This is genuinely the second Windows post I’ve made! Why? Fucking Windows 8.
I’m confused and discombobulated and just….ugh, not with it. Thanks for this PiC! It’s okay, I still love you, mostly. But you invited this shit. I am in my own bum.
You had to wait because I somehow engaged the ‘features’ screen and couldn’t navigate away from it! Even with Escape. Why does the escape button not work? Fuck you, Microsoft and your bullshit buttons or soft keys or wank holes! I will shit in your mouth! Suck arse.
Windows 8 is like the 2012 Red Sox. Perhaps a good idea on paper, but a complete mindfuck in reality.
Start button! Where the holy fuck is my start button??!! *cries*
(it took 33 days to post this update because the start screen activated for no reason, [like a sentient Decepticon robot cock master who would like to ruin my life] and it has taken me this long to get back here. I am a prisoner of my own devices!
What’s up Red Sox?
Hey how’s it going? Yeah, not good. I noticed. You look like death warmed over.
I had intended on writing something completely different today. Something fun and light hearted and possibly hilarious. Possibly.
Sadly, it was not meant to be. Because this happened.
Right now, I’d like to be one of those fans that can ‘check out’ when everything starts swirling down the toilet, but I’m not, and I don’t know if I ever could be. To be honest, I’d be more than fashionably late to that party now anyway. I’d be the drunk asshole who shows up to your house at two in the morning drunk out of my mind and proceed to fondle your girlfriend’s boobs while I thought you weren’t looking. Because, damn Red Sox, you be fucking with my emotions. And the best way I can express myself at this time is by groping your lady’s mams.
As you well know, you started this asinine behaviour this time last year. I tolerated it at first. Thinking it was just a phase and you would stop as you had before. But this time it was different. You were different and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was going on. So I hung around. I waited. I thought you knew what you were doing. You didn’t, I now realise.
And it’s not going to end. Not in the foreseeable future anyway. From my calculations we have exactly 13 more months and a metric ton of shit to dig through before there’s even half a chance of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.
You can call it ‘restructuring’ or ‘rebuilding’ or whatever the fuck you want; I call your lack of foresight and front office transparency a massive middle finger to the people who make your franchise a lucrative one. It’s gotten to the point that there really aren’t a lot of nice things I can say about you these days. You’ve got a few shining beacons left knocking around the clubhouse, but for how much longer, who can say?
I’m here to tell you Red Sox, as your friendly relationship advisor, you need to sort yourself out because you’re ruining this. Ruining US. You have the adoration of the masses and more than a million people who are effectively so in love with you that, even though you continue fucking all of us in our mud holes with absolutely no lube, we carry on asking for more. Begging you to plug our poop chutes with your sandpaper knobs because for some reason we like that sort of thing.
I remember my grandfather imparting some very insightful wisdom when I was just a wee tot sat on his knee in 1986 (I’m sure the significance is not lost) he said – You can say you’re done, but you never are. They’ll break your heart only to mend it and lift you up only to crush you at a later time.
And it’s true. We only leave to come back. At least that’s what you keep telling us.
We always hear the nonsense phrase that ‘without the bad you cannot truly appreciate the good’. You become lazy, flaccid and complacent when you don’t have to work hard for anything. But dropping a ball off a cliff that cannot be scaled and then asking someone to bring it back to you after you’ve kicked them swiftly off the edge with a smug look on your face is not the way to go about getting that hard work done.
Buck up, take a deep fucking breath and apologise. To us. We deserve it. And if you don’t think so? All may well be shattered, at least for now. Otherwise, whilst you may not lose us forever, we’ll never quite love you the way we used to.
Yours in life and in baseball, Platy
Crashy, crashy you log of smeg- Eating my posts and biting my leg- Worked for an hour writing that piece- Now I’m sat here hating your face. Should I blame WordPress, or my lack of save? No, I will blame you, you fucking knave.
I hate you, I hate you IE9- Your designers are tosspots, your interface a crime. I have no more words to say about this, except I wish FireFox wasn’t such a piece of piss.
To say I was accident prone when I was younger is selling things a bit short. Accident inevitable is more like it. Who am I kidding…I’m still the most clumsy person I know. Poor decisions made on the fly and always tending to leap before I look was/is often the cause of my many disasters. But some were completely and hilariously out of my control.
