11.8.11

A cautionary tale of the last human male - continued...

Then the entire global human population sprang from their hiding places and yelled "SURPRISE!"

Just kidding. Everyone was dead.

Anyway, where did we leave poor, lonely Steve?

Ah yes, he spotted a dot in the distance and was running towards it. It was difficult to make out the figure so far away. It was definitely moving closer to him, as was he to it.
He was getting tired. All those doughnuts had made him put on weight and after a hundred metres, he stopped running, wiped his brow, and put his hands to his knees, panting.
A minute later, he straightened up, and started running to the nearing dot. It was definitely human. Steve could make out the tall slim stature of the stranger in the distance and hoped that this was not a mirage.

“Hey!” shouted Steve, waving his arms. “Hey!”
As he neared the figure, he could just about see that they had long, flowing golden hair.
Oh, thank God it’s a woman, thought Steve.
Then he tripped over a dead guy, fell over and hit his head on a lamp post.

                                                *          *          *

He was woken up by someone shaking his shoulder quite hard. He opened his bleary eyes to find it was the golden-haired woman.
“Hey man, wake up already!” she said, in an oddly low voice.
“It’s alright, I’m awake!”
The evening sun was too bright. Steve closed his eyes again and smiled. He’d found a gorgeous blonde.
He attempted a romantic move. (What the hell, he thought. I’m the only man on the planet. It’s not like she can pick anyone else.) “You have beautiful hair, by the way. I saw it shine in the sun, like a… like a… uh, sun.”

There was a pause.

Steve opened his eyes. He frowned.
He rubbed his eyes.
The woman not only had beautiful blonde hair, but also a beautiful blonde beard.
The blonde gave a gruff laugh. “Dude.”
“Oh my God. You’re… you’re…” Steve swore. “No homo, man. No homo.”
“Yeah, sorry, man. Looks like it’s just the two of us.”
The blonde man broke into the nearest convenience store, grabbed a couple of beers and sat back down next to Steve.
“Here’s to… uh, here’s to the human race. It was fun while it lasted.”
They clinked beer cans, sat back and watched the sun set.

8.8.11

#46 or some number. I can't remember.

Is anyone still reading this thing?
Anyway, I apologise, lone reader, for having left you hanging for so long. The last time we saw Steve was four months ago exactly. I have promised to finish it and finish it I shall.

Someone remind me somehow, or Steve will forever be alone and die on his lonely planet.

4.6.11

#45 - Beirut

Well hello, it's been a while, hasn't it?

I will finish that story about Steve in late June or something.

This shall be a post  really only talking about Zach Condon, from the band Beirut.
Some random things:
He's a true musician who plays multiple instruments (he plays the accordion, keyboards, saxophone, clarinet, mandolin, ukulele, horns, glockenspiel, and percussion along with Barnes' drums and Trost's cello and violin. Plus he made a horn from a conch shell).
His wrists don't align, but that little imperfection makes him all the more endearing.
His life story sounds like something out of a novel (he dropped out of school and travelled to Europe at the age of 17 and fell in love with Balkan folk and gypsy music).
His voice is beautiful - really pure and resonant.
He's so awesome that I don't know whether I want to be him or be with him.

Anyway, I'll leave you with Beirut's 'Elephant Gun':



18.4.11

SPACED


... is my new favourite old comedy.
Watch it here:

Uh... Sorry. I realise I haven't posted for a while and I've left you on a bit of a cliffhanger with Steve.

Is Steve the last man alive? Find out next time on I dunno. I haven't even decided yet.

7.4.11

A cautionary tale of the last human male


So I'd told Wandi I'd write a short story of a man and a dot ages ago. It's long. It's awful. It's unfinished. But it has pictures. Enjoy.

Steve was the last man on Earth. Everyone else had been wiped out by a highly infectious and fatal disease to which only he was immune. Some might say he was lucky, but then again, he was the last human on Earth and also hence there was no 'some'.
It had happened so quickly - overnight, even. He'd switched the TV on to watch the news. The advert about Babybels came on and that made him happy. "Bop-bop-bop, bop Babybel."

The new virus only affected humans and it was spreading incredibly fast - the news reporter suddenly died while doing his report. One by one, the cameramen dropped dead and shortly afterwards, the TV went blank and the sound of white noise filled the room. Steve had fallen asleep before the news even came on, so he didn't know what had happened.

When he woke up, he choked and found his cat had been sleeping on his face.
He left the house at half past seven to go to work. He looked at his to-do list:
Yes, the cat's name was Cat. Steve had a very limited imagination.
He was half asleep as he reached the tube station and crashed into the barrier. The station had closed as the tube wasn't working.
Steve swore and kicked the gate, stubbing his toe. Having recovered from the pain, he walked to the nearest bus stop. Then he realised it was oddly quiet for a Tuesday morning. He looked around and saw people slumped everywhere.
Puzzled, he scratched his head, like monkeys do in cartoons. Steve was hairy like a monkey.
He paused for a while, having stopped scratching his head. A metaphorical light bulb lit up above his head.
"Oh... I see." He grinned. "OK, guys, I know what's going on," he shouted. "I'm on TV, aren't I? C'mon, prank over."
Silence.
"Guys."
No response.
He walked over to the nearest slumped figure and prodded it. It didn't move. He poked the figure next to it and that one didn't move either.
He shook another and yelled at it and hit it and still it didn't move. He checked for signs of breathing, and realised it was dead.
Steve began to panic. He flapped his arms like a chicken and paced around for a bit.
Although a wholly useless action, humans do tend to do these kinds of things. 
He looked around and saw the whole street was covered in corpses; people had simply died on the spot and lay immobile, frozen.

"Hello? I said, HELLO? IS ANYONE OUT THERE?"

The reader will realise that of course, only those within Steve's vicinity would be able to hear this, and that was also on the condition that they were alive/weren't deaf. He took out his mobile and called his mum. It went straight to voicemail.

"Uh, Mum, hey. I know I never call - sorry - but I wanted to see if you were OK. Right. Bye"

He called his best mate, Martin. It rang for a while, but then went to voicemail.

"MARTIN YOU BASTARD, GIVE ME BACK MY TWENTY POUNDS. Oh wait, are you OK? If so, call me back as soon as you get this. And meet me at the bar round the corner. Preferably with the twenty pounds."

