Bonjour Foxie Followers.
As Toorak girls will all know, we have to too frequently endure the mediocre hum of chapel. This usually entails sitting in awkward silence next to people you just had class with, so generally not your friends, while the people you really would have preferred to sit with are attempting to contain their smirks and laughter across the room. While you're squished, sitting in awkward agony the ReverendLovejoy plays relaxing music.
It's this music I absolutely loathe. I suppose the real aim of the amateur calls of the fife is to calm us down to a place of serenity. A place within our soul, apparently.
But in all honesty, someone with an averagely brilliant mind waddled down to the beach with a windpipe and recorder, and taped the abuse of silence - that is the confusion of the sounds of waves and lack of wind-talent - to produce what seems like a never ending track of, quite bluntly, noise.
I think the worst aspect of these 'serenity' tracks is the fact that there's one track, but it goes for lightyears. The waves come to a soft halt, the piper takes a brief breath, and you exhale (probably while focusing on your inner energy) thinking "phew, that's over", but it's not!!! And that's the stressful part. I feel it's almost counterproductive.
So next time, Reverend. KillJoy, you want to calm me down, snap that fife, chuck on some Beatles, and let me be in charge of my inhaling and exhaling.
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
17 February 2010
16 February 2010
+ in all seriousness.
GutenTag Foxies.
Just a cheeky blog as I really should be reading 1984 instead of dictating meaningless thoughts to an audience of, really no one.
Right, this really just concerns everything serious, deep and meaningful on the internet.
It shouldn't be on there. This includes the all too frequent break up status's, the beyond cheesy love poems, quotes, songs, the "I LOVE ____ SO MUCH!!" updates, the 'odes' to their lover - get it off the internet. It's vile. I'm almost certain the random you met three saturdays ago you added on Facebook isn't going to 'like' how you love miss 'x' to the moon and back. After seeing a page full of a succession of mushy love devoted status updates and messages, he'll abandon the friendship.
Also coming under the umbrella of seriousness is of course death.
I recognize it's horrible and sad but hear out my logic.
You respect them. You want to make that clear. You post up a devotion to them.
But somehow, they think that they deserve an RIP GREAT AUNT ETHEL following their name on MSN Messenger? When I die, and if MSNMessenger is still around I certainly hope that hasn't become a cultural tradition replacing burials and funerals.
Then there are the song quotes. The obscure, occasionally rhyming, three liners that rarely make sense out of context and are generally typed without proper punctuation, therefore abusing the meaning. Don't type out the lyrics to songs on your blog or wall, a song without music is ultimately just a failed poem.
Essentially, if you wouldn't tell a stranger, don't put it on the internet.
But of course, who am I, certainly not the internet police...*sigh*
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
Just a cheeky blog as I really should be reading 1984 instead of dictating meaningless thoughts to an audience of, really no one.
Right, this really just concerns everything serious, deep and meaningful on the internet.
It shouldn't be on there. This includes the all too frequent break up status's, the beyond cheesy love poems, quotes, songs, the "I LOVE ____ SO MUCH!!" updates, the 'odes' to their lover - get it off the internet. It's vile. I'm almost certain the random you met three saturdays ago you added on Facebook isn't going to 'like' how you love miss 'x' to the moon and back. After seeing a page full of a succession of mushy love devoted status updates and messages, he'll abandon the friendship.
Also coming under the umbrella of seriousness is of course death.
I recognize it's horrible and sad but hear out my logic.
You respect them. You want to make that clear. You post up a devotion to them.
But somehow, they think that they deserve an RIP GREAT AUNT ETHEL following their name on MSN Messenger? When I die, and if MSNMessenger is still around I certainly hope that hasn't become a cultural tradition replacing burials and funerals.
Then there are the song quotes. The obscure, occasionally rhyming, three liners that rarely make sense out of context and are generally typed without proper punctuation, therefore abusing the meaning. Don't type out the lyrics to songs on your blog or wall, a song without music is ultimately just a failed poem.
Essentially, if you wouldn't tell a stranger, don't put it on the internet.
But of course, who am I, certainly not the internet police...*sigh*
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
+ a small milestone?
Huzzah!!
I would just like to briefly draw attention to the small milestone (oxymoron? perhaps) that is my tenth follower. I have now achieved a small sense of accomplishment, this must be how those old ladies feel when they survive their 100th year. And then soon after drop.
So just a small 'hip hip huzzah' for observatory commentary.
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
I would just like to briefly draw attention to the small milestone (oxymoron? perhaps) that is my tenth follower. I have now achieved a small sense of accomplishment, this must be how those old ladies feel when they survive their 100th year. And then soon after drop.
So just a small 'hip hip huzzah' for observatory commentary.
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
03 February 2010
+ remind me again?
Allo.
Now I'm in year twelve, senior year, the finale, I should probably cut down on blogging, but let me just fit in a quickie.
My father, is the centre of our families humour. It's quite wonderful and I suppose we, himself included, enjoy mocking his touch of asia. But it just adds another dimension to our love.
