| start the witch hunts |
[05 Jun 2024|11:00pm] |
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music |
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still x morrissey x |
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[Psst... come closer. I'll tell you a secret. I'm not him. Really, I'm not. Confused? This will sort you out. If it doesn't, come find me again.]
Don't bother commenting if you want to be added. I have fairly decent eyesight and something resembling brain cells in my head. Trust me, I'll find you. And I'll add you right back.
Oh wait, I lied. ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) must_be_pop only. But comment if you like. I keep this shit unlocked after all.
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| Shit six weeks... |
[10 Dec 2006|09:57pm] |
Oh my god, where has the six weeks gone? Things went by in such a blur I can't remember seeing it fly past me.. but of course parts reach out and touch my heart with its stabbing sweetness. Forgive me journal, for I have neglected you.
I can't believe it is nearly Christmas. When I was a child, Christmas was a time of magic and wonderful smells. That was before I figured out Santa Claus was a fake - then all that remained was the rich aroma of roasting turkey, the noxious fumes of the mulled wine, the fresh resinous scent of the Christmas tree. But of course it was never the same.
When I grew older Christmas meant nothing to me; it was just another day in the hazy cycle of needing drugs, getting a hit, and lying drugged out until it wore off, then the cycle began again.
Now, I just want to feel warm again. I don't need it to be like it used to be when I was a kid; I just want to be happy.
But first of all - I need to re-register.
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Disclaimer
(13 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| this is a big, big post |
[20 Sep 2006|11:54pm] |
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mood |
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tired fingertips |
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music |
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gym class heroes, the new one |
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Another week has gone by in wiL-world, and because like I said in my last post I might not be too active around for a bit I decided to dump everything I've written this past week into a big big post. Then I'll come back when I hit five weeks just to say 'hi', and those two letters will tide me over another six weeks. Because this will take a long time to read, I was hoping you might read at regular intervals therefore getting a steady dose of wil-ness even when I'm not there. If that makes any sense at all then congratulations I salute you.
Apparently this is the season for dying off, and I am sad to say that ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) mgoodies is leaving. Yours was one of the journals I genuinely enjoyed reading, even the old stuff (cos I'm a stalker like that - no not like THAT). I hope you come back in the future; hell it would be funny if you came back as alaina. What is slightly heart-denting is how fast another one has been created. Never fear you can't be replaced.
I don't know what else to say. Matt Rubano is hot. Isn't it funny how 'common courtesy' 'common sense' and things like that really aren't that common? I have two cigarettes left and I'm saving them for later. Just did a show at Cardiff and the next one's in Bristol, England.
And now, the random load of crap. It's huge. Don't say I didn't warn you.
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Tell me which you like best.
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Disclaimer
(17 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| blah blah |
[17 Sep 2006|02:27am] |
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I was bored, and what does a bored boy do? Create a new screen name. Because I get through them faster than the Terminator got through rounds of ammo.
Congratulations! Your new screen name is: wilstolethetarts.
Without any spaces which makes me look a retard I know. I would clap my hands like a slightly deranged idiot if you could tell me what I am referencing there, but I'll settle for asking for your screen names. My buddy list is not only a little bare, it's as empty as a vacuum turned upside down. And I'm just way too lazy to go through everyone's profiles to find them out.
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Disclaimer
(9 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| recollection is a bitch |
[07 Sep 2006|08:56pm] |
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mood |
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pretty fucked up |
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music |
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fftl + kiss me i'm contagious |
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She was fat and lumpy, her face and body swollen as if her prettier self had forced her way out and the old body was still recovering from the wounds. She was fat and lumpy, like dough that had been made out of rice flour. The smell that seeped out from her pale, unhealthy-looking skin was sour, the smell of unwashed clothes and greasy hair, the smell of a thousand lonely nights. It was pretty disgusting, but it was her eyes that really rattled me. The color of old, cold mossy stone, they looked like bitter pills imbued with enough vitamins to keep you breathing but not enough to really keep you alive. I almost wished they looked dead. That way it won't seem as though the hope is still there that she might one day wake up. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Although she was far from beautiful now.
Sitting on a peeling park bench, she was wearing what seemed like all her clothes, that were the same drab gray color of uncleanliness. She wasn't doing anything in particular, but she had a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and a bag in the other, staring at the night sky blankly.
Emma nudged me. What are you doing? she whispered. He cool breath tickled my ear, and her long hair brushed my shoulder. A shudder rippled through my insides - I used to think she had fleas or something, she was always scratching herself.
Nothing, I replied. I gave Jon a poke. Her?
Yup, he said.
So we started. Emma kicked an empty can. It make a huge crashing sound that shattered the still, glassy night air. The woman jumped. I wanted to shout, She's alive! but then she settled back into her former empty self, and stared at us dully. I felt a rage begin to simmer somewhere in the pit of my stomach. What a waste of space, I thought. Just another empty shell. Jon flashed a look at me and smirked, as if to say, Exactly.
Emma didn't catch this exchange. Wotcha got there, she asked the woman in her too-thick, treacly voice.