He stood there and rang every number on his phone, but no one picked up.

A front page of the Metro flew about in the wind. Steve chased after it, tripping over dead bodies. He caught it eventually. The headlines read: "DOOMSDAY APPROACHES". Apparently he'd missed Doomsday because he'd fallen asleep, and now it appeared everyone had died.

Steve milled around for a bit and pondered (something he didn't do very often).
His first thought (and later he was ashamed of this) was to raid the Krispy Kreme store, because he'd realised that since everyone was dead, no one could stop him from just helping himself to whatever he wanted.
While eating a doughnut, he had a series of thoughts. He thought about his love for doughnuts. Then he thought about love. Then he thought about the people he loved. Then he realised all of them were probably dead and he was probably the last human on the planet, all alone with no future.

He heaved a heavy sigh.

However, the reader will know that it is very unlikely for there to be just one solitary human immune to a particular disease. Out of a population of 7 billion, the likelihood of at least one other person being immune is highly likely.

Steve ate four more doughnuts, jeered at the dead Krispy Kreme vendor ("HA HA, I got free doughnuts!"), then went home and threw up.


                                                *          *          *
Electricity had stopped. Only batteries could be used. He tried using a radio to find if there was someone else out there, but there was just a perpetual crackling that meant nothing.

This carried on for weeks. He could walk quite casually into any store and help himself to anything he wanted. It was fun. Kind of. He talked to himself, or to the festering dead, to stop himself from going insane. Perhaps he was already going insane. Who knew?

The city was beginning to smell. The millions of corpses littered about were starting to decompose and all Steve (not being of a particularly intelligent nature) could come up with was to stick tissues up his nose to stop from smelling the dead.

He toyed briefly with the idea of killing himself. It was a depressing prospect, this being alone forever. Cat had run off with some other cats and had left him utterly alone. The human population had ditched him and now even his cat had done the same. But he couldn’t bring himself to commit suicide.

However, things changed dramatically one day, while Steve was wandering around the city with a doughnut in his hand. He espied a dot moving about in the distance, and at first, thought it must be a dog or something. A small flicker of hope still existed within him, and he hurriedly neared the dot. What if it were a human? What if it were a beautiful young lady? After all, if it were just he and this young lady, it would be up to them to repopulate the world... He began to run, getting closer and closer to the moving figure.

To be continued...

4.4.11

#43 - A small piece of news

I thought about writing this in a small font, because I'd written 'a small piece of news', and thought that would be humorous, but then I didn't want you to strain your eyes.
Then I realised you could zoom in anyway.
Ach. Whatever.

So round about three weeks ago I remembered I'd told Wandi I'd write a story about a man and a dot. A layogenic dot, to be precise. I thought that would be quite fun to write, so I started writing it. I got exactly 800 words in, and then left it. I forgot about it again until Andy wrote about the zombie apocalypse (check it out here!) and so my story about the last man on Earth will be coming up at some point in the not-too-distant future.

The last man on Earth is called Steve, and is absolutely ordinary. And he likes Krispy Kremes. And has a cat called Cat.

OK, that's all I'm going to say.

30.3.11

#42 - 42


Ooh, looky guys, it's going to have to be a special post, simply because it's the 42nd post...
Wait no. According to the numbers I've assigned to my posts it's the 42nd, but the total number of posts (including music posts and '*something* of the day' posts) is 55. Or 56, counting this one. Whatever.

This shall be another of Ali's life lessons. Her little old wizened mind stirs and gives you a precious lesson that can only be taught by a wise and knowledgeable person. I'm aware that I come off as a pretentious stuck-up adolescent who thinks she's all clever and that. That would be correct. The rest of this post is going to be all pretentious like. Sorry.

As you (should) know, 42 is the meaning of life (according to Douglas Adams, who wrote The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). 42 is also my house number (stalkers, take note). 42 is the number of one of my many textbooks. OK, that's all there is to the number 42 that's related to me personally.

Perhaps, because of this special number, I should talk about the meaning of life. Not the meaning as in definition. You have the dictionary to find the meaning of life.

I'm talking about the meaning as in purpose of life. I know it. I have the answer, and I'm willing to share it with you. For a price.

The meaning of life is to find happiness. Think of the human existence. Essentially, we're born, we go to school to get qualifications in order to find a good job (that pays well or is satisfying, or both). We get jobs in order to earn money so we can live comfortably and afford luxuries, which in turn, make us happy (whoever said money can't buy happiness was a misguided idiot). All our lives we try to find that one person to love in order to feel happy and complete. It's all about being happy.

Unless of course, you're an emo. But then you feel happy in being sad, which is rather twisted, to be honest.

26.3.11

Revelation of the Day No.2

I finally got it.
Eighteen years of life, and I've finally understood the joke about the chicken.

Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the other side.

THE OTHER SIDE.

Good Lord, I never knew how profound that joke was. My mind has been blown.

I bet that chicken must've been depressed.

25.3.11

#41 - The picky homeless man.

So today I had a humungous meal with a few friends. We nearly died eating it all.

Eventually, we gave up and asked for a doggybag to give to a homeless man. To be honest, the unfinished dish looked a bit meh by the end. We'd picked out all the meat and there was nothing left but haw fun.

"Where do we find a homeless man?" I ask.

Janet replies: "Oh there's one in Leicester Square station!" as if she notes down the whereabouts of each.

When we got there, he'd left, probably to bum around some place else. There was one outside the theatre. He sat there in a sleeping bag, with his hood up. What puzzled me was that he was reading a book.

We were a bit wary of him. He had shifty eyes.

Wandi and I walked up to him and I asked if he was hungry.

"Oh, I don't accept food that isn't wrapped," he said, almost turning his nose up.

"...Oh. Right. OK. Well then."

Janet ended up taking it home. Whether she eats it or not is a different question, but even a homeless man didn't want the food.

19.3.11

#40 - Flashin' my ID

I used ID for the first time ever, and this time no one could stop me for any reason because it wasn't fake.
The first and last time I went somewhere where only 18+ year-olds could enter was on New Year's Eve, but that's a different story.

