No. I can't complain

It would be terribly simple to just ask you to call me by my real name. It would probably also be easier to identify with myself that way. But isn't that an utter eradication of having a thrilling diary? I'll admit it; I find this not at all exciting. This is not the first public diary I've ever had; I actually doubt it will be the last. The same goes for any other diary I've owned throughout my life time.

Shamefully I only ever got through an entire one without skipping one single page of it. I was no older than 11 by the time I finished it and it stretched over a remarkable period of two years. Another close runner-up was my actual and post-depressive diary that covered the "angry man with a mouth way too big for his boots" life-span from the age of 20 and a half to a few weeks before my 29th birthday. I still regret not finishing off that literacy job. I would have had a little longer chance to laugh even harder at myself whilst re-reading it two years later after I stopped adding entries, in simpler words, now.

After that somewhat lengthily and absolutely pointless ramble, let me get to my former point: which was me. Call me TheSocietyInc. There are several reason behind the choice of that user name which I will not delve into right now, it being way past my supposed bed-time, a whooping 2:58 am.

I am pleased to inform any reader that I am here, readily and eagerly wasting up web-space with somewhat pointless ramblings, which to me can actually mean the world. If my seemingly entertaining entries bore one to mind-numbness do not blame the author, blame yourself for ever coming here. For yet once again I will not be held responsible for my actions, but this time I am fully eligible in doing so.

It is highly unevident that I would very much like to be an author (whether best-selling or not) ‘hobby job’ job- as a cheap writer - for life, until I eventually have so much beige furry growth on me I'll simply end up being a sixty-something pensioner thing "What have I done with my life apart from giving a wide range and selection of earthlings diabetes?". I look at older people who're close to their pension years and I wonder if that thought ever crosses their mind. A few years from here. But unrealistic ambitions and goal aside, I'd also enjoy doing something that would actually help society move forward and improve it's current situation, such as a social worker. Thinking about that last statement I cannot believe I'm kidding myself that is anything but a realistic goal. I should know well enough I won't be going to University to do my doctorate, thanks to bunking off lectures on a daily basis at master degree, leading to great difficulties at getting anything right in my thesis I took at the end semester. With some good luck I'll somehow make it there. Even if it means repeating a whole year just to be rebuffed again. Or else I could always continue to mould in my current...

"With or Without You" by U2 has been my favorite song for the past two years and it still is. I pretty much live by its lyrics. I never believe I've been able to appreciate something for what it is, now and here. No matter whether it a million light years away or just round the corner, I love it and yet mentally and emotionally torture myself with it at the same thought.

Right now I'm terribly ‘naked’ - to a point of extension beyond belief. Is it really just me or does everyone get slightly ticked off when story making, script writing, or any other writings simply refuses to work to accordance? I consider myself a fairly placid person but the moment an electronic appliance refrains from giving it's very best service, my fuse goes short. Anyhow the actual problem is my laptop who have callously given me trouble for the past few weeks. Meanwhile there's trying to give my diary a brighter words, replying to seventeen thousand text messages a minute in my email over my diaries and hoping to drink my cuppa and smoke my cigarette before they go off. All of that got a little on top of me, so much so that I considered complaining to ‘Toshiba’ for not adding a button labelled "DAMN" to the keyboard.

Today has been one technological day. I'd absolutely forgotten about an upcoming article submission, and was only kindly reminded by my friend at 2pm, shortly after I woke up. This was supposed to be none other but her's job. She was the one who was meant to sit for these exams. Yet, due to lack of suitable "Mental Order" because of late party at Joans, she counted on me sitting for them in her place so her editor would at least believe she tried to have someone compensate for her absence from the submission. I didn't even consider researching, with just 3 and half hours to go for the submission. Resigning myself to faliure already; I reluctantly rode to the city and enjoyed it thouroughly since the roads was pleasingly empty.

I enjoy very much. I've never exactly been keen on being "popular" (although that happened once for the wrong reasons and once for the right ones, never somewhere in between) so being "ignored" by the general public far from breaks my heart. Back to the primary idea: I ended up wearing a white "punkish" top and blue jeans. There's nothing odd in that for you, but for me, it's probably a sign of the apocalypse of my own existance. Anyhow, relaxed as I was, I went to the city, ordered and orange juice, and ended up with a tropical-fruits nectar instead. I thought nectar was banned a few years back due to teeth rotting and really considered making a fuss (If I'd given someone something other than they'd ordered where I work, I'd have been fired, no questions) but after one sip I could have been hooked on it for life.

