Don't Follow No Crowds

The jacket is mint.

I'd probably say something like that if I am some sort of weird hip-hop lingual child. But in all honesty, the jacket is a nice jacket.

Don't know much about hip-hop except that I hate most of it. A boy who was probably trying to woo me with his 'achievement' - in beating Lady Sovereign in an unknown battle. Hence making him superior than the person who no one really gives a fuck about. Or the bastard who chew on his lips with 'yew no maaaan' shit. Those are the only first hand experiences I have with hip-hop flares.

Guess I am not meant for such world, and because of that I can't live under the pretense as that would make me a chav, bling bling!

My faith in humanity continues to descend.

Shankly's Regret

“If you can’t support us when we lose or draw, don’t support us when we win.” -Bill Shankly


What does it mean when a person who assumes the title of a professional footballer with a minimum of 10 thousand quid per week in his exploding account, can't fucking play football. What does it mean when the whole entity of professional footballers appear to be the same.


Soon I would realize what a terrible mistake to have participated in the cultural phenomena of football. They are certainly no better than those thick-headed CEOs or bankers who cannot seem to do things rights, with all the cashing in on them.


Until then,


If Shankly would still be alive, he would be devastated to have procure such statement prematurely. The least footballers give a shit about is when an aficionado of anything but football takes over the world and demolishes every aspect that would entail footballing character, which consequently resulting the players to be working in Tesco. Anything other than that, I doubt they give even a slight consideration. 


Next time if LFC wins, I should not really give a shit because essentially that is what they are supposed to do. I do not cheer when a bin man carefully and successfully collected the rubbish so why different treatment for a group who cannot even do it right.


Contemplation is within reach but until then, LFC apparently still cling by my heart and passion. 






Wasted my time being angry and in despair when I could have covered the whole chapter for the tests ahead. Would even the worst player in LFC be grieving if I do my tests horribly, since I have invested my time and feelings and ego watching them being utter tools, and a small amount of money but still money. If you are the worst player in LFC and happens to read shits by shitters, then you are invited to propose a reply. 

Liverpool Simpsons/Simpsons Liverpool

Wonder how a Manchester United fan who happens to enjoy The Simpsons feels upon the discovery of this gold.

It's quite frustrating that I'm with a disability to identify them all. Guess am all fair in life. Can't even recognize the people I see everyday so why should footballers get a complete different treatment.

I'm praying hard to God that SAF is the biggest The Simpsons fan. That'll teach him for being hypocritical and just plain awful to anything outside Old Trafford.

Something completely out of the context, can't believe Amy Childs just a year older than I am. She could pass as my demented aunt at any given time. Can't believe I spent half of an hour watching TOWIE. Can't believe there's such this as Vajazzle. Can't believe I once wanted a nice cottage in Essex. Can't believe shits haven't stop rolling around us.

Obsession in Unknown Spirit

Halloween is a great festival where kids will soon be introduced to the world of dentistry. So that is how I remembered Halloween as a child.

Embodying a spirit that is beyond the nature of your own, whether it be a representation of bad creation of heroic character or an infamous entity that should have never retain the place in our minds.

Never been a part of that culture, as I am a firm believer in treats, not the trick of putting on costumes. The best I had been is a cigarette smoking blonde, the thing I am not in reality. Hence, the celebrated custom adopted by people over the years on 31st October.

Perhaps next year I could host a ritual of food and drinks. With the sound of Misfits airing out of the tiny holes on the speakers.

Perhaps I have been looking at fun from a different angle than others.

What it means to be remembered by memories.

Blood Lies

The kind that bring about detrimental effect.

It is generally accepted that lying is for the purpose of deceiving others. Sweeping some matters under the cover to avoid conviction.

Popular defense would be that lying would protect self and also others, in some form of disguise - as some matters should not be disclosed of, to preserve the belief of oneself. A mother lies to her child on the revolving situation, to protect the internal spirit. Ballerina lies on the pains suffered, as an avoidance from company exclusion. A person lies to own self, for hindrance on difficulties to be adhered.