Yesterday Clara and I went to 'The Purple Turtle' in Camden because we'd never been to a random gig, but it was kinda sheet. Serves us right for picking the cheapest place. Oh well.
It was just a load of mediocre rock that I can't remember. This guy came up and tried talking to us, but I, being the most awkward person on the planet, sent him away:
Guy: *Approaches, all smooth like and smiling* So... do you know who's playing here?
Me: (Oblivious) ... Uh, no, but the bartender probably knows. *Points to bar on the other side of the room*
*Pause. Guy hesitates.*
Guy: ...Oh, OK. *Leaves*
Clara: You know, that guy was trying to talk to us.
Me: Oh.
The crowd was tiny but the bands still gave it their all, which was good.
Because we couldn't/didn't want to dance, we did some people-watching instead. There was an awesome guy with a moustache on his face and a picture of a moustache on his t-shirt. There was a cute couple, in which there was a tiny girl and a giant of a man. She was literally as high as his waist. Both of us were thinking that it must be easy for her to give blow-jobs.
We left at about midnight, which is kind of early. Before we left, the guy working at the cloakroom said, "Yeah, I wouldn't blame you. I wouldn't stay if I was paid." But he was paid, and that's what makes the difference.
Thinking of going to a jazz club next time. It sounds more chillaxed. (Gosh, I hate it when people use that word but I use it all the same.) And yes, yes, I like jazz.

We went back and practiced guitar/ukulele on the terrace until our fingers became numb from the cold. We've decided to go busking for Japan. Any suggestions for songs for the playlist would be most welcome!


15.3.11

#39 - I shall remain loyal until the remainder of my days. Maybe.

Uh, so, I got a Tumblr, because the grass is greener there. It's like a massive party over there. In comparison, it's like a retirement home on Blogger. I like it too, because my gran lives there, but it's not so much fun.

Click here to check out ma Tumblr. That shall be where I post my random doodles and funny things, and here is where words of wisdom/bullsheet shall flow from my pen keyboard.

Don't worry, Blogger was, is, and will always be my first love.

10.3.11

#38 - The Maccabees - Toothpaste Kisses

If someone had written this song for me, I'd have married them right away and had their children already.

 Toothpaste Kisses by tributeroche

6.3.11

Revelation of the Day No.1

World population right this moment = 6, 908, 354, 380
No. of days in a year = 365

6, 908, 354, 380 ÷ 365 = approx. 18, 926, 998

So you share your birthday with nearly 19 million other people in the world.
Not so special now, eh?

I spent a stupidly long while just watching the world population clock live, seeing the numbers rise and rise... It's incredible. Thousands of babies have been born since I began this very post.

#37 - Adulthood

I'm officially an adult, now that I'm 18.
D:

People ask me "Does it feel different to be 18?"
Here follow two options:
Option No.1: I go all profound and pensive, putting my hand to my chin and stroking my imaginary beard and in a low and thoughtful voice, I reply, "Deep inside, there has been a change, concealed from the outside; a stirring, like the feeling a caterpillar experiences before it emerges as a butterfly and spreads its wings to fly away."
Option No. 2: I shrug and say "Meh."

I choose No. 2 so people don't run away from me.

So on Friday, Ish and I were thrown a surprise birthday party by the bestest human on the planet, Clara.
I'd had suspicions for a few days...
1) I was going to do something small on Friday, but Dad was violently against it. Like, really really against it, to the point where he was aggressively shouting at me, which weirded me out a bit.
2) Priya acted really oddly and when I moaned to her about how I didn't know what to do for my birthday, she had a really strange expression on her face, as if the whole time she was suppressing a smile or a fart or something.
3) Some people avoided me, or ignored my moaning about what I should do for my birthday.
4) I planned something on Saturday and invited some people. Carrot says: "Oh, I'm not sure I should go to two parties in a row..."
5) I voiced my suspicions to Dad and Doug, and they got a bit angry/miffed/shocked.

I should be a detective.

But ah... It was so awesome! There was delicious food and I had a "Pink Panther" mocktail that had strawberries and cream in it. Ahh... Then we went bowling and we split into two teams. Needless to say, Team Ali, a.k.a. Team Awesome, won by nearly 100 points. I got a strike and two spares (flukes) and there was a lot of victory dancing (i.e. dad-dancing in disguise).
And Clara had been behind all this the whole time! I am indebted to her. I'm awful at expressing myself to people face to face; I gave her an awkward hug and mumbled something like: "Uh... Thanks...Um... So... Grateful... Yeah... Thanks.... Er... Awesome..." but I think she got what I meant.

I got back home at about ten to midnight, and I spent the last ten minutes of my childhood just sitting in my room alone and feeling melancholy and worried about how I'd have to grow up and have responsibilities and that I wasn't Peter Pan and couldn't stay a child forever. I've talked about Peter Pan in a previous post. He's weird, like an elderly child or something. What.
I've always associated grown ups with the clacking sound high heels make on the pavement, with white, starched shirts with cufflinks, with perfume and cologne, with that sense of security - I'd always thought that when I became an adult, I'd be sure of myself and have everything under control, but now that I'm here, I've realised I don't. I have no idea about anything. I don't even own a pair of high heels, but that's got nothing to do with it.

Anyhoo. This is a long post, so I shan't keep you much longer.
I'm just going to leave you with a funny little something from a birthday card I'd read years ago:
"Birthdays are good for you. The more you have, the longer you live."


3.3.11

#36 - Lonesome George

I like:
Succeeding in helping someone else open a bottle, and then (in my head) being like, "Yerr, look at ma guns," even though they don't exist.

I dislike:
Kraft for stealing Cadbury from us. Also, their salad sauces are awful.

I watched a documentary about the Galapagos Islands and Lonesome George today. It was rather sad, but kind of amusing at the same time.

At first it focussed on Lonesome George (or Solitario Jorge, as they say in español, haha). He's the last of the Pinta tortoises, which are the largest tortoises on Earth. His species has become extinct primarily because sailors ate them all in the early 20th century, but also because of masculinisation (i.e. all the females died and so there were only males left) and because they fell into ravines, couldn't get out and hence starved to death.

They tried to get him to mate with other tortoises of a different species, but to no avail. There have been speculations that he doesn't know how to go about it and also that he's gay... So the scientists decided to collect some of his sperm and artificially inseminate another tortoise in the hope that Lonesome George's genes could be passed on. To do this, they got a woman to, uh, jerk him off. That was kind of awkward.