My Dad's life is ridiculously busy. He is indeed a doctor and because I'm not overly involved in my fathers life, I assume he spends the majority of this time with living patients, either that or he's a spy, which would be hell cool. But it's because of this preoccupation that everyone around him has discovered the necessity of reminding him to do things.
However as we encounter the situation and finally ask him the deadly deed (don't worry I'm not implying that we've requested death upon another being), he replies with "remind me later". Understanding the hussle and bussle of his life we accept this rejection and remind ourselves to remind him later.
But as we again make the movement to remind him, he requests that we remind him at a later time, precisely six lets say for the sake of example.
So the situation has already escalated from asking him to simply pick up milk on his way home from work, to reminding him to pick up milk later, to reminding him to pick up milk at six o clock.
So as instructed, we sit impatiently, lingering for the deadly sixth hour pass noon to arrive and not a second later we ring my father to remind him to retrieve the milk for the third time.
Where, he, replies: "remind me when I'm at the supermarket". Now it's just ludicrous.
How are we meant to possibly predict his arrival at the exceptionally-good-market in time to contact him to remind him for now the fifth time to purchase milk!? Unless we attach some homing beacon onto his belt, alongside his pager, iPod, phone, bluetooth headset receptor and palm pilot and somehow set an alarm to send us at home a signal when he waltzes across the target coordinates. That actually sounds more feasible and practical.
Which brings me to my new pet hate.
Don't remind me later.
I'm reminding you now.
Conceal this moment in your smudge of a mind and use that last micro-ounce of brainpower you reserved for hitting the A&B buttons on your gameboy to recall a small request - pick up milk.
Write it on your hand if you must. But I'm sure I could remind a small primitive monkey to fetch up milk, and not only would it venture into the supermarket and retrieve some, but it would present me with a variety, including that of the delicious and innovative invention of the infusion of chocolate and milk, and possibly a wise non-fattening choice of cookies to compliment (although now pondering on the non-fat cookies, I realised thats actually quite an oxymoron and now am reasonably depressed). Yes. So perhaps this afternoon I'll zip down to the local Zoo or animal shelter with a balaclava in one hand, and a heshen* (spelling is inaccurate I apologise) bag in the other, forget about milk, I'm picking meself up a funny little monkey.
If you desire milk in the next week, I strongly suggest you do the same.
Perhaps the Zoo has a bulk order offer.
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
Now I'm in year twelve, senior year, the finale, I should probably cut down on blogging, but let me just fit in a quickie.
My father, is the centre of our families humour. It's quite wonderful and I suppose we, himself included, enjoy mocking his touch of asia. But it just adds another dimension to our love.
My Dad's life is ridiculously busy. He is indeed a doctor and because I'm not overly involved in my fathers life, I assume he spends the majority of this time with living patients, either that or he's a spy, which would be hell cool. But it's because of this preoccupation that everyone around him has discovered the necessity of reminding him to do things.
However as we encounter the situation and finally ask him the deadly deed (don't worry I'm not implying that we've requested death upon another being), he replies with "remind me later". Understanding the hussle and bussle of his life we accept this rejection and remind ourselves to remind him later.
But as we again make the movement to remind him, he requests that we remind him at a later time, precisely six lets say for the sake of example.
So the situation has already escalated from asking him to simply pick up milk on his way home from work, to reminding him to pick up milk later, to reminding him to pick up milk at six o clock.
So as instructed, we sit impatiently, lingering for the deadly sixth hour pass noon to arrive and not a second later we ring my father to remind him to retrieve the milk for the third time.
Where, he, replies: "remind me when I'm at the supermarket". Now it's just ludicrous.
How are we meant to possibly predict his arrival at the exceptionally-good-market in time to contact him to remind him for now the fifth time to purchase milk!? Unless we attach some homing beacon onto his belt, alongside his pager, iPod, phone, bluetooth headset receptor and palm pilot and somehow set an alarm to send us at home a signal when he waltzes across the target coordinates. That actually sounds more feasible and practical.
Which brings me to my new pet hate.
Don't remind me later.
I'm reminding you now.
Conceal this moment in your smudge of a mind and use that last micro-ounce of brainpower you reserved for hitting the A&B buttons on your gameboy to recall a small request - pick up milk.
Write it on your hand if you must. But I'm sure I could remind a small primitive monkey to fetch up milk, and not only would it venture into the supermarket and retrieve some, but it would present me with a variety, including that of the delicious and innovative invention of the infusion of chocolate and milk, and possibly a wise non-fattening choice of cookies to compliment (although now pondering on the non-fat cookies, I realised thats actually quite an oxymoron and now am reasonably depressed). Yes. So perhaps this afternoon I'll zip down to the local Zoo or animal shelter with a balaclava in one hand, and a heshen* (spelling is inaccurate I apologise) bag in the other, forget about milk, I'm picking meself up a funny little monkey.
If you desire milk in the next week, I strongly suggest you do the same.
Perhaps the Zoo has a bulk order offer.
Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.
-OVER AND OUT-
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