The Drooling Fish

Silly doubleposting Mr Matthew has suggested I get a DeviantArt thing. Being my single most awesome reader, I felt the need to oblige him. So here it is: a DeviantArt thing.

I just created it a few minutes ago, and it’s pretty fancy, but not entirely user friendly. I mean, what the hell is a ‘deviation’? Isn’t a deviation a variation of the norm? Oh, wait, I get it. How very artsy of you, DeviantArt thingy.

It’s unfortunately been getting colder and colder lately, which I blame solely on global warming. It’s somewhere around 18C  now, and I’m freezing my bollocks off. And what do you crave when it’s Ice Age-cold? If the title of the post hasn’t rung any bells in your head, the answer’s soup. Specifically, pumpkin soup.

So, I got out from under the pile of blankets I’d been hiding under, whereupon I contracted frostbite in a few fingers, and I made pumpkin soup. By God, did I make pumpkin soup.

All pictures taken with my new camera, which I love so much I’m thinking of naming.

Mmm…soup.

Link Link

I’ll give in to the old blogger cliche: I’m, totally, the worst blogger ever. I guess this makes me part of the club now, right?

So a month and a half has elapsed since my last post, and I’m assuming even my most loyal reader (ten bucks it’s Matt) has deleted me off their RSS auto-feeder thing. Screw you, everyone!

I kid, I kid. Please don’t delete me off your RSS auto-feeder thing. I love you; please stay!

So what’s happened in the last fortysomething days? Bits and bobs, but nothing too exciting. I know, what a let down, right? I’ll put down everything in a nice list format.

1) I obviously got home from camp. Like I suspected, it was dirty and smelly. I wrote an article for the school yearbook about it (like all the cool kids do), so I might post that soon.

2) Holidays were a bore. I worked lots. Oh, and mum left me to go overseas. Which is okay, because…

3) She got me a nice watch. And a camera. Both of which I’m extremely excited about. The camera’s a Fujifilm F100, a 12 megapixel beast of a machine. The watch, some form of Seiko, is pretty and so very shiny. Now I think of it, I have pictures of my watch taken with my camera. I swear it’s for insurance purposes, and I’m not just obsessed with my new toys.

4) School started again, which is rather noteworthy. Lots of homework piling up to exams in about a month’s time.

5) Oh, dear. Exams in a month’s time. My maths teacher kindly reminded us that this attributes to about a quarter of the year’s total mark. Oh dear ohdearohdear.

And that’s a general overview. But something interesting happened today that got me thinking. After a night of work at the family restaurant (the only place in the world I’d consider being nice, and not just civil, to people I greatly dislike; seriously, please do not feed the floor) my mum and I were getting into the car to go home when we noticed a crapload of glass on the back seat. We were surprised, seeing that we usually take all the shattered glass we find and grind it up into people’s food. We, being the amateur sleuths we are, followed the trail of glass to one of the side windows, where we discovered a hole about the size of a human fist. We were surprised, seeing that when we had left, there had been no hole. After much cranium scratching, we concluded that some wanker had used his human fist-sized hand to break our window. The bastard.

(This train of thought, I assure you, didn’t take as long as my long-winded writing implies.)

False edit: another staffer at the restaurant apparently had her windscreen broken too. Mum thinks that the dickhead has something against red cars. Bravo, mum.

Nothing was taken, nothing was left. Except, well, a fucking big hole in the rear-left window. So my question is: what drives people to commit random acts of violence? Is it a deformity in the brain? Coercion by gangland bosses? An intergovernmental conspiracy? It seems pretty foul, deranged, even, that a person would, without reason, destroy, manipulate or otherwise corrupt the belongings of another. An example of this is graffiti: why the hell would you feel the need to leave your ‘tag’ on everything? I mean, you probably need the practice in spelling your own name, but please, don’t do it on my restaurant.

Dickhead.