Ah! There was this hilarious bit where they decided to eradicate the goat population on the Galapagos Islands. Goats were brought to the islands by man - they weren't native to the Galapagos. However, as the goats were very well adapted to the environment and bred like crazy, the goat population flourished, and ate all the tortoises' food, leaving them to starve. The humans realised this ecological problem and decided to massacre all the goats on the islands. There was this awesome moment in the documentary, where the narrator was like: 'blah blah blah GOAT ERADICATION!' (or something to that effect) and this helicopter rises up in slow-mo from behind some hills and there's dust flying everywhere and the tortoises cower in fear and a man with a sniper rifle hangs out of the helicopter and shoots the goats. The melodrama was amazing.

But Lonesome George is the last living member of his species... When he dies, the Pinta tortoises will be no more and we'll only be able to see them in pictures and film. It's like I Am Legend, and Will Smith is the last human left. Kind of. Not really. Tortoises ≠ Will Smith. That was a stupid comparison and now I'm embarrassed...


2.3.11

#35 - Ma locks

Friend: Ali, you got your hair cut!
Me: (Look of utter shock) What? When? Who did that? How? (Feels hair) Oh my God, how did that happen?
Yeah.
I wish people would stop telling me I had my hair cut as if I didn't know. It's grr.

I was going to get my haircut so I'd look older (good Lord, I'm going to be an adult...) but now I look like a prepubescent boy. Woot.
Well, I was asking for it. I just popped into V&M haircutters (because it's close-ish and cheap - £12 wash and cut for any style - and also because I'm a stinge) and was like, 'Yeah, I'd like it short and messy,' and that's exactly what I got.
I got back home and Doug laughed in my face. 'Hahahahaha! Ali, you look like this boy in my school...'

My fringe keeps poking me in the eyes. Now I remember why I was so against fringes in the first place. Eheu.

The trouble with going to a hairdresser's is that once you sit down in that chair, you are at the complete mercy of the hairdresser. He or she could either make you look absolutely awesome and happy, or the result could be upsetting and you'd have a bad hair day forever - or rather, a bad hair year, or whenever until you next get your hair cut. Dangerous stuff. He who wields the scissors holds the power over you.

Thankfully, hair grows, so I'll look more like a girl in a few months time. Hopefully.

1.3.11

#34 - The Morning Benders - 'I Wanna Be Like You'

Having finally worked out how to integrate music into my Blogger posts (technology isn't my strong point...), I can now show you some awesomeness.

Here are The Morning Benders, doing a cover of Jungle Book's 'I Wanna Be Like You'.
They do the most awesome covers.

  The Morning Benders - I Wanna Be Like You (Jungle Book cover) by JODASHEL

28.2.11

#33 - An ode to bacon

Oh bacon, you complete me!
I could never be a Jew.
I'm a Chinese atheist,
We eat everything, it's true.
The smell of bacon sizzling
Makes me salivate,
I'll rush down to the kitchen,
Get a knife, fork and a plate.
I'll sit there quite impatiently
Until the bacon's done.
But the wait is always worth it,
'Cause bacon's number one.

It doesn't stop at bacon,
I love all kinds of meat.
To be a vegetarian
Must be some kind of feat.

I wrote a poem dedicated to my one true love, bacon. That's how much I love it.
If people weren't so judgemental, I would put the words to music and serenade a piece of bacon. Unfortunately, this may be misconstrued as mentally unstable behaviour, and so I shall refrain from doing this.

Tish tosh to all those people against eating meat. We are naturally omnivorous creatures - that's why we have canine teeth.
Follow this logic. Animals eat animals (e.g. lions eat zebras). We are animals. We should eat animals too.
I rest my case.

Good day to you all, and eat some meat.

Oh £%*&! School tomorrow and no work done!

27.2.11

23.2.11

#32 - Scars

I like:
Babybel.

I dislike:
Insurance adverts.

I have several awesome scars that make me look like a ruffian with a rich story to tell, but alas they have faded and are only visible under certain lights.

Once I walked into a fence when I was playing football (...Yeah, well, I'm not very good at it. They tell you to keep your eyes on the ball but also to look up, so I did both - which evidently confused me greatly - and hence I ended up crashing into a fence) and there was a sticky-outy kind of thing that scarred the corner of my eyebrow and just missed my eye, much like Scar from The Lion King.
I had a scab there for about a week and to add to that I had burst a massive zit near my nose that bled really badly. When people asked me what had happened to me, I told them that I fought off three massive thugs who were mugging an old lady and I landed them all in hospital (except for the imaginary old lady), while I came away with just a couple of scratches.
Needless to say, no one bought it, but it was much more impressive than the truth.

I have another scar on my hand from when I got it caught in barbed wire. That was the truth, only I joke and say, 'Yeah, I got that when I was escaping prison/the mental asylum/[insert dangerous place here]', but in reality, I got it when I wasn't paying attention on D of E while walking through a sheep pen or something. Actually, it was a matter of concern, because my teachers and parents thought I might die of tetanus or something, but it's all good, because I'm still alive. Or am I?


An innocent sheep.

Anyway, there seems to be a recurring theme here, in which I just... don't pay attention to my surroundings.

So that leaves me with... Ali's lesson of the day (alternatively, Ali's tip on becoming a ninja):
Be aware of your surroundings.

21.2.11

#31 - I'm a little teapot, short and stout

I like:
Eating cake. And tarts. And brownies. Well, anything sweet like that, really.

I dislike:
When it drizzles lightly and you don't know whether you should put up your umbrella and look like a coward (but stay dry and happy), or be brave (but get wet and cold).

My friend had a tea party for her eighteenth yesterday, and it was lovely. The teashop is sort of hidden on Caledonian Road and it's called 'Drink, Shop & Do', and it's quaint and pretty. We sat and drank tea and ate cake and triangular sandwiches; it was a very proper and civilised affair.
We even played Scrabble, but soon got frustrated and gave up. (Grr. Why is 'affix' spelt with two f's? Is it that necessary?)
The furniture was all mismatched and colourful, the teacups and saucers didn't match either and it gave a really offbeat feel.