Would we be under any authority to submit these people to some standard.

If I lie to you about my existence, would it ravage your purpose of living.


To reproach on this manner would only be imminent upon using lies to the disadvantage of others, or for the own promotion of the goods in life. Or anything that would provoke your soul.

The only way honesty could come in is when we stop accentuating our own faulty mechanisms.

Under Self Arrest

You don't need to bother
Once I wish to be lost



For few weeks, I have been seeding negative ideas on myself. Constantly acknowledging the fact that this wouldn't go on further. Perhaps it's the rambling child inside of me. Protesting every bit to attain the last pleasure. Perhaps it's just me, finally giving up on my own being - the ironic aftermath of the view I have on everything else.

With years finally catching up on my state, the uncertainty of things begin to proceed to the final reveal.

It's not a matter of being discontented.

I understand the need to recoil. The compulsion to regain memories of yourself. It is in consideration for the construction. Though fumbling skies might be the only obstacle.

I have been planning for Texas or India, as diverse as they seem to be from each other. Good food and companion. I want to know how it feels to be in touch with unfamiliarity again. I want to be somewhere, with no one I can disassociate myself with. I want to sleep where no one could see me reeling through the night. I want to be touched by the air - to slowly tremble from the gesture.

Suarez-Evra Debate

Racism is indeed a horrendous recourse for rage - even if it is within the nature of human being to preclude any ill-meaning or derogatory remarks upon the coming of unwanted situation.

I am not in the position of commenting the situation in hand. Supporting racist or any idiot is not part of my interest. However, in light of such outrageous event, I just like to point out how ridiculous the Manchester United fans are, considering their players are not the most innocent beings.

They are calling Suarez a racist, without putting any effort in considering the claim, simply for him diving around like a twat, biting a player, and the handball incident. Basically they are adamant Suarez is a racist for him having dived, bitten and used his hand on the pitch. If such hypothesis is to be concluded in that manner, we would be disappointed to see a massive crowd of racist footballer.

I am not setting aside the chances of him making such terrible and unforgivable mistake, but to jump into conclusion that he DID such is a worse offence.

By adopting Manchester United fans approach, I would like to say they are the worst kind of supporters, alongside with the club, players and manager, due to the constant twattance and annoyance brought to the table.

Evra IS a tool with conducts not even close to the standard of professional, proven by the amount of statements made discrediting fellow footballers and clubs. One would be by calling Arsenal a 'training club' and others from his idiotic rants.

Suarez is a diver and carries a poor selection of actions on pitch, proven by replays.

Other divers include the whole collection of footballers' names and most idiots call Old Trafford home.

56

Don't leave your back up against the water as the winds are catching up to you. With your lips moving indifferently. Abruptly touching the tip of my tongue. And when I am done chasing the sun. Is it part of your plan to sever my feet. To complete the look you have been wanting away from me. It is playing. Sealing my skin in you. Reeling on the feeling of you itching it away. Trapping the voice telling you. Don't leave you back up against the water.




10 years forward, I will forget every faces that have looked at me. The eyes searching for the affinity. All aligned far away from me. I won't regret erasing the very memories you had forced in me. Embedding calamity. It is within reach to grasp the fact that I will be gone. So don't speak the words. Because I will forget to remember. The pieces that work for you.

I'm not yearning for collected similarities. Because they look at you the way fools do.

Dear God of Football

It is inherent, to be burdened by anxiety.

The only thing I could do is be the 12th man, as progressively asked by the King and the boys.

Good luck to both teams, and may the God of Football  (or God) spares me the mental cry.

Prolong Infatuation

Love does not exist. It is merely a prolong infatuation. A borderline limerence, without the need for reciprocity. 

The indulgence of infatuation. A potential cure for depression. Though one must confine the boundary. To ensure a manic obsession would not be within contemplation.

I like some people but mostly believe people, in general, are bastards. Such happen to be proven over the course of my lifetime. So if genie would asks me on who would I want to be with, I would gladly provide no name. As we usually develop a new set of feeling, once the joyous days been carried away. 

