AN UPDATE

PEOPLE KEEP TELLING ME I SHOULD UPDATE THIS BLOG

SO I DID

I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY AT DRIVING MY ALREADY-LOW STANDARDS THROUGH THE FUCKING FLOOR.

Some Assorted Descriptions of Scenes

A friend of mine, for reasons of his own that are best left unspeculated-on, asked me to describe some scenes. As a shameless hawker of my own wares, and lacking anything else to post here, I won't disappoint my legion of loyal fans and their desire for constant updates.

Alright. Sam is sitting on a bar stool, there's a mug on the counter. Sam drinks from the mug.

 Sam has dark brown hair, clean but unkempt. He's wearing a white linen shirt that looks expensive but unironed. His jeans are a patchwork of creases and folds, and an iron mark runs down the centre of the right leg. Some loose threads poke out of a hole at the thigh. He's staring intently at the mug, like it's offended him somehow. There isn't much cider in it, but he swills it endlessly around the bottom as though trying to puzzle out a great mystery from it.

Like picking up the mug and taking a sip sort of 

 His hand swoops in to grasp the mug, his fingers clenching on the handle like the talons of a majestic eagle with a big dick. He lowers it slowly to his face, taking a contemplative sip. A few drops of the amber liquid glisten in his neckbeard. He grimaces slightly as the cider reaches the back of his mouth, then washes it down with another swig and lets the mug fall back to the cool, dark wood of the bar, fingers barely supporting it, the chintzy metal rattling around before settling back.

Sam's in the theatre, he's got a plastic cup with a straw. He drinks from it.

Sam glances irritably at the cup, projecting his resentment at being forced to pay for water onto its shiny, laminated surface. His throat parched from the mini eggs he keeps shovelling into his gaping maw, he takes a grudging sip, swilling the water around the back of his throat to try and water his throat. Finding the cup empty, he throws it contemptuously to the floor, crushing it beneath a shoe as an afterthought.

I didn't feel the straw.
It's like it's not even there. 

He grasps the narrative straw and shoves it up his nose a gesture of useless defiance, a proverbial plasticky middle finger to the inane whims of the gods of his imagined world. 

In this particular story, the character Sam has no problems with using a straw.

He sucks at the straw, puckering his lips around it, licking its juicy underside with his tongue, teasing it, drawing the sticky moisture out of it and letting it trickle down the back of his throat.

Sam walks down the sidewalk, he stops at the intersection. He notices his mum on the other side and waves to her. He waits for the greenlight, then he crosses and greets her on the other side. 

Sam walks down the sidewalk, an easy loping stride, holding a phone to his ear to listen to a podcast that he subtly turns away from people he encounters as he passes them. He holds his head high, neck and back straight, but often lets his head drop and his gaze fall to his shoes, as though his good posture is a recent affectation that he's not yet accustomed to. Reaching a road, his head whips around to check for traffic, and he spots a familiar face. Not pausing to consider the unlikelihood of this event, he lets his phone fall into his palm with a flourish, slotting it into his blazer pocket with a practised smoothness. Pausing momentarily to straight his clothes, he strides fearlessly into the road, paying the oncoming cars no heed as he narrowly escapes being run over.

Sam is eating a cookie, but suddenly feels an itch in his left thigh. 

Sam attacks the cookie with a vengeance, tearing into its soft flesh with his teeth, hungering for it, desperate for its sweet taste in his mouth. Reaching a crunchy bit, his face twitches for a moment, and his reverie is interrupted by a niggling itch in his thigh. Clenching the cookie in his teeth, he brushes the crumbs off his hands and puts his hands down his pants, whereupon he feels nuts.

So how exactly does he combat the itch?

Scratching it

Sam picks up a bar stool and carries it to the other end of the bar, where he places it and sits on it.

Sam picks up the bar stool, muscles rippling under his gratuitously tight shirt like snakes writing on a hot grill pan. Hefting it seemingly without regard for the crushing weight of its base, he lowers it gracefully to the floor at the other end of the bar, before mounting it sexily and ordering shots of tequila. For everybody. Whether they want them or not.

 Sam orders a shot of Sambuca. Sam sets it on fire and drinks it.

Gripped by an irrational urge for disgusting liquor, Sam muscles his way through the throng towards the bar. Immediately catching the eye of the sexy blonde wench with slightly orangey hair, he orders a shot of Sambuca. As soon as he catches the noxious aniseed stench drifting up from the tumbler, his face contorts in horror at his mistake. Determined to make the best of a bad job, he sets the shot on fire, letting it burn as long as humanly possible. When he finally downs the shot, it is with a sullen grimace. He immediately returns to the bar, fingers clutching £2.29 in assorted change expectantly. 

I make no guarantees that they're any good, or that they won't give you brain damage. I appreciate that this caveat lector would have been better placed at beginning of this post, so let me apologise to any readers possessed of the admirable persistence required to get this far for wasting their valuable time.

Bibling In Reverse

Found scrawled on a scrap of paper:

Hi, so I had this thought. I have far too much time on my hands (no really, why wouldn't I?), so I wrote it out into a blog entry. If you are a die-hard bible fan and easily offended then please keep reading, because I just love comment flame wars. Who wouldn't?

Anyway, so if you read the bible backwards, then you realise that it's actually this story about a magician called Jesus who is called down from heaven for three days and then gets tired and takes a nap in a cave, rolling a boulder into place to ensure nobody disturbs him. Some Roman officials take issue with this, but when they wake him up, he's really groggy, so they crucify him to grab his attention. Once they've removed the spear that was stuck in his side and given him a drink, he perks up a bit, so they cut him down and take him to a board of inquiry to find out what's happened.

However, his friend Judas bribes some guy 30 shekels to find out where he's been taken, and then gets some Pharisees to help rescue him. Once that's over, Jesus thanks Judas especially and they have a slap up meal to celebrate. Jesus goes on to preach for a bit, and everyone's so sorry to see him go that they pick up all the palm leaves on the road out for him as a favour.

Unfortunately, Jesus turns out to be a bit of a party pooper. First, he finds 5,000 people having a picnic by a lake, and then takes all of their food away before calling them all dicks and leaving, with the whole crowd having nothing to eat but five loaves of bread and two fish. Then he goes to a party, sobers everyone up, and takes their wine away. Finally, he finds some guy who's recently recovered from a serious illness and kills him.

That's all I got.

Hello World

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Abandon all hope ye who enter here.