And so what one could describe as CRUNCH TIME has arrived. The moment. IT. I had some vain hope that over the past few weeks I would arrive at an epiphany which magically whipped my work ethic into something that would undoubtedly float me through these coming exams. And I was almost there, I reckon. If I squinted at the right angle I could see it.

Until the fucking sun thought that this week would be the perfect moment to try and pack the past three months sunlight into a week, thus rendering anything I did completely useless. Fuck it, no matter how hard I try it is impossible to do solid work when the sun is being so damn shiny. And I have no idea why. I don't have a deep desire to get skin cancer, in fact every time I go out in the sun I turn the colour of a very undercooked chicken. I believe there's something in the male psyche which demands that the higher the chance of the activity killing me, the more I must do it. So I sit out in the sun. And because I'm concentrating on trying not to scream as the UV light mercilessly mutates my cells into a crap version of Sand Man from Spiderman 3, I don't do any work. I think I win a small moral victory in that at least I don't enjoy not working. Pfft.

So that is probably why I locked myself in the basement of a Caffe Nero on Tottenham Court Road yesterday to do some work. Which was surprisingly enjoyable, and far more productive than I could have hoped. (For the record Sinead, we need more Latin chess.) However this soon descended into Anon. raids and picnics and the sheer utter brilliant shitawesome that is Britain's Got Talent. I'm not complaining, I got more work done then than in a week at home. So as I enter the exam period, I have but one request; rain. Please, God, rain.

Excuse me for a minute but I need to start with a brief rant at myself.

HOW
FUCKING
LAZY
ARE
YOU?

For future reference, that will be abbreviated as HFLAY. I plan to use it every time I don't write my blog on consecutive days, which looks like it will turn out to be every single bloody time. Shit, my work ethic is so poor it can't afford Tesco own brand vodka. Which, if it were to exist, I would buy. I hope you wannabe sales executives are listening. And taking notes.

Now, to business. The thought that I am nearly a fully fledged adult has been harbouring in the back of my mind from the moment I received my national insurance number. Today my bank were kind enough to post a letter to me saying how much they would like to take the puny amount of interest I make on my account away from me and give it to Gordon Brown and his government. Up till now, I have believed that taxes are a good idea, after all, they fund our beloved NHS. (Stop me if I get too political). However, I realise now that this is because they weren't happening to me. Now the bloodthirsty bastards at Downing Street want my money. Well, fuck them. I need that penny of interest I make a month.

Rant over. See you tomorrow. Maybe.

NB: After writing this, I pieced together my tax letter that I had unceremoniously dumped in the bin. Turns out I don't have to give them my money after all, and I can instead keep hoarding. In that case I think taxes are a wonderful idea. Go Labour?

 

When I first began this blog, less than a week ago to my reckoning, I promised to write at least once a day, come rain or shine. Or freak weather storms, or car accidents, basically nothing that fate or God could throw at me would prevent me writing and posting at least once ever twenty four hours. Well, six days later and I’m pleased to announce that I’ve failed. It actually amazes me how pathetically small and puny my work ethic is. It seems this has turned into too much like effort for my liking, but I will attempt to stick with it. No promises. Ooh, I almost used a smiley there.

Now, I wish to address the subject of music taste. Sure, I agree taste is subjective. But some music is just total SHIT. Please don't try and justify a song about anal fisting to me. I won't listen, and there's a good chance I will try and set you on fire. Or pay someone more sadistic than me to do it.

Finally, I must just say this. At the moment, I am so incredibly paranoid, about everything in the world. Someone is out to get me, I just haven't figured out who yet. So for the moment I suspect all of you. Just a warning.

PS: Wtf, they have 'predatory' as a mood but not 'paranoid'? Livejournal is weird.

 

I have suddenly realised that most of my blog entries revolve around hitting or humiliating people that don't agree with you. I have theorized that this is probably due to the fact that I don't do this in real life, at all. I think there is some sort of vain hope that if people read about pain enough in my writing they might start to associate it with me, meaning that my incredibly empty threats would become slightly increased in volume. At this very moment, I am laughing at myself for believing that that might be the case. But it could happen! Maybe.

Anyway, back to the title. I really really hate it when adults patronise you about how freaking easy your exams are. 'In my day, we not only had to learn 600 lines of Aeneid 12, we had to compose an alternate ending and do a passable Virgil impression at an authentic classical gathering. Or be shot.' You really underestimate how little I give a fuck. I'm not trying to say our exams aren't easier, I've gathered that this must be inevitable. What really annoys me is when they then take this out on you. I'll take a few seconds here to personally apologise to every adult who has said this to me for not contacting the exam board and demanding they fix electrodes to us in the exam hall or perhaps invent some sort of piranha related distraction device. And then they complain about how hard their job is, which, we can be guaranteed, will not be as hard in 20 years when we are doing it.