Walking to the news centre was slightly nerve-wrecking as I knew I was going to have to face people I'd never seen in my life before - something I'm terrible at. Trying to find the right door with the help (or further confusion) of the map was useless, since Christopher Colombus's directions to America (hence India) were probably clearer. I roamed around a tad, and then eventually found the right place. I was still somewhat early and could in no way avoid getting hooked up in a complex web of meaningless chit-chat with the other writers. One of them was actually terrificly friendly. She offered me a couple of ciggies and we talked about random aspects of our lives until some others joined in and we all had a discussion about phobias and past-love-memories. The things you tell strangers!

The article submission session in itself, in my opinion was very easy. The editor did help us out on two occasions, which helped me a lot since he tackled the only two questions I was unsure of. On my return home, the receptionist gave me a half-eager look so I decided I'll drop the color coded clothing for just a little while again and stick to basic Black.

My past four hours have been spent/wasted swearing at my computer and all the other flimsy gadgets I mentioned in the first paragraph. Until next time take care.

Yeah Baby! It's flipping 3:36am and I that means I should have gotten into bed approximately four hours ago, at least. But that's not the way the brain of a northern stuck in the middle of the hot sweltering Mediterranean functions. The brain of a disorientated permanent tourist like myself thinks : "Stuff sleeping, I'll do that later at about 6am when the eyes, just downstairs from this brain department threaten to pop out of the entire head section if I refrain to shut-down."

I've been sitting here for about seven hours in all, the last three of which I spent reading hoping I would be cast into a sleeping spell. Some people here say their diaries induce "sleeping-pill"(apart from my ownself) I'll be very much thankful. It's probably save me from plucking my eyes out. symptoms. I have not found one severe enough but if anyone ever creates something that boring

I know that the moment I'll light up another ciggie my lungs are going to go "Bust" and one more cup of orange juice is going to lead me down the cruel path of the regeneration of a gastrointestinal acid (Which I learnt all about last January in the most painful way possible).
At times I just wish I could seriously be that hero in Jenny Isaak's "Wicked Game" video. It would mean the following:

1.A great broad body

2.Even nicer eyes (I suppose my eyes are all right)

3.A beach to die for

I'd happily replace Jenny with one particular person, even if Jenny all in all isn't too bad. Still, the person on my mind would definitely fit the picture better. Lord, what am I even thinking about? The person is a relatively far distance away from me, let's; to put it mildy say 5000 miles away. Plus, I'm not supposed to be thinking of her in that way. I'm supposed to be doing the "realist and rationalist" play here. Katherine Heigl can wait. I must go to sleep. That previous paragraph proves my mind is most certainly working overdrive…

How very paranoiac that sounds. Paranoiac with a slight mixture of corniness.

The moment I ended typing in last night's entry I slipped straight into my "bed" (which was none other but the wonky sofa in the living room with the painfully soft cushions)."Top-secret" (you wouldn't know). Shamefully, Jacq switched off the alarm clock and let me flutter through dream land for six entire hours. When my eyes forced themselves open at three in the morning, despite my great disappointment, I felt heaps better, my body less weak, my mind more relaxed. I switched on the television, made myself a cheese and ham sandwich and had a cigarette. By four I was sleeping soundly once again. My latter awakening at nine in the morning was slightly more bothering. My ever so inconsiderate upstairs neighbor came banging on the door, bringing the bloody house down. Purposely ignoring him, I crept out of bed and headed for the medicine cabinet, washing down a couple of paracetamol with a glass of water. However I got migraine is still unknown. Since then, it has still refused to cease. Miraculously I was asleep by nine in the evening. I didn't reopen my eyes until it almost struck three. I'd intended to be up by 11:30, to watch a rather interesting show called

After helping Jacq stuff a couple of aubergines and making a few dozen rock cakes for the local parish friends in mentally aid, I eagerly threw myself back onto the prehistoric couch and forced my eyes shut. I doubt I'd have lived if I hadn't. Migraines aren't something I experience often, but once they set in they're absolutely treacherous.