Teaparty! Rave! JK.
Before I'd left the house, I'd told Doug that I was leaving for a party, to which he replied, in a mocking voice:
'Ooh, going to a house party, eh? Gonna be dancing the night away, eh?' (- which shows just how well he knows me.)
And I replied:
'No, Doug, I'm going to a teaparty.'
... which sounded quite sarcastic, but it was the truth!
An old young person like me isn't that much of a party person.

15.2.11

#30 - Sleeptalking man on the bus

A conversation between a sleeping man and himself.
Overheard on the 82.
A one act play.

Act I

Middle-aged man, fast asleep. Tall in stature, cooped up in the corner at the back of the bus. Wears a bright waterproof and glasses.

Man:  Urrrrrrrggggghhh....... Uhh... Mmmm................ Yes.
          No.................... Blrrrggghhhmm...

Bus is filling up; passengers have no choice but to squeeze in the back and sit next to sleeping man. 

[Silence]

[More silence]

[Yet more silence]

Man:   IT'S NOT BECAUSE YOU'RE A JEW!...

Passengers jump up, eyes wide.
A young man next to the sleeptalker sniggers quietly.

Sleeping man snorts, raises his head, half-opening his eyes but then immediately drops his chin back to his chest.

[Silence ensues]

The End.

14.2.11

#29 - Wut.

Oh what, it's Valentine's Day?

[That's not me, by the way, I'm a monstrosity.]
Meh.
I shall have chocolates all to myself :D

#28 - Old age + time (part 2)

[NB: I wrote this in the early hours of a night sometime ago, so apologies for any outlandishness...]

I had a conversation some time ago (with some IBer most probably, straight after their TOK lesson) about our perspective of time. You know how as we get older, time seems to pass by more quickly? Well of course, this isn't really the case; time doesn't change its speed at all.

But then again, having said that, its all relative, isn't it? It's only because we humans have decided to regulate time that we're able to 'measure' it.
We all talk about time as if we control it. We 'have' time, we 'find' time, we 'give' time to do something, but time isn't something you can possibly own.

Ah, I haven't answered my own question. Time seems to pass by more quickly as we get older because of the proportion of time we have spent alive. If that makes sense. (It's late, OK? My mind's a bit like cotton at the moment.)

OK, so a year is a relatively short time, right? Just 365 days, nothing more. (Irritating Nerd Reader: "UH. But what about a leap year?" Yeah, well stfu, Irritating Nerd Reader.)
But to a two year old, a year is half their life.
So... One year to a two year old is like twenty-five years to a fifty year old. Right?

Meh, goodnight/good morning to you all.

9.2.11

#28 - Old age (part 1)

I feel prematurely old.
Grumpy old man.
When it's cold, my joints ache, no joke.

It's not just my physical ageing that worries me, it's my mental state too. My memory is quite bad. I can be in the middle of a conversation and... wait, what was I talking about?

Oh my gosh, I'm going to be 18 soon and this is how I feel? What will I be like in 60 years time?

I don't enjoy what the young people do, I don't understand what they say. Their constant references to butter ("dat girl is buttaz"), illness ("sick one, fam") and random *brrrap* noises puzzled me rather. I have since learnt what these terms mean, but there were some confusing moments before that.

Anyway, as much as I can't wait to be the world's most awesome grandma (you know I'll be), I am a little wary of old age. I mean the real deal, not my 70 year old mind trapped in a 17 year old's body.

Pros of being old:
- You can do anything you damn well want, and blame it on your old age if you get into trouble
- You can be an awesome grandma and spoil your grandkids
- You can terrorise your neighbours and obtain a reputation for being "the crazy old lady/man who lives down the road"
- You have experience, and are now worldly and wise. (Maybe.)
- No one can tell you off if you buy loads of sweets
- People will (well, should) give up their seats for you on the train or the bus, and you can be like, "Hell yeah, bitches, make way for the BEAST!"
- You can dye your hair all sorts of colours/wear odd clothes and get away with it
- You have all the time in the world...
Incontinent old lady with a zimmerframe. Poor girl.
Cons of being old:
- You will most likely suffer from some chronic or degenerative disease
- You may become jealous of youths
- Everything sags. Quite literally.
- You have experience... but you're too damn old to do anything with it
- If you get plastic surgery, you may end up looking like a frozen duck
- You can't dress young anymore, or else you'll be accused of being mutton dressed as lamb
- People will patronise you and treat you like an idiot
- You may well be milling around until your imminent death

Woah. What originally started off as a light-hearted look on old age has become some morbid view on life. I'm sorry, dear readers.

But then you wouldn't want to be some monstrous Peter Pan creature who never grew old. That's weird.
Perhaps even weirder, Sleeping Beauty, who is, what, 18 when she goes to sleep, and wakes up a century later, at the grand old age of 118. (Beauty sleep taken to a whole new level there.) And some young strapping prince kisses this ancient pensioner old enough to be his great-grandmother and marries her. That's wrong. But you don't think about it when you're young.

Anyway, cheerio, m'dears, I hope you have a pleasant evening. I shall leave you with a quote from Ashley Montagu, anthropologist and humanist:
"I want to die young at a ripe old age."

5.2.11

#27 - Stats/Oreo milkshake

So I looked at my stats just now, and discovered the most viewed post is the one about Kit Kats.
Not because it's well written or funny or anything, but purely because there's a picture of a Kit Kat.
I didn't even take the picture.

This is disappointing. Oh well.
Disappointment
Kit Kat Chunkies are about 42 x better than standard Kit Kats. Subjective fact.

If I include a picture of a Kit Kat Chunky here, perhaps this will be my second most viewed post.

Or better still, some crazy celebrity that always makes it into the papers, like... Lady Gaga. If I put a picture of her in my blog, that would definitely get my blog views up...

Also, my friends and I made some Oreo milkshake and Oreo truffles (using Philadelphia cream cheese...) yesterday. They were godly.
Unfortunately, we drank/ate them all before I could take a picture, so here's how we made the milkshake instead:

NB: This is not a proper recipe. But it works.

Ingredients:
- A whole packet of Oreos
- A few scoops of vanilla ice cream as you like
- Some milk so it doesn't become too thick
- Chocolate syrup so it's proper chocolatey like

1) Put everything in a blender (but remember to take the Oreos out of the packet)
2) Blend it all
3) Try it and add more ingredients to suit your taste
4) Serve and sing a song about Oreos.

31.1.11

#26 - 5 out of 8

Pinch punch, first of the month, and no returns.