Instead of wasting my time building an emotional standard to experience love, a preference in keeping a mental portrait of several beings to drown myself in emits a better outcome. 

So mother, don't fret when I fail to introduce you to a creature collecting my affections. Friends, don't let your annoyance beat the crap out of the beauty of my object. And internal structure of human, don't allow myself to be a blushing idiot when a name of the object is pronounced in public, as it is nothing more than an intricate infatuation that would probably lasts for a couple more weeks. 

Maybe I should be an animal. A cat or a goat. Goat seems like a wiser option, as they do smile all the time.

Distorted Reflection

Most would rather ponder upon the encounter of an exact replica, physically.

I have always pursue an exact level of vitriol when it comes to the name given to me. Believers accept the idea that names build characters - that it inspires action and outlook on matters. As pleasant as it comes to offer, imminently one must divulge the need for refusal.

For the past 20 years of living, my name on another being has yet to bring pleasure. I don't enjoy the act of those existing under the same name as I am. With this it is impossible for names to have any direct involvement with the shaping of a persons' mind and characters.

However, I am enthralled by the discovery of a very fascinating Martin Kelly. Not the one chasing a ball around the field with a ridiculous price tag and salary on his back, but the one who actually make sense of things that grow around his population of interest. A read up on the thoughts colouring his blog would, apart from my own testament, assist in the triumph of my conclusion - names do not entail any consequential effect on the being itself. It is only a tool of better communication, bringing about a warmer interaction.

A change of name is within contemplation anyway. Will not necessarily be a whole new fixture of alphabets, more likely be an improvement of the current positioning. Though I like the name that I have been called of since birth.

Why must man be terribly fickle and default in possessing a content soul.


I do have to point out that the person controlling (pretending) the tech Martin Kelly happens to truly appreciate my comments, which is remarkable considering none of the humans I know of embrace my ideas, or thoughts, or questions. So really, if you happen to read this, we should come into contact. I bet you enjoy guns, sports, eerie events/history, and everything else in between as much as I do. Perhaps you carry the name I have on my birth certificate. Perhaps the believers are right after all.

Three Sticks of Mentos

are bought in my dream last night. Now what does that tell you dear Mr. Freud.

With a certain football player seeking aid from me, to guide him through the streets, in order to obtain a top up.

Clearly my thoughts revolve over nonsense. As wiser men would dream on far better catch. Like riding a horse over the calamity of the sea. Reckon that would mean something for Freud.

No one wants their dreams to come true, no matter how marvelous the stories are. Especially when idiot ghosts keep on terrorizing your time of sleep.

Hate the beach but  love sands. Hate the heat but love the water. Love the sight but can't stand others' enjoyment of it.

Seeding money so I can go to Texas, and watch idiots trying to tame angry animals. And eat good food with good company.

If there's any Texan out there, willing to give me a place to crash, hit me up because seeding money isn't as easy as we all wish.

Bleeding Red?

I was asked by an odd man on the reason for the passion I have for Liverpool Football Club. Such was prompted immediately when he saw me rolling my eyes to United fans boasting shits.

and so it goes something like this.

This year marked the 10 year anniversary of me being on the ship of relation with LFC. It started rather apparent.

Growing up with boys, football had always been a part of me. However, it was more of our action and secretion of smelly water, rather than the rage and passion of indulging in others' actions. The first game I had watched was a Leeds United match. It failed to enthralled me, as I was only the spectator to a good match. I believe after a while LFC came about. Cannot vividly remember the very moment of captivity, though I can put a finger on the feeling I had upon watching the boys played. It was rather sensational, akin to the feeling of riding a pig (meaning it was mental). For a girl who grew up in Man United/Leeds United culture, one would wildly rejects the possibility of the child to developed a mind and heart for Liverpool. And so she did.

