Day 6

Day 6 of The Skeptik, and it's been a long day. A long week, really. There have been some pretty low lows this week, and some pretty high highs. Steven Gerrard, 68 minutes, high. Tim Cahill (one of the top ten biggest wankers in football), 87 minutes, low, for example. The fact that I've written quite a bit this week (not including this blog) is indication in itself. Whatever you want to call what I write (I call them lyrics, and they do have some tune to me, but you can call them poems if you want), I write them when I'm a bit down. It's no surprise to me that most of the best music is about pain and torment; a lot of mine is, I just exaggerate a lot more. It's not that I'm depressed; far from it, I'd say I'm a pretty cheery chap. I just seem to always have a big dip following a peak, and the dip gets exaggerated by how good the peak was. I mean, I've probably got deep rooted issues, because I swear I'm not normal. But I'm guessing most people do, and I don't really care. It's probably because I'm so laid back; I don't really feel pressure until about 5 minutes before something has to be finished. By then I'm in the shit, so I just decide to relax; nothing I can do, is there? So I'm a relaxed lad.

However. There are times when I just get worked up, and get a grudge, set my mind and don't back down. It happened today, house hunting. In the end, we appear to be going for my preferred choice of the two. Had we, however, chosen my least preferred, I would simply not have signed the contract. Under no circumstances was I putting pen to paper, and in the end I turned out to be right. I probably would have caused a lot of problems, but my opinions are strong enough that I would've stood my ground. I am, basically, a dick. Once I start something, I'm unwilling to admit I was wrong, at all. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. No, the gun above the bar doesn't work, and dogs can definitely look up.

I've gotten this far down today's piece without any kind of descriptive simile; I'm a little disappointed in myself really. I feel like Samuel L. Jackson must've after reading the script to Star Wars II. "What?! I gotta do a whole god damn film without saying 'motherfucker'?" He listens for a moment, then, "What do you mean 'script integrity'?" I watched it the other day, and I've never known worse dialogue. The dialogue could've been written by two fourteen year old boys with a fondness for each other, Mills and Boon, and inventing pointless words. Whoever wrote the sand/skin piece should be buried in it, French Foreign Legion style, for...actually, forever. Mind you, the vultures would have slimmer pickings from him than they did picking the holes in George Lucas's "masterpiece" of fucking up. It's a depressing notion that the film is better with Swedish dubbing (I've not tried it, but I can't see how the dialogue adds to the film in anyway), and that they wasted Samuel L. and Ewan McGregor on such a bag of shit.

That film is rather like my week, really; every up a dramatic chase, through Blade Runner-esque cities or expansive asteroid fields, and every down an Anakin Skywalker/ Padme Amidala love scene, interspersed with Jar Jar Binks wearing clothes he stole from Whoopi Goldberg's charity shop donations.

So this week, wish me Blade Runner and asteroid fields. Just please, no more badly acted Mauri extras and creatures wearing nineties Africa.