A month has gone by since I'd set myself some good old resolutions.
Let's see how well I've done.

1. Do some exercise. ü
Haha. Um. Actually, I've been out jogging once a week every Sunday, for what seems like forty minutes. I look at my watch and to my disappointment, it's only twenty.
Even though this won't get me any fitter than before, it makes me feel like I'm doing something.

2. Eat less. û
... If anything, I seem to be eating more. I love food. I just... I just... can't get away from it.

3. Work more. û
No, this hasn't happened.

4. Get a job. û
Um... So far, no... Unless... Unless I start monetising, whatever that is.
Hmm. 

5. Don't be a hermit. ü
Right. Well, this is subjective. I have spoken to humans. Does that count?

6. Stop smoking. ü
Yeah, shut up, this makes me feel better.
Oh crud. If I'd never started smoking, that means I never could have stopped either...

7. Stop making stupid jokes. û
An example of a stupid joke I made:
*End of class. I jump up*
(While dancing) 'Are you ready?... Are your ready for lunch? Yes I am, oh yeah!'
Elton John is the beast, man.

8. Sleep more. û
I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Yes, the more attentive amongst you will have realised I've only kept three out of the eight resolutions I'd made. The title was, of course, the number of resolutions I'd broken... It's just embarrassing, you know? Three out of eight...

OK, honestly? Honestly, I didn't try very hard, partly because I'm just naturally lazy, and partly because I'd forgotten about these resolutions about thirty minutes after I'd made them.

There's always next year, 2012.

Oh, wait.
Isn't that Apocalypse?! Ah, well. It sounds fun. I'd forgotten to put that down on my calendar.
I wasn't looking forward to the London Olympics anyway.

This year is going to be awesome.
Why is it going to be awesome, Ali? I hear you ask.
Well, firstly, I'm going to finish school forever. No more school for all eternity.
Secondly, the new Strokes album will be out on the 22nd March, which, incidentally, is my junior school teacher's and my teddy bear's birthday. I finished knitting my teddy bear in Year 3 on her birthday, so I named it after her. Their names are Mary.

I digress.

Anyhoo. I have a whole heartful of love for Julian Casablancas. His voice is just so awesome.
The new album was meant to come out early last year, but of course, that didn't happen. I'm so geared up for this. It's called 'Angles'. (The first time I heard about the album, it was from an Xfm DJ, who said it was called 'Angels', which I'd thought was more a Robbie Williams-sounding album name. I ran around telling everyone it was called 'Angels'.)

Here's a drawing of a dead angel that I drew ages ago:

3rd Doodle

My Year 11 mind was a little morbid. Here's a picture of a chubby little angel to cheer you up:


4th Doodle. Yeah boi.

Why is it a compliment if someone calls you an angel?
Surely it means that you look dead or something.

30.1.11

Doodle No.2

So... Has this ever happened to you?

2nd Doodle: Me: Oh my God! Oh sorry, I didn't - I - I'll shut the door...
*Closes door and mutters* Lock it next time!

Ali's second tip of the day:
Lock the bathroom door.


Alright, goodnight my dears.

#25 - Snot so nice

See what I did there, eh?

The other day I sneezed something like twelve times in one minute.
I got really angry because sneezing is really tiring, so one minute I was fine, and the next, I was quite literally exhausted. And my abdominal muscles hurt. Who knew sneezing was such a good work out?

1st Doodle: A boy sneezing.
I feel illness approaching. I tried kicking it in the shins and spitting in its face, but it didn't seem to mind.
If I muster up enough will power, perhaps I could just will the illness away. Maybe I could make myself immune if I thought about it hard enough.

Why do we close our eyes when we sneeze? When I was little, I was told my eyes would fall out if I sneezed with my eyes open. I didn't know the reason, so I've done a little research for you.
Disappointingly, there is no reason why we sneeze with our eyes closed. It's just a natural reflex, just as if you tap a particular spot on your knee, your leg will jerk. (I find that most entertaining...)

The Ancient Greeks thought that every time you sneezed, you lost some of your brain matter. Despite this misguided belief, they were still as clever as hell.

Some random facts about sneezing*:
1) You sneeze when an irritant comes into contact with the lining of your nose, which causes the nerves to send a message to the medulla, the lower part of your brain, making the muscles in your chest expand and the muscles at the back of your throat and vocal chords contract. The stomach muscles and chest muscles do the same, and the sneeze is expelled through your mouth.
See how many muscles you use to sneeze? No wonder why I get so tired.
2) When you sneeze, you shoot out 2,000 - 5,000 droplets of mucus and air, that propel away from the body at between 70 and 100 miles an hour (112.6 and 160 kph).
3) The spray from your sneeze can reach up to 5 feet (152.4cm).

So I thought I'd share some pen/pencil drawings with you from time to time. I sometimes draw in my diary or doodle in my homework diary, so you might see more of them soon. Maybe.

Um, yeah. Have a nice day.

Oh, I almost forgot -

Ali's Tip of the Day:
If you're feeling the need to sneeze, and you're having trouble, look at the light.
You're welcome.



________________________________________________________________
*from Discovery Health

27.1.11

#24 - Weight-lifting with my eyes

The title sounds rather gruesome. It's not, don't worry. I don't even think it's possible to actually lift dumbells with your eyes anyway. Maybe some Guinness World Record Holder has done it, but remember, they're probably insane.

I'm sure you've experienced this before.
It'll strike you when you least expect it.

You'll be in a lesson or a lecture, bright and eager to learn about new things.

9.09am
You enter, a ball of energy, speed to the front of the classroom/hall and grab a seat. You whip out some paper and a pen, and grin madly as your enthusiasm bubbles up inside of you.

Fine, maybe not, but basically, you're awake and alert and ready to take on this beast of a lesson.

9.10am
The teacher enters, and the lesson begins.

You're fine, you can do this. Just an hour and ten minutes until break.

9.11am
You've made it through a minute. One hour and nine minutes till break.

The teacher writes on the board and speaks. You listen to every word and duly take note.

You begin to doodle, because it's fun.
Oh snap, you've missed an important point that the teacher just said. Copy neighbour's notes. Neighbour snarls but lets you copy, albeit reluctantly.