Finally, if my exams are so easy, stop pestering me to work. I'd rather slag you off on the interweb.

The next time you ask someone 'why?' and they respond 'why not?', please, for all our sakes, punch them in the face. If they don't learn and do it again, stab them. If someone had done that to Mallory when he tried to justify climbing Everest with the piss poor response 'because it is there,' maybe he wouldn't have died up there. He would still have died of course, because we would have punched him repeatedly in the face and then stabbed him. But at least we could have derived some humour from the situation, because, as we all know, other peoples pain is funny.

I feel I should now do some sort of minor rant about the fact that my exams start in much less than a month and I have done fuck all in terms of revision. And strangely enough don't feel at all nervous. Although that may be something to do with the stupidly unhealthy amount of sugar in my bloodstream at the moment (thank you tesco and your 84p Red Bulls). I am sure my fear will be compounded when we do something new in History tomorrow. For some obscure reason known only to the sadists in the History scheduling department, we still haven't finished the syllabus. Yet we still found time enough last time to spend 3 weeks watching Downfall. Which although great viewing, doesn't teach me a hell of a lot about the Watergate Scandal. Oh well. It will all pull itself together...won't it?

I've reached the great milestone of having a blog for almost 72 hours, and I've already run out of material, which seems pretty pathetic. So I'm going to launch into a discussion of how funny it is to see one man slap another in the face.

It cannot possibly just be me. Let me use a very visual example to try and aid your understanding. When two male members have an argument over something so trivial, so unimportant, instead of launching into the monkey knife fights stereotyped of teenagers (I was absentmindedly watching a documentary about something relating to this subject whilst learning Latin. It is possible that I may have got the wrong end of the stick) we instead initiate a far more testosterone based activity, namely flailing at each other until the hands make contact with the others face. Now imagine all this happening when one of the two duelists is attempting to drink a (very full) can of Fanta. I think it says something about our society when we laugh when friends suffer non-lethal wounds.

On a vaguely related tangent, I got hit in the face with a volleyball today. Four times. Everyone laughed. I think this demands a change to my title, but I would have to press the tab key an inordinate amount of times to get their again, so I shall say it here. Pain is funny, but only when it happens to other people. Try it yourself. Throw a golf ball at your closest friend and just watch the tears of laughter fall from the faces of those around you. Except the one you hit, whose tears will just be tears. I should probably mention that this method works best if you pick someone who you don't want to be friends with anymore.

On a totally unrelated tangent, why does livejournal let you set your mood as 'predatory'? It seems distinctly creepy.

Everyone knows about the game. If you're one of the (very lucky) few who still remain oblivious to it, allow me to destroy your aura of innocence. Apparently, we are all playing the game, all the time. When you don't know that you're playing the game, you are winning. As soon as you remember that you are playing the game, you lose the game. How hideously unfair. How frustratingly puerile. How...ingenious.

This brings me on to the topic of internet memes, of which this is a part. They are slowly taking over my life, and the weirdest thing is that I really don't mind, in fact I revel in it. I frequently refer to things as 'pure win'. I do extra Latin work 'for the lulz'. I rickroll people at every opportunity, and have even added the song to my iPod. I don't know if it's a slight on our society that the teenagers I frequent with are far more interested in constantly quoting things they read off bash.org and socializing virtually than talking in reality. Which seems to have lost some of it's charm. Personally, I've no idea how you perform a ':p' smiley in ordinary conversation. And I have no desire to.

I think the points I made here can only be backed up further by the fact that whilst I was writing this, I got rickrolled. Twice.

Exam season seems like exactly the wrong time of year to pick up the pace on my internet adventures. But I suppose that failing GCSEs is probably one of the things that I will come to regret least in my life. By failing, I mean achieving slightly less than the exorbitant grades my school expects me to, as in, a B. If a B is the worst thing that happens to me this year I will consider myself lucky.

To be perfectly honest, the very fact that it is exam season is probably the reason why I have decided to join this community. One will go to any lengths to procrastinate it seems, I even surprised myself on Sunday by, instead of revising the perfectly friendly Weimar Republic I decided to take a look at the Russian Revolution. And all I can say is that the world needs moar Lenin. I also seem to like the colour red more than before. Personally I believe that I am surviving on the anecdotal evidence that the GCSEs are a lot easier than ones parents and teachers make them out to be.

As this is my first journal entry, I think that I should probably explain my username. I have a slight, some may say dangerous, liking of classics. I don't know why, it's not something I'm considering doing at University, it's just so...there. And awesome. Perhaps that has something to do with the greatest Latin teacher on Earth, who I would not be surprised if he linked himself to Leonidas using that family tree finder that Tony Robinson once advertised.
  
I'm not quite sure on the accepted length for a livejournal entry, but my arms are tired. I will try and keep this journal updated daily, before if sinks into the quagmire that is my firefox bookmarks. Ciao.