What I can very well say about LFC is that, unlike other teams/clubs I have known, it exhumed a different kind of reactions. It is very difficult to express the feeling - it almost seemed like it exists in a different form. Beyond comprehension. LFC had gone through the tunnel to triumphs, Hillsborough tragedy, the age of disappointment, and the turmoil within the club itself.

I was not the one who chose Liverpool Football Club, but in a twisted event, it chose me. I would have been another twat supporting Manchester United if LFC had not shed a light on me. I myself had no direct remembrance or collection of the process in seeding my being to LFC. A mind-boggling nonetheless, but people always say, never disrupt the natural occurrences, as it might fucked up your life real bad. Hence, I cannot really put words on how and why I became a kopite, but I can honestly admit that being a small, tiny, non-influential part of it has made me the person I am today. Lessons learned from the waves that were ridden, not only by the great eleven, but also by the souls that stood behind the men.

They preached that the red men will never walk alone. Behind the shadow that diluted the belief, there is something that hold us together, ensuring that we will never walk alone. Perhaps not in a physical form, but always in the form that cannot be conceived or felt or yearn upon. As I have portrayed a manic appearance due to the lack of sense I have put on these words, it is conclusive on the basis that it is fairly impossible to share the infusion you have admitted. It is conclusive that whatever it is that is going on with LFC, it always cling by the heart that will always bleed red.

No Oakley

Picked up a proper rifle with live ammo for the first time. All 10 shots on target, contributed to a sweet 82%. It's enough to make me happy, since it's my very first taste. 22. long rifle isn't as hard in handling as other rifles, in my opinion. Hence, my skill wasn't really the contributive factor to the result. Mother was well proud, and so was the men in the range. Goes to show how well I am as a boy, if I ever were a boy.

Ain't no Annie Oakley, but was better than the idiots who were screaming each time the shots were fired.

If I get good result for the next exams, I can trail along with the men on a hunting gateway.

Little Chump

Little chump got mad when left for a week. Little chump wouldn't be even more mad when left behind for another week. Little chump would be terribly mad when I have to go back to Uni and only sees little chump on fridays and weekends.

So sorry my little chump.

As it goes

Apparently I have Vertigo.

Never pay any attention to it, since U2 practically torture the name.

Oh No Ono

Listen to your breathing, Listen to your child breathing, Listen to your friend breathing, Keep listening

                   Yoko Ono



I am pretty sure a psychopath would say such thing. Or a demented person collecting a mental tape on others' breathing.

Not sure about Yo(cuc)ko(o) but it's not an interest of mine to listen to a person breathing. In fact, it's rather annoying/tad a bit scary. Yeah women, I have nothing better to do than listening to myself breathing, or anyone else's for that matter. Surely she'd say that such memories are pertinent, when handling the loss of the person who you have listen to him/her breathing.

I miss a friend, and the thing that keeps me alive is the sound of him breathing. His breathing calms me at times where I would long for him to be near me. The playing of mental audio of him breathing allows me to rejoice the moments we had.

Unless myself, a child I haven't have, or a friend is battling with a breathing disorder that requires constant inspection to avoid fatal occurrence, then I'd be glad to lend my ear. Otherwise, I'm not a psychopath you mental head, or a doctor.



On a serious note, this women has been suffering from neglect. Given the constant twattering on whisper or tell a non-living/intangible object something, as the object will take it to the other objects or the end of the world. Obvious clue there eh. She leaves quite a number of them, lack of passion, lack of love, lack of everything.

for more, feed your mind with her nonsense Hiyar

"...they couldn't tell me who Pearl Jam was, not a single one of them..."

and they keep on upsetting and disappointing me. Really, how can you not know who Pearl Jam is. How can you not know.

We have players as gold as 30 plus, how is it possible to not even heard of Pearl Jam. They'd probably have shits like, I don't know, shits on their music player.

This calls for my mission to possibly lurk inside their lives and turn their heads around. Feed them with proper music and not current top 40.

