Thuggin' and buggin'

'sup, wordmeisters?

I often wonder why I'm awake at midnight, downing caffeine-laden Coke Zero and boppin' to the beats of the Back to the Future theme, but I can't formulate an answer other than all the above RAWK LIKE DA HAWK.

I also wonder why I start BLOGs with nothing to say? Hmm, that's even more dubious still. Regardless, sleep will be hard to come by tonight, seeing how the Titans are squaring off against those nasty Colts on the 'morrow. How I hate those Dolts! What is it, six hours away? Why bother sleeping now? I have Paul's class for that.
Now Robot Rock is thumping out on my computer speaker, and I've just got visions of Vince running through the stumbling Indy defense, weaving and dodging like a champ. I actually pick the Titans in this one (not out of homerism, but a good feeling); if the Titans win they'll win it close (3 points and under), if the Colts win, it'll be by a lot (2 TD +). And if the latter happens, I'll be put in an even fouler frame of mind for the idiotic events I'll be undertaking tomorrow at uni.

Regardless, I may as well look onward towards my week, a fuzzy little thing where I haven't the foggiest clue what I've got planned, though I'm fairly sure plans have been made on my behalf once again, as per usual. I really need a personal planner or a wee little diary to note all my important arrangements. It's a weird concept for me, two years ago I had nothing but time, now I'm a man in high demand it seems. Not for acting reasons tragically, but simply as room filler for 21st birthday parties and helping paint sets. I work pretty hard on set painting I'll have you know, even though I'm a crummy painter.

It's a whole lotta fun just garbling out any old crap that comes to mind, back in the day any personal stuff I might've written would've been carefully screened and edited so that it sounded good, nowadays it's just a steady flow of nonsense, one Coke Zero at a time. Speaking of nonsense, allow me to dip into the Tony archives and unearth something I BLOGged out on my MSN space that nobody read (other than Atcho, because he's a darling).

This one was spouted on the 6th of January 2007, entitled 'Crappy teenage angst-like ramblings'

Look at that big, blue space right there. So empty. So unloved. I guess that means that this BLOG entry is, so far, not started. I realise that in order to remedy this, I'm required to buff it up with words. Wonderful, wonderful words... Crap, I got none. Right, let's go through my thoughts as they come, eh?

I dwell on my past fairly often, simply because it's been there and dwelling on my future sucks ass because I could be entirely wrong; for all I know I'm destined to become a human cannonball or mad scientist. It doesn't take a genius to realise that I've done more in 18 years than a fair few people do their whole lives. I've travelled, I've been through all the dramas characteristic of youth, I've been uprooted from the country I knew and had my whole world restarted from scratch. Everyone likes to think that their lives had been more interesting than they really are, and I suppose I'm no different. Does anyone care that my mom doesn't live in the same country as me? That my father went from being the son of a street-sweeper to being a one-time millionaire? That, for all intents and purposes I've tried a lot of things and never really succeeded at one? Doubtful.
That's the thing about being human, you think you're fascinating. They say the world doesn't revolve around you, but Christ, it really does, y'know. My world revolves around me, your world revolves around you, Larry from across the street's world revolves around Larry from across the street. I cease to exist, so does my world, the only world I know, thereby technically speaking, the only world there is. People are all the same, whether they love themselves, hate themselves or are decidedly self-indifferent, they adore the idea that there's a reason for being there. Personally, I am of the mindset that I've got to succeed, people have to know who I am, I've got to be remembered when I'm long gone. My life is the only thing I'm ever going to do, if it came and went without anyone taking notice, then once I'm gone I'm gone. And that truly sucks ass.

I'm pretty terrified of death. Life is so real, so... everywhere. I'd love to believe there's something after this, but what if there isn't, huh? Then I won't care. For all eternity, I won't care. I'm a corpse in the ground, I'm ashes in the wind, I'm... dead. My body's still there, it's just broken, in a sense. I can't comprehend that idea of disappearing from existence, to never ponder or question or feel ever again, to be there for every moment, yet not know it. Alright, this is just getting convoluted.

I really wish I was one of those popular BLOGgers, the kind who has like hundreds of online friends and dozens of comments. Sucks that I can't even be popular on the Internet. Ahh, the Internet presence... that ever-shifting, ever-lurking beast of a thousand faces... People don't want to read the BLOG of an 18-year-old Melbourne guy? A new e-mail address, a change of typing and a couple false photos and voila! I'm a confused lesbian trying to find her way through the big scary world. People love knowing about the lives of others, of course, it's obviously just better when it's someone unique. People watch reality television... they're watching the lives of others... and though random tasks are thrown in for the contestants to break the monotony, people would still watch if it was simply a life onscreen, albeit a dramatic one. Our own lives aren't sufficient, we want to observe and mock the lives of others, the people onscreen who are as real as us, but so distant we aren't obligated to really care. Christ, reality television. What a joke. It's in the same vain (vein?) as magazines that amass photos of celebrities walking down the street. We get offended when people invade our privacy, but don't give a shit about doing the same to celebrities, simply because 'they're in the business so they're asking for it', umm, no... They're in the business because they either love what they're doing or just want a lot of money, they don't need your idiot photographers and 'witty' observations about the kind of shoes they're wearing. It's shit like that that links to the image-conscious society we live in. We want to be seen as the very best at everything, or at least, the same as everyone else so that our flaws are hidden.

Why do we get sucked into this void of anonymity? Why can't we accept who we are, others be damned? We clamour to be accepted, like bugs to a light in the dark. We bang our heads and get dizzy, reaching for this perfection that none of us will ever claim, but do we learn? Nope, we want to be thinner or smarter or more popular. We would love to be ourselves, but only if ourselves happen to be perfect. Inevitably, that ever-changing definition of perfection will change and we will all scramble to pick up on whatever falls under that new classification. We're like lemmings, only we don't get a delightful video game series based on us.

Christ, what in the hell am I doing, anyway? Likelihood is my computer will crash before this gets posted, or someone will read this and conclude that... well, this is pretty damned weird. I guess I just needed to type. I haven't done that in a year, I kinda missed typing for no reason.