Gradually, and quite inexplicably, the words that flow out of the teacher's mouth start to merge into one long monotonous drone that becomes softer and softer. You stop listening altogether and look out of the window. Ooh look, clouds.

9.45am
In the middle of this lesson, you begin to notice that your eyes are losing the ability to focus correctly and that your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier... You stifle a yawn and your eyes water. The sensitive, caring girl in the class looks at you worriedly, as if she thinks you're crying. You shoot her a look to say, get lost, bitch, I'm tough.
The room is stuffy; maybe the teacher has switched on the projector to show an explanatory clip of some sort and the lights are off... It's dark and warm and the cushioned chairs are oh-so comfortable... You lay your head in the crook of your elbow, and your eyes begin to close...

Then with a jolt, you spring up.

'No!' You tell yourself, 'I mustn't fall asleep!'

You hope that no one noticed your spasmodic jerk.

It is quite literally a Herculean effort to open your eyes; every time you blink, you struggle to open them again.

And so you begin to think of things that'll make you stay awake. You dig your nails into your hands so that the pain keeps you from being snug. You shift about everytime you start to feel sleepy. You cross/uncross your legs multiple times, scratch your nose, pull at hangnails, clear your throat, anything, just so long as you're occupied in doing something that isn't so distracting that the teacher will notice, but distracting enough for yourself so you don't doze off.

However, this can earn you disapproving looks from your fellow classmates.

So you resort to thoughts and plans for the future. Perhaps you make up stories in your head, like the one about the man-eating turnip that invaded London and devoured the population and only you, the superhero, could save mankind's destruction. Or the one about the boy who you walk past every morning at 7.45 and how you would one day stop and have babies a conversation with him.
Any thought or story at all, anything interesting that will save you from visiting the beckoning realm of sleep.


Apocalypse! Turnips!
You look at the clock and it's only 9.47am.

25.1.11

#24 - Go unicorn yourself

Uh... Right. Well, it has come to my attention the number of words I use that don’t actually mean anything.
I mean, like, for example, already, within these two sentences, there have been numerous occasions in which I could have done without some words, you know?
To show this, I have very helpfully put them in purple.

Um. So. Yeah.

In fact, I could have a whole conversation with a friend, in which nothing remotely interesting is said:

Me:      Hey.
Friend: Hi.
Me:      How are you?
Friend: Good. You?
Me:      Good.
Friend: Cool.
Me:      Cool.
Friend: So.
Me:      Yeah.
Friend: Um.
Me:      Right.
Friend: Well.
Me:      You know that thing…
Friend: Oh yeah.
Me:      With the thing?
Friend: Yeah.
Me:      It’s so cool.
Friend: Yeah.
Me:      Cool.
Friend: Cool.

It’s not just in conversations that meaningless words are used, I even write awkwardly.

As in all those ‘um’s and ‘so’s and ‘yeah’s… and all the countless ellipses that I use...

I know what you're thinking:
"Stupid girl, why doesn't she just delete those awkward bits?"

And my answer would be... well… ahem. Let's replace some words with the word 'unicorn', in which case my answer would be:
"Well, unicorn, I write as I speak, so shove it up your unicornhole and unicorning deal with it, you son of a unicorn*."

In that case, I would have contradicted myself there by having written unicorn so many times, which is not my usual swear word of choice, therefore I do not write as I speak... Ah well. Deal with it.

Kevin, the manly unicorn.

*An alternative version, for the more innocent among you:
"Well, my dear, I write as I speak, so shove it up your pothole and kindly deal with it, you son of a lady."

And of course, the title isn't rude. "Go help yourself."
[Woah, that took me an insanely long time to find a reflexive verb that wasn't weird (examples included: hit, clean, kill... love...)]
"Go help yourself", as in "Go help yourself to some more cake, my dear".

Go unicorn yourself to some cake.

22.1.11

#23 - A short ditty.

I think I'll write a nice short ditty,
That is meant to be quite witty,
Alas, dear reader, I have no wit -
My poetry is kinda sh*t.
I waste your time as well as mine.
To rhyme with that I have this line.
I've written this in two minutes flat
Bet you can't beat me on that.


One of these days, I'm gonna write such an epic poem it'll blow your mind.
Just you wait.

Here is a picture of a giraffe, for no apparent reason:
I shall call him Hubert.

20.1.11

#22 - Supermice

If I had girl triplets, I'd call them all Elizabeth.

Oh, there is logic for calling all three of my hypothetical triplets Elizabeth. They'd have three different nicknames: Elle, Lizzie and Beth, or something like that to distinguish them. To call them down for dinner, all I'd have to do is shout 'Elizabeth!' and they'd all come running down. What a time saver.

Lord Professor Robert Winston came to our school to talk to us about Reproductive Biology. It was absolutely fascinating, and left me wishing I'd become some scientist person. But that's a bit too late.
Damnit, what can I do with French and Russian?! I can't save the world with that...

He talked about modifying genes and the possibility of creating a superhuman. There's this gene called the PEPCK gene, which they inserted into some mice embryos. They became supermice. No joke. Here's a clip of Supermouse vs. Normal Mouse on treadmills. It's woah.

The PEPCK mouse (or Supermouse)
  • Could run for 6km at a speed of 20m per minute for six hours without stopping
  • Could reproduce at the age of 2.5 years (mice usually stop being able to reproduce after the age of one)
  • Could live longer than the average mouse
  • Could eat and eat without getting fat (I wish I had this gene...)
Supermouse!

Anyway, the point is, is that it could be possible in the future to create so-called 'superhumans', but of course, there are ethical implications that follow such a course of action...
If these superhumans were to exist, where would that leave us mere humans?

Robert Winston is pretty damn awesome. Plus he has a great moustache.

Another thought that struck me, which isn't really related to all this, was the idea of chance.
So you and I were made because the fastest sperm penetrated an egg. All the millions of other little fellows lost out on the chance to fuse with the egg. If it had been any other one sperm that got to the egg, you wouldn't have existed at all, and some other person would be where you are now.

I remember my mum talking about a miscarriage she'd had. I was nearly two when my parents thought they'd give me a companion. I don't know what the cause of it was, but if it hadn't happened, I would have had another sibling. Maybe Doug wouldn't have existed. Aha...

18.1.11

#21 - Free money!

Yes, FREE MONEY!
Now that I have your attention, I'd like to talk about something entirely different altogether.