You dear Sirs have officially acquire the distressing look from me. How could you be so square, or chavvy, or that daft to listen to top 40 without accepting any proper music. Pfft

88

If once I could be seen in colours you'd like. And to exist in eternal memory. Walk on the endless path. Tremble to the never ending noise. If I could be seen in form you'd like. We'll be ghosts. Lost inside the faded memory. Lingering on the path we'll never find. Shivering on the careful silence. If I could be seen. By the eyes outside.

....................................

The beauty of internet. When you don't look hard enough, you'll look like an idiot. Even an internet palm reading services/wacky mind reading people could figure me out instantly.

So if you look hard enough, you can find anything you're looking for. Even the structure of my being. Quit hacking me accounts or pretending to do such because I lie when filling out the information columns. Unless you'd find my skype account, or you're that good, or you've been spending too much time on the net, or you're just mental.

Why bother looking for me. I am actually a 54 year old bearded man living in a cave with a fantastic internet connections, and I absolutely hate everyone. As Roy puts it, People...what a bunch of bastards. And you, bastard, there's a way to get to someone, called email.

Don't look for me. Unless you own LFC and everything else.

Youuuuul Neeeeeeveeeeer

Waaaaaalllllk.......Ahhhhhlooooooneeeee

It's quite obvious the amount of time some people have in their hands, especially when they're no longer tied upon the pillar of slavery.

After a month of excruciating pain of working, could now get back in the mood for Football.

The squad appears to be in a solid form, and the only thing I could do, is to hope that the look would translates on the pitch.

The boys have each scored their first. A massive Congratuwelldone! More to come perhaps. However, all good news must be accompanied by a bad one, Kelly could probably extend his injury days, and that's shit.

Nonetheless, they promised that I'll never walk alone, and after 10 years of supporting LFC, hopefully, this season would bring me a partner to walk together. Through the path directing to Anfield.

I quite enjoy this form of lame statement to be produced occasionally.

and dear God of Football, let the Gunners triumph in tomorrows' clash, as we could no longer tolerate brattiness and arrogance airing from those United bastards. May you bless us all.

Fall

The wounding sorrow
gleefully wrapping life in
Dispersing bile
on the reminiscence

Pass the warm fumes

Kiss the cold air

Hide the hands
that collect the memories
Close the eyes
that witness the bearing


...............................


G: Have you ever experience a moment when your heart just stops.
M: Cardiac arrest? No.
G: No silly! Like when you see someone you like, or the person you're really in love with.
M: That would be an alarming moment.... maybe you should see a doctor about that. Really, your heart stops and it doesn't worry you. How did he do that anyway? Making your heart stops when you see him? Is he a wizard, or he's just that ridiculously ugly, your heart just fails....

She probably despise me at the moment. Given the amount of terrible remarks I keep on throwing at her.

How could a heart stops beating when feeling comes in anyway?

Perhaps the only reason I am asking such question is due to my incapability to apprehend the concept of being in love, as everyone puts it. It is basically when a person turns the infatuation developed over another to an overt reality.

The suspension of life, for love is as dubious as it seems.

Love is when you:

Find someone you like, exchange batches of traits and interests, feeling a little more that you would normally feel for any other human beings, turn into someone a tad different than of what is modeled, embark on journeys, possibly pursue the evolution of the relationship, and die. Or you just realize what a bunch of tosh the person is and circles around the cycle again - with someone else that you believe to be of whatever it is.

Sounds a bit tiring is it not.

I am a horrible person, often found to be rude, deep in my own imagination, perusing
matters completely irrelevent to the progression of life (as people believe), unable to retain focus or control, selective in listening/hearing, enjoy manic subjects, hold on to the idea of life as an avenue to troll around while loving it, a bit blokish, can be aggresive at time, hate going out, and if I go on even further, I might just start thinking of myself as a corrupted monster. So how can there be a person to be able to take this.

Maybe I am just higlighting the terrible components, to avoid this subject altogether.

Maybe I just want to enjoy having the power to infatuate over any beings without the
trouble.

Regardless.