As I have mentioned before- I was a swimmer when I was younger. The gangly limbs and 5’10” frame that plagued me in my everyday life seemed to coalesce and find its rhythm in the pool. Whilst I could easily trip over an ant on dry land, swimming for me was like a well rehearsed symphony. My body just got it. It still gets it, just a bit older and slower these days.
This particular incident took place when I was about 16 and readying myself for the first swim meet of the season. I had spent the weekend before at my best friend’s house and we did the typical things teenaged girls do when you’re hopped up on sugar, hormones and not enough sleep with no parental supervision. I can’t remember whose genius idea it was, but sometime during our weekend long haze my best friend and I thought it would be just the best thing in the whole world to write all over our hands and legs with indelible marker. I’m not talking Sharpies here either. I’m talking about the industrial, big as a baby’s arm, jet-fuel-scented behemoth markers used for…what, exactly? I still don’t know.
Completely ignoring the warning on the side of the marker that clearly stated DO NOT APPLY TO SKIN, we went to town. Giggling and laughing at every stroke of the pen. Writing ridiculous inside jokes up and down our bodies like women possessed. The Pièce de résistance was a massive cock & balls my friend drew down my left thigh that grew and looked as though it was jizzing on my knee when I would bend my leg. We were particularly proud of that one. High brow? Not so much.
You’d think after that weekend, and the fact that I spent a majority of my life in a swimsuit, that someone would have made mention of the inane scribblings all over me. But you’d think wrong. I went through the whole week with not one word mentioned by anyone about the writing on my hands or the giant wang on my leg, until that Friday; the day of the meet.
All the sports teams at my school had this silly tradition of dressing up they day you had a game/match. Something about taking pride in your sport and looking the part, blahblahblah. Here I am, dressed in a skirt and heels (how was this going to help me again?) kinda thinking I’m hot shit- still with black marks showing through my panty hose, when one of my teammates sees me between class in the hallway and calls me over to talk. She tells me about some new rule about athletes and visible tattoos whilst competing. Yeah, and? She thinks you can get in trouble or disqualified for having writing on your body too.
I panic. No one had said anything to me the whole fucking week and suddenly halfway through school the day of the meet, someone springs this on me. I try and fail to find my friend to tell her, she’s nowhere.
Shit, shit shit.
Cut to the pool. One hour before the start of the meet. Having already warmed up, I’m in the locker room frantically scrubbing my hands and legs with soap and a loofah. It’s coming off my hands, but not my legs. Nothing is working. I try shampoo, lotion and everything else within reach to try and get it off me. I scrub harder, I scratch and tear at my skin. I even try shaving. But there it still is…the now slightly disfigured but still very plain as day, expertly drawn, veiny knob. My skin is so red and raw now it almost appears to be throbbing and glowing. Mocking me and my stupidity. My best friend suddenly appears at my side, her skin as fresh and clean as a baby’s ass. How the hell did that happen? It just came off, she says. IT JUST CAME OFF! Help me then! Get something, anything- so I can compete today! Ask Coach, maybe there’s something in the office.
She leaves and returns to my side in less than a minute, with a spray bottle full of flourescent green liquid. What is it? She doesn’t know. Coach said just to spray it on, leave it for a second and it should come off easily.
This friends is, in hindsight, where I should have asked a few more questions, or at the very least read the side of the goddamn bottle. But no. My hysteric brain wouldn’t have been able to process anything more at the time. So I just start squirting. And kept squirting. I probably used a quarter of the bottle before it started…
The blinding, searing, vagina-shriveling pain. Yes, being that I was wet and not very careful about where I was applying this death-juice, I not only sprayed it copiously over my legs, I got some of it all up in my hoo-hah. I produce a blood curdling scream and collapse on the floor quivering. My friend tries to help and turns the shower head towards my shuddering body. I cry out again, though the pain and burning is so severe now my voice is just barely above a whisper this time. Suddenly, I realize my Coach is at my side asking my friend what happened. My friend shrugs and says she doesn’t know what happened, I just used the stuff he had given her. Coach’s eyes widen and he says he didn’t know it was for me, he thought it was for a wall or something, I never should have sprayed it on myself because-
IT’S A FUCKING TURPENTINE SOLUTION! Yay! Chemical burns! What fun.
