Being Mr. Kenny

I would like to put forward the theory that Insomnia is a real place, ruled by a dread queen, whose name is Vigil, and who sits upon a throne carved out of the frozen tears of orphans. I believe it is a place that can be visited, and some day a wonderful prince will storm her terrible castle and slay her to set humanity free from her wicked clutch.

And then her sister, Hypnos, the goddess of sleep, will be loosed to the world to set free all her call upon her name. But first we’ll have to find her. For you see, as the story goes, she forgot who she was and started working as a temp in some office. This is why all admin work is incredibly boring and makes you want to go to sleep: she has blessed it, quite unwittingly, with her wonderful gift of soporific joy.

“Slay the bitch! Slay the bitch!” we’ll cry as our hero raises his sword to cut off our enemy’s hideous head.

I can’t sleep tonight, in case you hadn’t already guessed. This happens to me sometimes, it’s like something in my head just goes “Ping! No sleep tonight!” and instead of flicking the Great Cerebral Off Switch, I open the Tap of Never-ending Thoughts and then get to sit there right under it, as a river of pointless trivia flows straight through my head. Sometimes this pointless trivia is negative in nature, and I worry about a bunch of stuff, but sometimes it’s stupid day-dreams that aren’t actually all that bad in themselves.

Like I might think about a recent happy conversation, and replay it over and over. Or I might think up a series of jokes that I could tell in certain situations. Really specific situations, mind, I’m always really annoyed these situations never crop up in real life, I would be the funniest person alive if they did. Well, in my head at least.

It all reminds me very much of my dog, Nelly. My dog loves to play with sticks. If she finds a stick, she is the happiest dog in the entire world, and will run around with it regardless of size. If she came across a fallen Sequoia, she would happily set about picking it up and running around with it. But woe betide the fool who tries to get the stick off her. For then the game intensifies and it becomes a battle as to who can hold on the longest. Or at least, who can find something to hit the dog on the head with to make her let go.

And that’s what my mind is like. At 3 in the morning. When I’m trying to sleep. It just won’t bloody well let go of its thoughts, and the harder you try to get them off it, the harder it pulls back. Except it’s only hurting itself because when it can’t sleep it gets miserable. Stupid mind! It’s supposed to be the cleverest part of me!

I am going to chalk all of this up to being unfulfilled in life. Or something. I need more outlet for my incredible stores of energy, and being a waiter isn’t quite cutting it. So for those of you who pray, could you possibly pray for the restaurant where I work to burn down but for no-one to get hurt? I feel a good burning down of my workplace would solve a great many problems. And I don’t think I’m alone in that sentiment.

I was going to say something about it being Monday tomorrow, but of course that’s absurd. It’s Monday right now. For shame.

For shame!

I just read that “The best things in life are free”. What does that even mean?

Apply that to open source for a second. Imagine someone justifying open source by saying, “the best things in life are free”. Well that’s not true! How much time and effort have people put into making that open source application work? I would say that it cost them quite a lot.

Or Google. We use that for free. I must search for things a hundred times a day, its my first port of call, and everything in the whole world that draws breath loves it. Even cats, and fleas, and paramecia, and viruses. Every organism in the biosphere loves Google, and that is good and just, and so may it continue until the end of days. I am so much of a rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth fan of Gmail, I have had to stop myself, on a number of occasions, from writing to the people who had that whole lawsuit over the name to tell them what horrible little insects they are.

If you’re reading, people who set up the original Gmail, you are horrible little insects. Nasty! Dirty! Check it out, I made a picture of you:

Anyway, my point is that even Google, with its incalculably massive contribution to humanity, isn’t free. We pay for it in adverts every time we search, or read our Gmail, or visit a website that uses AdSense.

Nothing in life worth having can be “free”, by definition. That’s illogical nonsense and we must discredit the idea wherever we find it! Also, we must discredit the horrible little insects who sued Google. The end.

Chelsea Peretti writes, ‘When someone texts you an invite, you can now just write back: “No.” That’s finally okay to do.’

I disagree. But she does talk about a wonderful game called What’s Up Team? that I am going to play sometime.

Read all about it in The Texting News.

PS: I once wrote in to Chelsea to compliment her on her use of the word “spastic” in one of her posts. I said, “I liked your use of the word spastic” and she wrote back saying, “Thanks.”

Memorable.

I just discovered half-cooked pasta and let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, it is the most delicious, wonderful way of cooking pasta. It was soft, yet at the same time crunchy. My housemate had made me bolognaise sauce with mince that I donated to him due to its immiment spoiling, and I poured this sauce over my half-cooked pasta. It was erotic, in the culinary sense of the word.

Let the italians keep their al dente, I say, I will have my “half-cooked”.

“We’ve got better things to do than sit around and be CONTAMINATED”

Found on Damn Interesting: The Tragedy of the Love Canal.

TONY BLAIR HAS AIDES!

I was sharing a taxi with some straight boys a few weeks ago, and one of them began reminiscing about some girl he had once seen, and about how lovely her breasts were.

My interest in breasts ended about the same time I started eating solid foods, but I’ve always felt pressured to make some sort of contribution to these discussions. Usually I’ll say something like “Oh, I’m more of a man’s man myself” hoping that they catch my drift, but in this particular discussion I spied a chance to make an excellent pun.

I said, wistfully, “Memories… Mammaries!”

Now, surely this must be the wittiest pun ever to be uttered in the history of gay men in taxis, but I didn’t get a response. They didn’t even have the decency to stare at me blankly!

Well, let me tell you, that’s the last time I ever indulge in witticisms whilst using public transport. The last time, I say!