Adventures of a University Finalist

Monday, February 14, 2005

Valentine's Day Massacre

Why, oh why, does my girlfriend have to be so bloody smart and considerate? Why couldn't I have chosen a dumb blonde bimbo much like myself!! *sigh* Yes it's Valentine's Day and I haven't bought her a present whilst I sit down next to a gleming new copy of one of my favourite movies of all time: Robin Hood. So two things concern me: (a) how could she possibly remember how much I love this movie (I can't have mentioned it that many times except for the humourousness of the Hippo guards, the cuteness of the little bunny rabbits, King John sucking his thumb and the great title song... okay have managed to overcome any such concerns now), and (b) when she said that she didn't like the soppiness of Valentine's Day was she bluffing? Was I supposed to walk in the door with the a teddy dwarfing her in size? Or has she just been really, really thoughtful? Or alternatively, have I been a little bit of a bastard. Her card even has an ugly puppy dog on it! She knows how much I like them... I may be in a slight fix here. To be honest, if I wasn't so intent on looking after my money (AKA a big, fat, hairy cheapskate) she'd... still not have many presents. Valentine's Day is such a goddamn sham. I mean you treat your girlfriend like crap for the other 364 days of the year then maybe you have something to make up for or are intent on your stalking of your supposed soul mate then it's all fine and dandy. Otherwise, it's only reason for existing is a brilliant song by The Boss.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here for waiting for the replacement for the old seadog that I am currently typing this on. Yes, my laptop still hasn't forgiven me for my past errs and continues to act up so a shiny new replacement that will bring me my slippers in the morning along with the Independent should be getting here today. This has resulted in me shouting "Ooooh it's UPS/DHL/some old van" from my viewpoint above the car park and my landing buds running into my room to laugh at the small oblong boxes that emerge. Damn them.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Toastania!

Imagine the situation: you haven't written your blog for two weeks following promises of constant updates and then one morning you are revitalised by a thought that enters your head one dark, dank and rainy morning whilst struggling to get out of bed to attend what will most certainly be the most deathly boring seminar upon the planet. What could such a thought be? A plan for world peace? A great lyric? A past experience? A kick-ass recipe for chilli con carne? Or... whether toast is really a race of sentient beings that once founded a nation on a small island of New Zealand called toastania?
Yes it's true. You are reading this due to my ruminations upon the toastanians (that's they're rather inventive name) during my 20 minute walk to my department - their hunter gatherer lifestyle, their complete inability to move and how this would effect mating rituals and whether marmalade is merely a rather chunky war paint. I felt galvanised into action but now a lot of my hypothesises about toasties really being some form of orgy seem a little silly.
However, having seen that the small encrusted brown people are a literary dead-end due to their being a pile of bloody nonsense, I can give you a brief overview of what's been going on in the life of the Finalist. I've played a lot of Pro Evolution Soccer with my mates, done a lot more work than I did first term, gotten severely into Stevie Ray Vaughan, Abba and The Byrds, chickened out of performing at the college's open mic night at the last minute for the fourth time running, and started my radio show which is going rather well two weeks in. You can check out the playlists on Art of the Mix - each with the title Samplified. That is about it really. I would love to hand out some amusing anecdotes on life gained from my return to Uni life but there aren't any except for my continued immunity to sambuca, distaste for the relative blandness of Team America and disbelief that my landing mates haven't bludgeoned me to death for playing Love Struck Baby for the millionth time. Ah, the simple things in life (as well as the most intoxicating) are often the best, readers. Remember that.