LOLROFLLMFAOJK... Rowling...

No, I am actually going to talk about free money, and how YOU, yes, you, sitting there, reading this very post, can get your hands on some of that stuff.

I'm not even joking, it's the easiest sheet that ever existed.

... Only you don't get much of it. And it's not money, it's vouchers. Plus it takes an age.

So I came home today, and found an envelope, inside of which was a voucher!
I'm not going to say how much the voucher was worth. It's too embarrassing.

OK, fine. It was worth a measly pound. 100 little pennies. A quid. A squid. A lula. (Squid = a lula in Portuguese, I just learnt today.)

Anyway. If you go onto YouGov and do their surveys, you earn points (50 points per survey). Once you've earned 5000 points, you get a £50 voucher!
So that'll take 100 surveys... Plus, surveys come every few weeks... so... ah, whatever.
Free money!

It takes kind of nearly forever though...
I've been on since October 2010, and I've only earned 300 points... This is long.

Here's the site anyway, for, uh, vouchers, that uh, take forever to earn:
http://my.yougov.com/

There is almost kind of no point.

16.1.11

#20 - Conversations with my brother

Good day to you out there.

My brother was an accident. That's why my parents love me more than him.
Don't tell him, though.

Anyway, as I see his ugly face everyday, I kinda have to talk to him.

Here is a typical conversation with my brother Doug:

*Doug lets off some air*

*Ali hits Doug*

Doug: Ow! B*tch!
Me:    You're disgusting.
Doug: You are.
Me:    No, you are.
Doug: No, you are.
Me:    No, you are.
Doug: No, you are.
Me:    No, you are.
Doug: No, you are.
Me:    No, you are.

*Pause*

Doug: (whispers) No, you are.
Me:    I HEARD THAT!

*Fight ensues*

...Yeah, you get the picture. If it's not that, it'll be the classic 'I know you are, but what am I?' comeback.
OK, I'll admit, I'm not proud of this. It takes all my willpower not to answer back, even though it's the mature thing to do.

[Oh my God, I'm going to be 18 soon.]

Other times we both just rant our heads off at the same time:

Doug: OhmyGodyou'resoannoyingstopitIhateyouyoustupidb*tchjustgetlostnoonelikesyouanywayyoudouchejuststopgoingonaboutitaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhh!
Me:    Whatthehellwhyareyoueventalkingjustshutthehellupyou'resodisgustingyouidiotnooneevencareswhatyousaydumbassIcan'tbelieveI'mrelatedtosucharetardjustshutupalreadyYOUWEREANACCIDENT.

...

Doug: WUT.

...

Me:    Oh ****.







And slightly off-topic, but while we're talking about Doug: a while back, when he was still a wee child, I managed to convince him he was born a girl.

Me:    ... And so they sewed someone else's on you.
Doug: Psht, obviously not.
Me:    ...Well why do you think you've got nipples then?

...

Doug: *Looks down his top* OHMYGOD.

15.1.11

#19 - The Earl of Sandwich

Hey there, beautiful. Yeah, you.
I'm just kidding. Don't flatter yourself, I can't even see your face.

Anyway.
I had a really random thought.
Do you call your left hand your left hand and your right one your right because of their shape or their position?
Say you were born with two left hands, one of them would still be your right hand, simply because it's on the right. But technically your right hand would be your left hand because it's shaped like what your left hand's supposed to be like.
OR your right left hand could have a thumb that looked like a pinky and a pinky that looked like a thumb etc.

I'm confusing myself. What a stupid thought. This couldn't ever happen anyway.

Anyway.
The word 'sandwich' is a funny word.
I don't know whether to pronounce the 'ch' bit like 'ch' (as in 'beach') or 'ge' (as in 'judge').

I'm sure you all know already, but the word sandwich was invented by the Earl of Sandwich in the 18th century. He ordered some meat tucked between two pieces of bread because he didn't want to get his hands dirty while playing cards.
Oh, he didn't invent the sandwich though. God knows what they called it before the Earl of Sandwich came along.
Egmatowich
I made the most disgusting egg and tomato sandwich yesterday and I ate it all.
I put some scrambled eggs on some toast, some tomatoes on top of that, and slapped another piece of toast on top and called it a sandwich.
'Hey, you're a sandwich,' I said to it.
Oh dear.
My comedic levels are dropping. I mean, they were low to begin with, but that, that joke right there, was far below standard.
The egg and tomato made the toast soggy. I don't think I'll be able to survive without someone to cook for me.

13.1.11

#18 - Sean

I don't actually remember Sean. I only know him through photographs and my mother's stories-about-when-I-was-young.

I was three. He was also three. We met in nursery and it was love at first sight.
We were inseparable, because we believed we were in love.
We held hands all the time - even when we went to the loo.
(I don't remember this myself - my mum recounted this to me.)
We would invite each other over for play dates.
Apparently I was very bossy. We watched The Lion King together and played with my toy ponies together, because that was what I wanted to do. He was the perfect boyfriend, because he always listened to me and did everything I said.
We both liked dinosaurs very much.

Then one day, his parents announced that they were all moving to America.
I can't remember whether or not that upset me, but I wouldn't put it past myself to have just been indifferent over that.

So he moved away, and the next time I saw him, we were about six or seven, the awkward age where girls are like: 'Ew, boys!' and boys are like 'Ew, girls!'
His family came to London to visit.
He'd gotten a little fatter. I gave him a present (a dinosaur sticker book).
We went to the Rainforest Café with our families, and his mother bought me a plush frog.
I didn't talk to him. I talked to his older sister, Christine, because she was cool and knew how to skip.

They left, and I've never seen them since.

It would be really cheesy to end on a paragraph where I wonder what he's like now, whether he's fat or fit, whether he's as perfect a boyfriend as he was fourteen years ago, so I'm not going to.
Although I kind of just have.

Instead, I'll talk about something slightly unrelated but still kind of related.

I'm an assistant to a Year 3 class, where all the kids are about seven or eight.
It shocked me when I realised that when these kids are my age, I'll be 27.

Yeah, I know.
I feel so old now.

Anyway, they're adorable, and they're always so happy.
I'm not going to lie, I have my favourites.
But already, even at such a tender young age, you can tell who's going to be a complete bitch when they're older.