Is there a proper or scientific explanation on how a heart could stop when in circumstancial dilemma or event. Clogged vein? Anything? Because if I ever start to experience it, I could seek help/intervention without wasting time.

I would really like to know that.









But the truth is, it hurts to arrive home from work, at midnight, with the glimmering moon inciting awful feelings about life, to only finds a cat waiting for you to come home, a text from a network provider saying stupid things, and a bed offering comfort and warmth. Because I would be much happier if a dog together with the cat are waiting for me to be back, with Jaffa Cakes and orange juice by the side of the bed, and a text from a friend telling me there is a wicked show on the telly. That is a life.

A Jolly Season

When an admin of a footballers' page updates shit like 'New picture...Show me some love', it is within a normal expectation for this kind of response to be given away. What baffles me is that it's approved for such comment to appear. A point for me?

Some says it's Martin Kelly himself updating, showing the side of him we don't wish to see. Nevertheless, the update, on the same boat as Maldinis' is deleted. Though I'm not assuming responsibility for this one as the poster below me takes one step further, and use the word 'Fuck'. We all know such crass language is not to be tolerated by them footballers. Pfft.

So far Me: 1+1, Footballers' Page: 0.



While we're at it.


Tired of United Fans being dickheads. So do I.

But what is there for us dispute. They're the champion. They're terribly good in everything in life. From shagging old lady(ies), being demanded for occasional drug test and missed it, being incredibly dumb, cheating on wives, constant appearances for public pub brawls, drunken antics, unprofessional behaviour on and off pitch, slagging off people for being more mature than they are, slagging of other teams for the other teams having more balls and brains than they are, chavy attitude, and football.

What do Liverpool have to offer? Good football and Stevie G public pub brawl.

I'm left unimpressed by my team.

We don't encourage our players enough, in supporting and chanting for our fellow running-chasing mates like Owen from United does for their beloved teammate.



He learns a lot of the good values since settling on the bench. Why can't WE thrive for such admirable gestures.



The only thing we have is Ste (don't watch it, just google-d it) screaming 'Go away! It's mah ball' during match.

Why can't we be great.

And it keeps on coming

"Even if all fat people are the way they are due to their bad choices, even if every single fat person is unhealthy, that does not justify sub-standard treatment. How can the health of strangers possibly inspire such vitriol? If you remain convinced that
others’ bodies are your business and people must justify their existence to you, perhaps you should consider the possibility that you are an arsehole."


She deserves a massive collection of laughter for what she shit about.

We don't care about fatties, but they are pushing it when they come on our telly and moan.

The "Why did I become like this?, How did I get this fat? I can't live like this.
This is not who I am." and it goes on, and on, and on.

So Ms. Frances Lockie, you wonder why we are in disgust over fatties. It's because fatties ruin our television experience by asking mind-boggling questions, while hoping we would show some sympathy, or empathy from fellow fatties.

You become fat, as the callous woman puts it (fat is not a fucking term to describe a person you idiot) because you eat like a cow after a year of hunger strike. So don't go around asking me why it happens, ask the one holding the shit.

Their fattiness is none of our business, but they make it into a business.

The same goes with models who look like they're about to jump into the soils. We bitch about it because they go on every possible media outlets and place together their bones, to make people believe that's the only way you can be look upon as beautiful, interesting, with the chance of banging those we could only long for. We bitch about it because they are implying the idea that looking like a dead person is a marvelous choice.


So, with all fat people being the way they are due to their bad choices, with every single fat person being unhealthy, that does justify sub-standard treatment as it goes by their constant efforts in moaning in front of our faces. The health of strangers inspire such vitriol due to the nature of fatties blaming everyone and everything else for their bad choices while taking their filth to tellies and make money for it. We are not convinced that others’ bodies are our business and people must justify their existence, but perhaps Ms. Lockie you should consider the possibility that you are an idiot because nobody gives a fuck about fatties before they pretend to have been treated as worthless fucks by the general public.

Oh, must point this out, this nutter writes for Cosmopolitan. Way to go, you hypocritical cow.