is so despised that even the St. Louis Rams, arguably the worst team in the NFL, rejected his bid to become part owner of the team.  Even a crappy football team doesn’t want to be associated with you Rush.  You know why?  Because you are a fucking crazy, right wing nutjob, piece of llama shit.  And of course Rush is now complaining that this “travesty” is due to the liberal left in this country, because Rush’s motto is, when in doubt, blame the left.  Jesus Christ, I wish you would shut your fat, donut chomping piehole or die of a massive coronary…or both.

I commend the rest of the group bidding for ownership of the Rams for giving Boss Limbaugh the boot.  Even though it only fuels his fire for more bullshit to bitch and moan about, it’s nice to see someone not wanting to be associated with the crazy ideals this looney tune preaches.

What we need to do is convince Rush to get back on the drugs, in the hope that he will be found dead of an overdose and in bed with a black, tranny hooker, complete with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts draped across his bulbous gut.  Unfortunately, this guy is like herpes, just when you think you are in the clear…this conservative fuckhole rears his ugly head to infect you with bigotry filled cold sores.

But one has to have dreams right?

“Hi, I’m Mr Planet, and I’m a write-aholic.”

Being relatively new to the whole Writer’s Group phenomenon, I can admit that prior to my first meeting it felt a little like I was about to go and confess my addiction to the written word. I have, after all, written since I was very young. I think I was nine years old when I tried to write my first ‘novel’ – I got up to chapter seven of an Enid Blyton rip-off in an old page-a-day diary my father had written nothing in the previous year.

Franz Kafka

That novel, like all subsequent attempts, was abandoned, and I focused on poetry and songwriting for a long time, with the odd short story thrown in when inspiration struck. Odd is the operative word, too, as there was a surrealist streak to my fiction that remains in place to this day. I suppose that’s what you get for jumping from Blyton to science fiction to Kafka between the ages of nine and thirteen.

For a long time music provided the main outlet for my creative writing. Songwriting has an immediacy if you are able to write a song one day and then take it out in front of an audience the next. Feedback is swift and ongoing and the learning curve of the songwriter is therefore rapid, albeit somewhat steep. After my days as a jobbing musician and during the time I attended university, I was mostly too in awe of the authors and works I was studying to really consider my own prose and poetry to be of any consequence. Yet the songwriting began to take a back seat and the stories and poems began to come a little more frequently.

This year I decided that it was time to put more effort and energy into my writing, and to this end I Googled for local writer’s groups. Google, as I am sure you all know, is quite fallible and I had found two non-existent groups before having a telephone conversation with a man from one which really did still operate in my area. I also wrote to another group which was a little closer to my home and waited to hear from them before committing myself to the other group. A letter came back from an old chap telling me that his wife had run the group for many years but that she had died four years ago. When I read his account of how much his wife had meant to him and how lonely he was without her, I felt as though I had barged in on someone’s private grief like a dog crapping on a beautiful lawn. Damn you, Google. Isn’t there any way of removing out of date information?

Which left the first group I had spoken to, and luckily for me, they are an active collective of some dozen or so writers of varying styles and a real mix of ages. Come the day of my first meeting I felt more and more like a word junkie who has spent his life denying the extent of his addiction. And, in a way, that’s what I am, and what all of us in the group are. Also, as I have discovered in the subsequent meetings, we’re not just hooked on writing our own stuff and reading it out to people: much of the pleasure comes from the fix of listening to others read their work too. Everyone loves having stories read to them when they’re kids, but we are expected to wean ourselves off it as we grow older. If we have younger siblings then perhaps we can listen in at the door while our parents read them a bedtime story, but once we’re out in the grown up world the closest we get is reading to our own kids or listening to Radio Four.

I am so glad to have joined the writer’s group, then. It offers me a chance of feedback on the things I am writing and might even help me to finish a novel one of these days. And it allows me to indulge myself in the sheer bliss of sitting back and letting the words and tales of others wash over and into me. Not a bad way to spend a couple of hours every fortnight. And, even better, no-one banging on about 12 steps which will cure me of my addiction.

Tan sólo me bastaron un par de horas sin servicio de internet para descubrir con gran deshanelo la adicción que esta tecnología ejercía de forma invisible en mi vida. Sin lugar a dudas toda una paradoja, como algo que aparentemente nos da una gran libertad en realidad nos vuelve sus esclavos incondicionales.

Esclavos que no hacen otra cosa más que alimentar las ansias voraces de su cibernético amo a través de simples comentarios de páginas como FACEBOOK; de las cuales llega un momento en la cual no podemos pasar ni 5 minutos sin atender a sus notificaciones.

