SHOW THIS TO THE POLICE WHEN I TURN BAD...

[omniblob]

hello, my lovely little w-a-s-t-e-ish chickadees, it's that time again; another blog (to go with the incredulous private messages asking me, not unreasonably, "what the fuck are you on about?").it has been over a week now, in no small part due to the lack of things that happen to me. i pulled a muscle, turning my key in the doorlock. that was nice, as it means i have an excuse for avoiding athletic endeavours for a while (i don't need an excuse, but it's good to have one. i then tripped over the cat (the cat has been trying to kill me for months now), causing bruising to the old intercostal muscles, due to a mighty collision with the floor.those of you who have to google "intercostal muscles" are the lucky ones, as anyone who knows about them will already have grimaced at the rememberance of how uncomfortable it is to do them in. how my ribs remain unfractured is a mystery to science.i would take my revenge on the evil cat (who is called "dog"), but it flies in the face of my vegan principles. shite. besides, i'd be putting it out of its misery; given that a previous owner let it fall out of a third storey window. the cat is disabled (broken pelvic cradle) and has neurological damage from said fall. awww.it's still a little bastard, though...regular readers (yes, both of you) will recall the adventures of the lucozade bottle / mobile phone jakey from a previous blog. i am pleased to report that, along with a fellow road-runner, he now holds court at an underpass near the university building in edinburgh. the smell isn't good, but they have tastefully furnished the underpass with patio furniture, stolen from a nearby store. they don't have chairs yet, but the table looks good, particularly with the parasol up. it even matches the colour of their tins of tennent's super. mmmm, refreshing!(pauses blogging to pretend to work)yes, i'm at work. fortunately, sundays are quieter than an edinburgh charity coffee-morning (though, gladly, not nearly as tight). as a result, uni work continues apace. unfortunately, what started as an exercise to write three sonnets has become an open death threat letter to simon cowell. nice sentiment, but unlikely to draw the best grades. still, it beats working, i suppose. simon cowell, the man who gets paid to slit the cultural throat of the world live on tv and drink its still warm blood. as bill hicks may have said, "a demon, sent here to l-o-w-e-r the s-t-a-n-d-a-r-d".the only thing wrong with sundays at the ol' death star is the couple sitting nearby. they're young (possibly still living with their folks) and they keep holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. it's enough to make a care-bear vomit. before you discount what i'm saying as the bitter rantings of a lonely old man (which, in part, they are), read the following;they sit opposite each other, then take separate breaks, so as to be able to sit next to each other during the breaks (whilst one continues to work) and hold hands some more! it's not right and it's not romantic. i'm a believer in love (as you all know) but this is gut-wrenchingly wrong. i also suspect that they share at least one parent.putting that to one side, remember - i love you all (just not in that puke-worthy, vaguely incestuous kind of way)i do. i love you.steve x.