To the Back Teeth

So yeah, I'm something of a writer, right? Part of my problem with creativity has been organization: I have a really good idea (well, one I like), but don't have a pen and paper to hand and thus forget it. Some time later I'll remember that I forgot and try to remember what I forgot. Then my head'll start hurting and I'll give up.

To combat this problem, I got a couple of notebooks and a loada pens. I put a book in my room near my bed (I oft get ideas when I'm about to drop off, then the challenge is to stay awake and be bothered to write it down), one in the pocket of my trousers and even one in my coat. Anal? No, really useful actually, even though I'm sure it somehow lessens my imagination having them around...

Thing is, now I think I've gone too far! I keep stepping on pads and pens, which is never the best thing to do unless you want to pass it off as a new writing style.

Still, I'm moving into the new student digs soon. Will I face the old enemy of No Pen and Paper? Will I piss off my housemates by cluttering up every room with stationery? Only time will tell...

P.S. Well done to Liverpool tonight. They beat Trabzonspor 2-1 in their own stronghold and are going through to the next Europa League stage.

Watch This Space...

... 'Coz I wrote, like, this blog on, like, this thing. It's like so totally called paper or something? Well, like, my blogs on this paper stuff. I know? Isn't that the craziest thing? So yah, I mean I, like, so totally have a blog for you, but it's gonna have to be a while before I type it up.

Oh Madonn'!

So anyways: here I am in this little outta-tha-way bistro somewhere, when outta nowhere comes Jimmy 'Big Balls' Molanga. Now lemme tell you 'bout Molanga; he didn't get his name playin' for tha Giants. Anyways, he comes over 'hi, howya doin'?' an' I'm like 'whaddaya hear, whaddaya say?' We goes way back, knew each other since our muddas knew each other, bouncin' us on their knees on the steps of our Brooklyn homes.

I'm gettin' off topic. Jimmy comes into this bistro and we start chattin'. Just like old times: a bit a grappa, some pasta fazool and everything's peachy. He starts talkin' 'bout this movie, 'Mother's Boys' or some shit. 'Never seen it,' I tells tha guy, but he keeps on about how goddamn weird the whole thing is. Just so happens, it got aired on TV not so long back, I caught a bit on cable.

Oh madonn', that's some dark shit right there, lemme tell ya.

So this pucchiacca is tryin'a steal her bambinos away from her divorced husband, right. Now I don't gotta tell ya what my dad'da' done if my ma had'a done any'a that shit. CRACK right across tha face I can tell ya. Anyways, that's like the setting for tha whole film as far as I saw, but it's full'a' so much motherfuckin' Freudian crap and degenerate sick shit that it's almost as disturbin' as cuttin' off ya brother's pishadil - but that's'anotha story. This woman's cuttin' up her face, then she's smashin' a loada mirrors, then she's forcin' her son to look at her cesarean scar while she's all naked and soaped up, now this lid'l kid is pushin' around a full grown woman an' brandishin' a meat tenderizer at his younger brotha. Jeez!

I love my mudda, and now this? You wanna get freaked out? Try takin' a businessman's loan from me and not payin' me back. You wanna get all'a that Disney propaganda about families an' divorce rammed outta your mind? Watch 'Mother's Boys.' Fuggedaboudit!