Somewhere between Robin Hood and King Arthur himself, One eyed Odin (ruler of all) decided to make a cunt worthy of legend.

And this is my abode.

3rd January 2014

Post with 5 notes

Upon Reflection, I’ve been rather absent from here lately.

I’m not a tweeter, nor a photographer on any point between social to professional on the scale. (I honestly use my phone camera only so I can remember what I did while drunk). I do not back scroll enough to re-blog and my family is so boring I fear information about them will shut tumblr down at the source. I am not a musician and my singing voice is something once used in Guantanamo bay. The only two things I am of any use to this realm is a writer and comedic genius (from my previous modesty, you know I am telling the truth),

So I suppose the question I should be (and have been) asking myself is why am I not writing comedic gold of biblical quality, or at least writing. In my mind writing comes from few places. One of them is retelling events from your actual life and what occurs within it. Though my life is mundane I few that it’s details would also cause tumblr to shut down. Here is a brief overview to prove how boring my week is:
Monday: UNI
Tuesday: Work placement
Wednesday:actual work:
Thursday: UNI
Friday: UNI
Saturday: actual work
Sunday:actual work
Rinse and repeat.

So nothing, and I literally mean NOTHING interesting happens worth nothing, as you may have gathered by line 1 of this fucking pointless post.

The other main influence for writing is emotion, usually for me happiness or sadness but again, due to my boring arse life, I don’t really have a strong emotion one way or another, All I really am these days is tired, and not like cry for help tired of everything kinda thing. Literally “I want 7 more hours in bed” tired.

My third type is creativity, but due to boredom, tiredness and lack of inspiration from aforementioned week. I have NO creativity left in me whatsoever.

I want to make it very clear that I in NO WAY see the conversations I have with people as boring, these are the highlights of my days, the only things that stop me wasting 24 hours of my life in a mundane cycle of hell. HOWEVER, I do not wish to write about these things, or think about anything else other than the conversation in the moment. If I only get 2-3 hours of genuine enjoyment in a day I want to 100% involved in those 2-3 hours. These moments are my escape, and I do not want to make them into a cause of stress by making them anything more.

So not that anyone wanted or needed to know, but I thought I would let y’all know cause the walking dead season 2 is downloading and I have fuck all to do until it’s finished. If you read this far you have won a crippling sense of longing for the time you just wasted where you achieved absolutely nothing.

good day all, and remember though it might not be at this moment.

My wit, sir or madam…

is indeed, legendary!

Tagged: Your wit sir is legendary!prose?boredneedless updateoh dear fucking christ i am becoming antimony :P

19th October 2013

Link reblogged from My wit sir, is Legendary! with 8 notes

My wit sir, is Legendary!: The Difference five minutes can make. →

ramblememoirs:

The one time I don’t take that extra five minutes… The one fucking time.

That was pretty much the last reasonable thought that went through my head while this cunt in the ski mask held a blade to my throat. He had the point on my Adams apple, twisting it round, toying with me. All the while a “Nixon” was cutting the straps to my bag, making an effort to cut chest slightly, he made it clear I was in no position to fuck with them.

Just 5 more minutes in bed the next twat to walk under this bridge would have been the mark.

"Slice-and-dice" was all i heard in my head as my bag hit the ground. What a stupid thought, comics, of all the things that should be going through my head.

Comics!

I guess I figured I would react the same, egg them on, taunt them back, do something stupid in the hope they either kill me quickly or pussy out. But every fiber in my body knew it was stupid, I actually tried it but couldn’t move. Despite what I thought I do fear death.

I find myself begging for this to be a twisted nightmare.

I guessed they figured my bag had nothing of real value cause I was slightly aware of them grabbing and pulling on every pocket I had, where again, they found nothing.

Ski mask had the blade just under my jaw now, he was shouting in my face but I couldn’t hear a word. I couldn’t hear anything over the fear. I could barely see him standing 6 inches in front of me. “Nixon” was gone, apart from his hand coming out from the blackness trying to pull Ski mask away.

Any minute now my phone will ring, asking why I’m late.

But he was having none of it. He knew he should just walk away, find a new spot and wait for the next mark. But he was furious beyond comprehension, especially his own. He needed to draw blood, and I was full of it.