Three hours, two panadols and a stuffed aubergine later; I got out of the house in a great muddle hoping I'd be in time for work. I made it there half an hour early. I believe it's the first time I was actually on time, never mind early. Even if Anne would win the world's greatest wanker competition hands down, I give him credit for half believing me every time I'm almost 45 minutes late for work, and I come up with excuses as the following: "It was Jacq s fault,", " It was Jacq’s fault again" , "Jacq making trouble again", "Jacq was terrible, didn't stop on disturbing me". (Not very variational but at least more believable than "I had to save the local star cat from choking on a handkerchief").

The best news since has been that he read most of the (if not the entire) diary. She even thinks I do have a good amount of talent, at writing and sounding somewhat witty. That has made me so incredibly happy. I miss her quite a bit - and I'm going to feel slightly embarrassed when she reads this. But she knows that after all.

Sitting here, half-dead, is something I've been looking foward to. Despite looking like a shrunken zombie with a sore head, I can't complain. No. I can't complain.

I'm about to leave for work in fifteen minutes. What an erroneous way to kill them I should really be doing something else other than typing a diary entry - like botherig to find my missing underwear or further more doing Jacq a favor and helping with the dishes. Yet I simply can't be bothered.

I’m feeling like dried tomato at the moment. In an oversized red T-shirt with the Hush Puppies’s butt on it, reaching right down to my lower thighs. It's actually "Small", but it would fit "Undertaker" the pro-wrestler just fine. Why nobody is actually considerate about the shorter portion of the population is somewhat annoying.

Maybe if I'd never taken up smoking in the first place I'd be around 6 foot. But thinking about that really hard, I'd not want to be 6 foot or 7 foot for that matter. I just want to be how I am. I'm tired of wishing I could be someone else, because no matter how long I'll hope for that I know it simply won't be happening - not now, or ever.

It's about time that I start making tracks, catch the train in this obsolete heat and slave about for eight hours to get a free cinema ticket. And listen to everyone taking the mick out of me for being "Cute" (Hand me a paper bag, my lunch has found an alternative way out of my body system).

I wonder whether any of you ever feel somewhat nostalgic thinking back to the earlier Sundays of your life when you were younger, say no older than ten. Re-embracing those young years of my life always sends a little chill running down my spine. Sunday used to be my favorite day of the week. Packed with friends, girls and activities, beach trips, Park trips, Historical trips and any trips. I can never remember being bored. I clearly remember my eyes and face lighting up as another plate of rabbit was produced in front of me, waiting for me to devour it. Beaches were never boring, especially when Uncle would help me build sand castles. Yet, beach trips were by far my preferred activity. Goofing around with my other cousins, Uncles and Aunts provided endless hours of fun and laughter.

Those days are gone out of the window. Sundays have become a dreary routine I dread. I'm never out of bed before two in the afternoon, aching all over from the previous nights working or drinking session. Nothing on television is good enough, nothing on the radio is comforting enough and I find my family almost boring.

Growing-up is almost an unfair process. Parks are meant to be for kids, not olders. Funnily enough most kids would much rather stay in on their computers or Playstations nuking some poor monster and watching it's pancreas fly all over the virtual castle. I really can't see myself enjoying that at the age of eight but everyone to their own. Beach trips have become just as bothering. It's too hot, with the amount and rate of UV infiltration and Global Warming on the rise. I no longer eat rabbit (or Lamb, or deer or even beef for that matter) because after learning that those animals went through heel before being presented on my plate in a friendly family restaurant decorated with tomatoes, potatoes and greens I realized meat-eating was none other but glorification of animal murder. The only reason I ever bother eating beef and fish is to stop Jacq from calling me "Vegetarian Nerd".

The only place I still enjoy visiting since my childhood days is the Cemetery. Tombs stones, Head Stones and Gothic Architecture give it a unique atmosphere of escapism and relaxation. I have met numerous people who refuse to go to the cemetery, terrified of the place. How people can fear the dead more than those alive is unexplainable. A person that has past away can only hurt one with his loss. A living person can hurt one in a million different, shrewd, complex ways. I should visit my resting loved ones more often. Twice a year is certainly not enough. I believe the reason I've limited my cemeteries visits so much is none other but selfish. Visiting a breathtaking place too often make the experience lose its appeal, just like Notredamme Cathedral. Visit it more than once and you'll never want to go there again.