Sin embargo gracias a un desperfecto de la compañía de teléfonos, volví al mundo real a ese mundo que no recordaba hacía más de cinco largos años, un mundo sin WiFi, un mundo con tardes soleadas, de encuentros con viejas amistades, un mundo lleno de sensaciones, un mundo donde el tiempo transcurre más lentamente.

Hey! We’re finally legal. Thank god for that. All these so-called formative posts have finally paid off, turning us into the glorious creature of well-endowed musicality that we are today.

Check out our new Selective Service card, all shiny and potentially deadly. Oh, and we can vote! Exciting good times all around. We’ll celebrate with a boozeless party that’s sure to draw only family members and acquaintances looking to get into our pants.

No more dealing with uncomfortable leers or repeated requests for “ASL?” Prepare to be rocked in the most adult, but responsible, fashion. 

Previous underage volumes available here:
The Heavy Rotation Archives

Negativland – U2
Smart asses of the highest order, the members of negativland took on the most important band in the world with this single, featuring kazoos, U2 samples and an extended profane rant from America’s sweetheart, Kasey Casem.

Needless to say, much lawsuiting followed and nobody came out a winner. Except for you, as the song is now yours to enjoy. In fact, much of their catalog has been turned over for Creative Commons usage as the negativland members are obviously no fan of copyright. Enjoy in good health and a clear conscience.

Mylo – Destroy Rock N Roll (Tom Neville Mix)
Bedroom producer Mylo cranks out the clubber’s fight song, offering to take out several bands in the name of electronics, via the unhinged ranting of Church Universal and Triumphant elder. Severely truncated in video form, although it does get the point across in a very stylish fashion. Enjoy the much longer version, available at the download link below.

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip – Thou Shalt Always Kill
As long as we’re knocking iconic bands and killing rocknroll, let’s go ahead and get all confrontational with major corporations, NME, pop idols, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, the Clash, the Cure and the list goes on and on and on. A very clever rant, peppered with nearly club-friendly beats and pointed fingers singling out pretentiousness, hypocrisy and bandwagon-jumpers of all persuasions.

PQM – You Are Sleeping (Luke Chable Vocal Pass Mix)
A banging floor-filler with some wicked flanging and gated reverb that would kill the club even without the clincher: a fucked-up and brutally truthful monologue dealing with the junkie mentality. I’ll go ahead and include the rant below as I know “repetitive club beats” are a tough sell. The person providing the spoken dialogue remains unknown, but it sounds a hell of a lot like William S. Burroughs.

You pick up this working girl
hooked on smack
hustles and scores
that’s all I do she says
she says, ten bucks for head, fifteen for half-and-half
three hits a day a thirty-five per

you say
that’s at least seven tricks a day
but she says, sometimes I get lucky
once a guy gave me a bill and a half just to eat me
only time I ever came

you think you can save her

you hock your color tv
it keeps her off the street a whole day
your typewriter for one jolt
then your shotgun, your watch
a week later you say, listen I’m a little short
but she says, no scratch no snatch

you say, look it is better to give
she says, beat off creep

One night they bust you on the street in your skivvies
trying to sell your shoes
you tell them who you are but they nail you

she happens by
she says, christ you look fucked
she says, hang tough

you don’t say anything
you just think
what a bum rap for a nice sensitive guy like me

M.I.A. – Paper Planes (Remix Feat. Bun B & Rich Boy)
As is the case with nearly every white boy, I have a somewhat secret love for both hip and hop. Perhaps it was my formative years as a DJ. Maybe it was that horrible experience at summer camp that the surviving members vowed never to speak of again, a promise we all kept until the surviving members began dying off one by one…

Well, whatever it was, enjoy this with no reservations or white boy copouts (it’s actually a form of dancing). Hip hop is rarely described as “beautiful,” but M.I.A.’s standout single could be. But just in case it all seems a little to “twee” (another word that never describes hip hop, unless we’re talking De La Soul…), Bun B and Rich Boy show up to gangsta up the joint.

All mp3’s zipped up in an aptly-named zip file for easy downloading and transport:
Heavy Rotation Vol. 18

-CLT

[All music posted on Fancy Plans... is kick ass and too awesome to be contained. All music is also posted temporarily and, due to it's high level of ass-kicking, should not be distributed without a prescription and care should be taken while operating heavy equipment or dancing around the living room (clothing optional, but do remember that the blinds are open/kids are still awake).
Should you wish to have your brilliant artistic statement forced back into confinement, please email me at 2timegrime@gmail.com. Feel free to leave a comment, as that will probably be noticed sooner.
By all means, if you like what you hear (and you will), please support the totally rocking artist(s) by purchasing some music or heading out to see them live.]