I’m still waiting for the smell of burnt toast and bad coffee.

I feel my eyes force themselves shut and when I open them again all I see is red, though I can’t work out where from.

The milkman’s bottles clinking against their steel cage?

I break my nose as I hit the ground, I can taste the Iron and I start to piece it together.

The seagulls are usually fighting loud enough to alarm me…

I feel no pain, no panic, no urgency.

My subconscious screams to be awake

I feel only fear, all consuming fear…

WAKE

And then…

UP!

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Tagged: deathdreamsprose

14th October 2013

Post with 8 notes

The Difference five minutes can make.

The one time I don’t take that extra five minutes… The one fucking time.

That was pretty much the last reasonable thought that went through my head while this cunt in the ski mask held a blade to my throat. He had the point on my Adams apple, twisting it round, toying with me. All the while a “Nixon” was cutting the straps to my bag, making an effort to cut chest slightly, he made it clear I was in no position to fuck with them.

Just 5 more minutes in bed the next twat to walk under this bridge would have been the mark.

"Slice-and-dice" was all i heard in my head as my bag hit the ground. What a stupid thought, comics, of all the things that should be going through my head.

Comics!

I guess I figured I would react the same, egg them on, taunt them back, do something stupid in the hope they either kill me quickly or pussy out. But every fiber in my body knew it was stupid, I actually tried it but couldn’t move. Despite what I thought I do fear death.

I find myself begging for this to be a twisted nightmare.

I guessed they figured my bag had nothing of real value cause I was slightly aware of them grabbing and pulling on every pocket I had, where again, they found nothing.

Ski mask had the blade just under my jaw now, he was shouting in my face but I couldn’t hear a word. I couldn’t hear anything over the fear. I could barely see him standing 6 inches in front of me. “Nixon” was gone, apart from his hand coming out from the blackness trying to pull Ski mask away.

Any minute now my phone will ring, asking why I’m late.

But he was having none of it. He knew he should just walk away, find a new spot and wait for the next mark. But he was furious beyond comprehension, especially his own. He needed to draw blood, and I was full of it.

I’m still waiting for the smell of burnt toast and bad coffee.

I feel my eyes force themselves shut and when I open them again all I see is red, though I can’t work out where from.

The milkman’s bottles clinking against their steel cage?

I break my nose as I hit the ground, I can taste the Iron and I start to piece it together.

The seagulls are usually fighting loud enough to alarm me…

I feel no pain, no panic, no urgency.

My subconscious screams to be awake

I feel only fear, all consuming fear…

WAKE

And then…

UP!

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Tagged: ProseDeathDreams

20th September 2013

Post with 19 notes

I have seen the smiles of those not yet reborn in misery, and I have wondered when they will be baptised in the waters of disappointment.
For, you see, my prophet is one of false hope and deception.  And he serves the holy spirit of misfortune and cataclysm.

I see these people and wonder how long it will be until they become lost in their anguish,  trapped in a storm of turmoil
I wonder what my false prophet will promise them then,
I wonder how long he will keep them in dismay,
I wonder of they’ll have the strength to see the light

I have seen the smiles of those not yet reborn on misery,  nor baptised in the waters of disappointment.
I used to consider warning them of what’s to come, but their happiness seemed so genuine.

And, after all, ignorance is bliss.

…And it wouldn’t save them anyway.

Tagged: prosepoetryramblememoirsyour wit sir is legendary!

27th July 2013

Post with 2 notes

Kübler-Ross Divorce

Denial
You stare in silence and disbelief, checking your glass of scotch to confirm how much your drank, counting your pulse whilst trying to breath slowly.
You walk to the bed and lay down. You try to tell yourself the letter isn’t real, just a figment of your imagination, just a bill you’re too tired to make out, or perhaps just a dream.
“Sleep” you will yourself, “Just a dream, everything is fine” You desperately attempt to convince yourself. All in vain.
When you next see her, she is packing. you decide to opt for ignorance and say it’s for a business trip, and the stress of work is what has lead to her being distant, and he being short on time is why she didn’t kiss you goodbye. Again.

