Are you a ferret?

f(x)=8x+4 walks into a bar. "Got any sandwiches", f(x)=8x+4 asks the barman. "Sorry" the barman replies, "We don't cater for functions".

I thank you.

Hello you clumps of mud on the white shoes that I call life. I'm procrastinating from the essay I have to have done by Friday. Plenty of time. I'm sure this is a different font from my norm. It looks bigger. Still not had any Prozac, even though I found a big 28 pack in my drawer. I opened one up and put it in some Coke to see what would happen. What does happen is that it fizzes up quite spectacularly. I'll be honest and say that I did take a little sip, just to see what it tastes like. It tasted like heaven, I could taste the bitterness of the white powder concoction that's enclosed in the green and yellow tablets and it made me feel quite calm. I'm starting to sound a little deranged and dodgy. But after being on the tablets several years you do get quite dodgy withdrawal symptoms. Ah well.

Random Wikipedia Article time.

Mr. Forbush and the Penguins.

Haha, what a great name for a film. It featured John 'My chest has just exploded' Hurt. I love the film Aliens, apparently they're making a prequel, which sounds like the worst idea in the world. I never see why they want to make prequels/sequels to classic films when it'll look, sound and seem totally different to the films of yesteryear. Just think about the film Alien. Think about the special effects. The grainy camera. Now, with the cameras and technology used now, compared to the technology used then, it'll look totally out of place, even more so seeing as they're doing a prequel to an 80s film. It'll look totally out of place and its bound to end up as a 2* film. Gutting. Lets move on.

St. Marys Beneficial Society Hall (Upper Marlboro, Maryland)

Jesus Christ, the picture of the hall on here looks more like one of those old-style whorehouses you see in Westerns than a Roman Catholic meeting place. My church in Fleetwood is called St. Marys. I was baptised there, had my first communion there, confirmed there, and even read from the scriptures there. During my early teenage years I was a full believer in God. Only because I had the fear of him in my mind. I only believed because I was scared of what would happen if I didn't believe, I was scared of what would happen if I didn't pray every night. At the age of 16 I realised that fear wasn't really how I should want to believe in a higher power, and if I was no longer scared, I no longer believed. Not that I don't want to believe, I'd love to have that sense of being watched over by someone of great power, but personally I believe that my family and friends could offer all the safety and support that I needed.

That, and the thought of going to church at 10am every Sunday and having to kneel down on what can only be compared to a method of medieval torture didn't really appeal.

1983 Congoleum Classic - Doubles

A tennis tournament won by a pair of yanks. My Auntie had, and still has, 3 beach chalets along Fleetwood beach. I had the happiest times of my childhood down there at Summer, and I remember at the age of 14 being asked to play tennis by a brown-haired girl whose Mum owned a chalet a few doors down from my Aunties. She was wearing a blue top, white skirt and had extraordinarily red lips. In a beautiful kind of way though. We must have played tennis against each other for a good 4 weeks throughout the Summer holidays. She was probably my first girl crush I ever had, we got along so well and the memories are so vivid still in my mind, its incredible. Surely the men who read this can imagine how great and on fire you felt for the first girl you really, really liked during your pubescent years. There was no sexual feelings there I might add, even though she was (now remember we were both 14 at the time so its ok to say this) disgustingly hot, it was just (in Bernard Black's words) I wanted her to 'be my summer girl, and in the Autumn, I'll dump her, as she was my Summer Girl'. Ahhhh. Nostalgia.

My brothers just got a tattoo saying "Carpe Diem", which I find ironic considering his epilepsy.

That'll do for now.

Love and Mr. Nice, the scariest, funniest autobiography I've ever read.

Jc