I climb onto the haggard old bus. The driver looks as disgruntled as me for probably the same reason; we’re both traveling to Woodston.

Why am I paying money to travel to this suburban shit-hole? Because I wasn’t able to land a job after graduating from a $36 000 university course. The government centre providing me with money to live is located in the heart of Woodston which is convenient for most of its population who are also unemployed pieces of shit.

The back of the bus has a foul aroma of stale piss, undoubtedly from one of the filthy Woodston residents forced to use the bus cause they wrote off their car from drink driving. The ride is long and uncomfortable as the area outside becomes more and more ghetto. Houses begin to take the form of crack-head lairs and scrap yards, cars with smashed windshields and broken doors are parked in random places and gangs of mischievous youths roam the streets with spray cans, bats, chains and stolen bikes. Yep, I must be in Woodston, only a few more stops till I can get my payments and get the fuck out of here.

I step out of the bus and onto the floor of the central bus station. The floor itself is stained with spit, cigarette butts, alcohol, vomit and blood; each stain telling its own horrible story of the Woodston community. I pass a dirty man wearing a beanie who is talking to a banana. Three indigenous people sit in the gutter at 9am drinking cheap wine straight from the cask while slurring, cursing and singing. My destination is merely 100 metres away yet I’m still asked for either smokes or small change by multiple locals before I even make it inside the government centre.

Once I make it inside I realise the payment lines are fucking massive… FUCK! Why do I even have to be associated with these people when I put in such hard work. I start observing a number of people in the line. There is a girl who’s maybe fifteen, carrying a baby while crying loudly. The girl is crying, not the baby. She must of come to the realisation of how she fucked her own life up at an early age for being too much of a slut. Stupid bitch has probably seen more dick than I’ve even seen my own cock and she’s not even at the age of consent.

I notice a loud, obese and obnoxious woman in front of me complaining to some skinny tattoo junkie who’s wearing a “Wu-Tang” shirt. The woman is complaining about the service of this center and a number of other problems that sound more deserving than anything. I’ve never heard a woman say the word “cunt” so many times in a single sentence before in my life. I have a hard time trying to decipher the text on her shirt since her folds of fat are warping the perspective. “I don’t give a shit” it finally reads. Wow, what a fucking attitude to have with a lifestyle like yours in a suburb like this you stupid, non-contributing, fat fucking whore.

Everybody else in the place seems to have the same negative, shitty attitude and most of the conversations involve complaints of how much the government owes them. The government doesn’t owe these people shit, It’s only providing them with money so they don’t rob other people to fuel their alcohol and drug addictions. These people need to realise that their entire existence is an amazing opportunity; given life in a first world country where you have the potential to be almost anything in the world. Why do they all dwell on how shitty their lives are when they have an opportunity to amend them? Do they think if they complain enough it’s all going to get better and people will start caring? Fuck no, life doesn’t work like that and quality of life in this suburb will continue spiraling downwards while it’s people lie, cheat, steal and breed with one another. The Woodston inhabitants will keep saturating their horrible stain on humanity forever.

I get my payments and escape the chamber of negativity. While I’m walking back to the bus stop I make another observation; everyone walking along the street spits on the ground. EVERYONE! Young men, young women, old people, ratty kids and trashy young mothers pushing prams all spit on the fucking ground every few steps they take. It’s a habit I’ve never seen so frequently shared in any other suburb. It’s like the sheer FILTH of Wooston is so thick that it manifests into a vapour which is inhaled by the residents who are then forced to spit it back out every few seconds.

I check the bus timetable… forty minutes till the next bus out of here… FUCK! I slump into a dirty bench next to some kid eating a corn-dog. The kid is like five with no parents around. He begins climbing over to the bench with his corn-dog dripping sauce all over me, fucking little shit. I decide to sit next to a twelve year old kid who’s smoking a cigarette instead. I watch a woman nearby walking along the road and making a scene. she’s screaming loudly about something without clearly directing the rage at anyone or anything. A young couple next to me are arguing about money. After a while the male of the couple gets up and storms off to one of the multiple cash lone stores nearby to undoubtedly get into more debt like most of the residents. As he leaves, the female calls out to him “Hey bring me back some fuckin food” to which the man replies “Fuck that cunt I got no job!”

The bus finally arrives and I spit out the swill of filth that has built up inside my mouth during my visit to this shit-hole. I’m aware that if I can’t find a job soon I’ll have to take another trip to Woodston in a fortnight.