Anger
Days pass with no sign of her, you’ve wrongly justified her behaviour far too long. You become aggravated at yourself for being so blind, and furious at her for not even trying. Your hate consumes you and soon every detail of her is a target for your anger. You call her at 3am cause you can’t sleep anymore, you call her just to scream non-sensical jumbled words through the red which blinds you in a different way to before.
You resent every second “wasted” with her in the house you currently sit in.

Bargaining

When you finally come to your senses and see the destruction you have caused you back track on the late night calls and beg for forgiveness at a meeting in a public place. You see her for the first time in too long as beautiful as she really is, and you ramble. On and on, grabbing at any promise you know you can’t keep and every gesture you know won’t work. You make stupid claims about an “open marriage” knowing it would destroy you. Not that any of it matters, the reply is always the same.

"I’ve heard it too many times, this is it"

Depression
That’s when your heart shatters, or rather when you realise it already has. You recluse fully living inside a smoke filled bottle. Always awake. You think she wouldn’t want you, because no one could. You criticise yourself down to the last millimetre until you feel you’re worthless. You cry until you pass out on a bed made from empty bottles and cigarette butts.

Acceptance
And despite the smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes, one day the air seems fresh when you wake up. You have enough will to clean up your  act along with your mess. You take responsibility and apologise while drinking your first non-alcoholic drink in as long as you care to remember. You attempt to fix burnt bridges when a girl gives you her number, and you realise everything is going to be fine

Tagged: poetryprosearchiveYour wit sir is legendary!

9th July 2013

Post

Charity, Mate

Sitting down on the sofa, at the end of the week. Unwinding with a beer and a show of humour, when the broadcast is interrupted with a warning of graphic and upsetting scenes. Cue the violins and piano, playing a melancholy tune as the face of a young child, in a desert continent fades up, looking through the camera to me in despair.  There is nothing to him except for the sadness and pain in his eyes. A deep, soft voice talks over the music, describing the image, giving the child a name, immortalising him in my memory, informing me of his short mortality, and his struggle for things we take for granted such as food and water. I am told how he was born diseased, to only contract more disease, to lose his family to this, and grow up an orphan. No education, no prospects.

I am shown living in a barren land, surrounded by danger, living in fear. I see the children growing sick, in hospitals that cannot care for them. Taxes of corrupt governments, never going to help those in need, causing the death of thousands.

I am shown the face of the young child again, this time a single tear running down his face. The voice over tries to convince me the issue here is money, and urges me to send them some to help them solve these problems.

I can’t but sit there and think, if it’s so bad living there… move? And if they can afford a camera, and a regular advert spot, surely they can afford some food? Stop making me feel guilty and sort it the fuck out!

Tagged: poetryprosenon-fictionthis isn't racist!or uncalled forin anywayI'm sure tim approvesand linkyand to less of an extentJimYOUR WIT SIR IS LEGENDARY!

30th June 2013

Post with 18 notes

Sean poured himself another generous measure of Jamesons. He sighed heavily to himself as he realised the ice cubes had melted already. “Better get some ice,” he said to himself, “It’s never the same warm.” He proceeded to get up and walked towards the freezer. The interior of the freezer welcomed him with a surge of cold air, it relaxed him almost as much as the whiskey itself. He grabbed the tray of ice cubes, smacked it on the counter, and dropped three cubes into his glass, then returned the tray.

Read More

Tagged: Prosefictionbare fucking mission and liberties to read fam

14th April 2013

Link reblogged from Quiet with 19 notes

from time ago →

One day I will once again write profound and truthful words from the depths of my heart to warm yours.
One day i shall translate hidden feelings through obscure metaphors meant to be only understood by you and I.
One day I shall rekindle those embers of desire, lust and doubts which i fear may have burnt out.
One day I shall write an endless piece to describe how I feel and hang it for the world to see.

But that day is not today, today I am tired. Tired of all work no play, tired of awkward, tired of guilt, and sadness and loss.
I’m tired of dreaming a dream that will never come about while I neglect the key factors. But most of all I’m just tired and worn.
I just want to come back home to you, And forget the world outside.
If just for a moment.

Tagged: This is awful guysI mean seriouslyprosei guess

Source: ramblememoirs