Coach finds a parent to take me to the emergency room as my mum hadn’t yet arrived at the pool, and I am rushed to the hospital. But not before (get this) my ass master Coach says to the parent to try and have me back before the start of the meet! Fucking seriously?! Priorities, anyone?
I’m taken to the ER, but because I am underage and the parent who has brought me doesn’t have consent from my mother to have me treated, I am handed a single Benadryl and sent along my way. Good for you American Medical Establishment! A panicked, soaking wet, swimsuit clad teenaged girl comes into your ER -with what is a very obvious chemical burn- and you give her a cunting Benadryl! Way to go. I bet you feel really good about yourself for that.
In the end, I did make it back to the pool just in time for my first race. I managed to qualify for State Championships, break two longstanding school records and get a personal best time.
All while sporting an angry lobster red chemical burned slightly faded jizzing dick down my left thigh.
Say that five times fast.
My mum didn’t really monitor my reading materials when I was young so much as just let me read whatever the hell I wanted. Age appropriateness wasn’t really in her vernacular. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t snuggling down with Penthouse Forum at bedtime, she would typically read the synopsis on the back of the book and then just let me get on with it. To be fair, a lot of what I was reading at age 10 or 11 were things she knew and had read herself, so she didn’t have a lot to worry about. This changed with Stephen King.
So here I am, at 10, reading IT. Being an only child, it was so, so easy for me to let my imagination run wild. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to bounce off or torture so it was all left up to me. I was fine to start. Fascinated by the macabre, even that young and getting really into the whole thing.
Then comes the violence, the kids dying, the old houses and that fucking clown! Here’s me, same age as the kids in the book, reading about them, slipping further away from myself every time I crack the binding. Imagination running, running, running. And let’s be honest here, scaring the shit out of myself with every page read.
If you’ve not read it, here’s the low down. Ancient mystical creature (disguised as a jolly circus clown, thank you very much, Mister King) feeds off children and hunts them through the city’s sewer system. The large Victorian pipes making it easy for said creature to move about…fucking ANYWHERE. And there’s a bit where there’s a little girl using the toilet and the creature tries to pull her down through the u-bend and ends up breaking her neck…
(as an aside. adult me thinks ‘who the holy fuck leans closer when they hear voices coming out of the freaking toilet!?’ run, motherfucker, run!)
Where do I live? Old ass house. With ancient piping. How old am I? Same as the kids in the book. This. fucking. creature. is. coming. to. get. me. Why can’t I put this fucking book down? Please mum, why won’t you tell me I’m not allowed to read this shit!? Oh no, another kid’s died….toilet bad. Water bad…Why am I torturing myself? Burn it with fire!
The long and short of all this, is somewhere in my infantile brain I started equating using the toilet with dying a tortuous death. But the sink? The sink was my salvation. The sink provided me a quiet space where I could keep a damn close eye on anything that might come oozing out of the bowl and run like hell if it did. I could prop my little bum right up there and give the finger to the ancient creature and y’know, not pee my pants. So, screw you, mister asshole clown! You won’t get me! I’ve figured you out and I’m smarter than you.
Until my mum caught me doing it.
As was/is her way, my mum was less mad and more amused by the whole situation. Through chuckles she explained that nothing was going to jump up and bite my ass while I was trying to snip some cable. And at the end of the day ALL THE PIPES ARE CONNECTED ANYWAY! Thanks for that. So she says, stop pissing in the sink, I know you’re 10 and scared shitless, but it’s gross and you are old enough to know this stuff isn’t real.
Talked down from my sinky perch, I agreed to start using the toilet like a normal person. (Though it didn’t stop me from taking a sabbatical behind the barn if need be.)
Thereafter though, as was the norm with her, anytime I would have to go to the bathroom my mum would stand outside the bathroom door knock very lightly and whisper, ‘We all float down here. Weeee alllll flooooat!’ Having read just enough of the book to fuck with me.
It’s surprising I’m not completely mad.