Till next time.

okeey, tudo bem que eu não sou a filha mais exemplar do mundo. Se alguém me conheceu a meio ano átras, hoje pode dizer que eu sou sim! Quanto menos cagada eu faço, mais sermão eu tenho que ouvir. Então o que?

Vou arregaçar minhas mangas lindas e apavorar de novo. Parei de sair, beber, to tentando parar TOTALMENTE de fumar e comer carne, tenho malhado horas e estudado, cortei relação com as ‘más influências’, trabalho sempre que eu posso e o máximo de errado que eu faço talvez seja dormir demais. E pra quê?

Pra um filho da puta vir aqui quando eu finalmente consigo tirar meu irmão do MEU computador e me mandar “desligar isso de uma vez, porque aqui não tem nada de útil, porque minhas más idéias saem daqui e é aqui que eu aprendo coisas erradas e encontro incentivo pra isso. Sendo que quando eu não estou no computador fico louquinha átras de uma bera, um baseado ou qualquer coisa que me tire o foco.

Cansei de bancar a boa filha, amanhãna é dia de acordar e fazer maldades.  Hmm DELÍCIA!!!

Vou até dormir cedo,  sem ver House nem nada.. Porque quero aproveitar BEM amanhã já que não é sempre que me permito esse tipinho de coisa né honeeeeys.

E por sinal, amanhã tem festa da Cerveja Diabólica em Curitiba no VOX!

Durmam beeeeeeeeeeem seres, e não esperem boas coisas da minha pessoa. Nem amanhã, nem nunca mais, xoxo.

Click to enlarge

Mickey Avalon, the kosher salami,
for $20 you get Chachi, but $40 gets you Fonzie.

Who the man in the black sedan
with two cheap hookers and a Mexican?

My dick don’t fit down the chimney
Your dick is like a kid from the Philippines
My dick is like an M16
Your dick- broken vending machine.

Soon after injection (or inhalation), heroin crosses the blood-brain barrier. In the brain, heroin is converted to morphine and binds rapidly to opioid receptors. Abusers typically report feeling a surge of pleasurable sensation, a “rush.” The intensity of the rush is a function of how much drug is taken and how rapidly the drug enters the brain and binds to the natural opioid receptors. Heroin is particularly addictive because it enters the brain so rapidly. With heroin, the rush is usually accompanied by a warm flushing of the skin, dry mouth, and a heavy feeling in the extremities, which may be accompanied by nausea, vomiting, and severe itching.
-Jimi Jam, Swellco & Swellco #23234b

Be sure to check out his site

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Hoje eu to com medo, to com medo de pegar uma faca e me foder. Foder mesmo, foder com tudo.

To precisando de emoção, ou eu roubo o carro da minha mãe, me mando pra amazônia e cheiro até morrer ou eu fico por aqui e dou um fim nisso mais rápido. Tenho respirado fundo e contado até 139839738232930293294728478 pra conseguir me manter aqui, não to bem cara.

Minha família não é o suficiente pra mim, to me sentindo a pessoa mais feia do mundo e conclui que eu não gosto de ser amada. Não gosto que as pessoas gostem de mim, que esperem algo bom de mim, que queiram qualquer coisa. Quero viver sozinha, quero comprar minhas coisas, desenhar, andar no MEU skate, tocar o MEU violão, gozar e sumir mais rápido que você, não importa pra onde você vai. Nunca mais te quero na minha frente e se tu aparecer vou cuspir na tua cara, ok.

Quero te usar, quero me aproximar e consumir teus sentimentos, isso é me manter de pé. Alienada aqui, sem limites eu só quero diversão. Quero me aproveitar de tudo que encontrar de bom, quero os maiores peitos do mundo, quero fazer a melhor música e te fazer paralizar, arrepiar.

Quero vomitar verdades na tua cara e quero que você me espere voltar, adoro isso de ser asquerosa. Adoro fazer mal, você precisa ver isso, estou sendo sincera com você porque você é sincero comigo.  Não precisamos de razão pra nos destruírmos, auto-destruição é mais saudável do que dar o jogo pra eles. Se você vai acabar com formigas entrando pela tua boca, teus olhos… seja capaz de chegar até lá aproveitando isso. Curta morrer, curta se acabar.. mas saiba a hora de fazer isso. Hoje é dia de cantar, transar e escrever uma nova música. De ralar mais seus joelhos, cair de boca. Construir ideiais pra destruir tudo depois.

vão foder, se divirtam módáfuckers, xoxo.

http://www.myspace.com/sugarkanemp3