We had her surrounded now, and she gazed at us with a cloud of stupid panic over her eyes. Nothing, she said. Her voice was a surprisingly pleasant sounding tenor, roughened by overindulgence in alcohol. Nothing, she said again, nothing of worth to people like you.
Emma's eyes darkened. She shouldn't have said that. I saw Emma give a nod to Jon, who flicked a look of understanding and determination towards me. I nodded back. We had to do it now, I could feel my muscles beginning to ache from lack of brown. Looking at them both, I could see they felt the same crushing pain that smothered all feeling, empathy and emotion.
Like a black and white volt of electricity Jon whipped off the scarf around his neck and wrapped it round hers. She gasped, a choking, gurgling gasp, and I almost felt sorry for her, sitting there so desperate, so helpless. Almost.
Emma landed the first and I followed. Glorious blue-black bruises sprouted from the ends of my knuckles, landing with a splat on her mottled skin, then spreading like ripples on the surface of water. I was fascinated; I kept punching her, mesmerised by the marks I was creating. Somewhere in the inner recesses of my mind the words Stopstopstop were banging relentlessly against the backs of my eyes in time with my thudding heartbeat, but I had roused myself into a Dionysian madness and couldn't stop. Not until Jon grabbed me. Stop it, stop, he said. Laughing, he hooked my arms back from behind. Dear boy, do stop now, we don't want to kill her now do we. A dead body is useless. Not worth the earth it takes to bury it.
We could sell it to the surgeons, I suggested, panting heavily. So's they could, like, autopsy it and find out about it. Like Leonardo da Vinci.
He grinned. You're so cute, he said, and spun me around to enclose me in a hug.
While this was going on, Emma had grabbed the woman's bag and was searching her heaving body for anything that could be sold.
After that, we ran.
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Disclaimer
(10 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| Today's the day the kids go back to school, apparently |
[05 Sep 2006|11:43am] |
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mood |
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thinking of carrots up my ass |
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music |
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rem |
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My bandmate Nick and I had a massive fight last night. About mascara and whether old men should be allowed to wear it. I was firmly in favor of mascara-wearing for the geriatrics. Come on, just cos they're old doesn't mean they're not allowed to try and look good anymore. Nick on the other hand is convinced that mascara should only be worn by pubescent boys who don't know any better, and drag queens. Oh and girls too.
It was fierce, it raged for hours, but eventually I won. We settled it by wrestling in the dirt, civilized boys that we are. Nick's heavier than me, so technically he should have won. I admit he crushed my hand. But I fought back with as much bravery as David fighting Goliath, and I won by sneakily directing Nick's foot onto a particularly slippery piece of shit. I don't think it really was shit, but it looked (and oh god smelled) like it. And so did he afterwards.
So there you have it. It was a tough fight but I won. Trouble is I'm not so sure old men should wear mascara anymore. No really. I'm not being ageist or anything. I suppose it could look quite eye-catching if an elderly octogenarian was wearing waterproof mascara in Electric Blue or Powerful Purple Passion.
Anyway the main point of this post was to ponder over something Nick said. He called me an 'ass-wank'. How does that work? It's not like a penis wank. That I get. Asses? Do people use fingers or dildoes? Vegetables? Do they use condoms to protect themselves from carrots and cucumbers?
I realize I am madly veering off the path of decency. So I'll shut up and let you ponder this yourself. Oh, and we're touring England. It's been great, but tiring. What do you expect? The shows are nearly back to back. But it's good to see them all again.
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Disclaimer
(10 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| I am bad, I promised an update earlier |
[02 Sep 2006|11:18pm] |
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music |
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bullet for my valentine x the poison |
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I hate getting up in the mornings. More precisely, I hate having to get up and go through the whole routine of brushing teeth, showering, inspecting the injuries I may have received the night before, and the worst ritual of all, shaving. It's just so monotonous. I just hate looking at my reflection in the mirror in the morning. That rather grim look on my face, coupled with peaky shadows under my eyes and the dirty smudge of stubble around my jaw does not make a good morning look.
This morning had been no different than the others. I had had to drag myself up and into the bathroom to begin the same old routine all over again, but this time there was something strange about the mirror. A man. A man was in the mirror. An old man. He looked pretty awful, worse than I did. His face was wrinkled, but in a way that reminded me of an old apple, with waxen skin that had collapsed in on itself. I couldn't understand how he was so wrinkled, his skin was already so tightly drawn back against his bones. I could see his skull clearly.
Obviously I was pretty spooked by this.
"What the fuck?" I yelped. At that, the man in the mirror smiled, but it looked like a huge effort for him.
"Hello Wil," he said.
I rubbed my eyes frantically. So hard it felt like I was trying to claw my eyes out of my head.
"I'm dreaming I'm dreaming I'm dreaming," I started muttering like a mantra to myself. "I'm not properly awake yet. Haven't had any coffee. That's why I can't think or see straight."
The Man chuckled. "You're not dreaming. I really am here and I need your help."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh yeah? So what do you want?"
He slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. I couldn't help letting a shiver unroll down my spine. His eyes were little more than deep hollows carved into his face. Large orbs rolled around in their sockets, like a pair of dry marbles. It was obviously painful for him to move them.
"I can make you feel awake forever. Think of that. No more weary mornings ever again. You'll never feel the need to sleep. You will be more alert, your senses heightened. What do you think of that?"
It sounded tempting, of course. I wouldn't have to take a cocktail of sleeping pills every night only to curse my heavy-handedness every morning whilst dragging my body like a dead weight out of bed.
"So what you want in return?"
He nodded. "Nourishment for my twin brother and I. Of course it wouldn't come from you. All you have to do is find victims for us to feed from."
I think I must have blanched at the thought, for he seemed to realize what I was thinking. "We won't kill them, of course." He looked horrified at the idea. Or at least as horrified as a dried up skeleton could look. "We wouldn't kill them. We just take only enough to sustain ourselves... We would never allow them to die in our arms. That would be murder, and we don't get off on that sort of thing."
I hesitated.
Now he spoke in a velvet voice smeared with rich honey, simultaneously coaxing, pitiful and desperate. "Do, do help two poor old men. We haven't fed for weeks. Months. We'll die soon if you don't help us. We offer a fair exchange, and we promise you that no harm will come to our victims. The feeding process itself is completely painless. I wouldn't lie to you. Please, please..."
I wasn't sure what to do.
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Disclaimer
(6 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| jcwtf happened? |
[30 Aug 2006|12:01am] |
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music |
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Nothing. Not in the mood |
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I am upset and confused. I go away for a couple of days to play at Reading and Leeds Carling Weekend in England (it was awesome, by the way) and I come back thinking nothing has happened. Ignorance is supposedly bliss, but it makes everything ten times worse when you find out. I come back to this shit sitting on my Friends page.
This whole Pete Wentz thing... I wish it would just go away. After being resolved the way I want it to be, of course. Please don't ban him... if it wasn't for Pete I wouldn't be wiL Francis on here. Pleasepleaseplease vote to keep him in MBP. He's a friend and an amzing writer. I would hate for him to be banned.
Nicer update tomorrow - ok later today. When I've calmed down and taken some happy pills.
Edit: Also vote to keep parker the official. Fucking sucks how that happened.
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Disclaimer
(10 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| I've nearly given up on subject titles but this is a pretty morbid one when i was surfing wikipedia |
[16 Aug 2006|01:57am] |
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interpol + antics |
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Look what I found whilst fooling around on Wikipedia:
DEATH ERECTION
"A death erection (sometimes referred to as "angel lust") is a post-mortem erection which occurs when a male individual dies vertically or face-down with the cadaver remaining in this position. During life, the pumping of blood by the heart ensures a relatively even distribution around the blood vessels of the human body. Once this mechanism has ended, only the force of gravity acts upon the blood. As with any mass, the blood settles at the lowest point of the body and causes edema or swelling to occur; the discoloration caused by this is called lividity.
"If an individual dies vertically such as in a hanging, the blood will settle in the legs and pool at the feet. The pressure will be greatest as the weight of the blood pushes down. This causes the blood vessels and tissues in the feet to engorge to their greatest elastic capacity and hold the greatest volume of blood possible. This effect occurs right up the legs although to a lesser extent than the feet and is also notable at the waist.
"The blood which remains in the torso attempts to move to a lower position due to gravity, and as the blood in the waist (which cannot move down due to the legs being full) causes the penis, consisting of erectile tissue, to fill with blood and expand. This is the death erection. As long as the body remains in this position the effect will continue."
What a way to make a guy go soft.
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Disclaimer
(31 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| Ouch |
[08 Aug 2006|11:52pm] |
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music |
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afi + the days of the phoenix |
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I just spilled undiluted Ribena on myself. It looks as though I have been disembowelled. Two inches up, and I would have had my heart shot out. Two inches down, and I would have had my balls cut off. Which of the three is the worst?
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Disclaimer
(17 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| one kiss from you |
[27 Jul 2006|11:10pm] |
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music |
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radiohead + ok computer |
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Ages ago, when I read this entry by asia_argento, I was reminded of my own experiences. I tried to push them away, away and into the tiniest box that locks in the store room of my head, telling myself it was all in the past. But it's your past that shapes who you are.
At the time, I was fifteen. Fifteen and kicked out of the family home. Again, I might add. But this time it was for real, and this time I met Jon, who was seventeen at the time. Age now? Work it out - I'm 24. Add two, multiply by three, divide by point seven, aaaand you're not even close. That may or may not have been my fault.
Now that I am drunk enough to write this, I guess I better do it before I chicken out. Again. Ha ha ha. Cluck cluck. They never seem to mind if you chase them. They also smell funny. Furthermore I apologize in advance for any ridiculous spelling and grammatical mistakes I might make. I'm not retarded and you're not hallucinating. Seriously. Anyway onto the story, sunshine.
It was not a romantic setting for a kiss, much less a first one. Jon and I were lying next to each other on a dirty old mattress on the side of the room. Squashed up close, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, I had Amy on my other side while Eddie curled up next to Jon. The room was littered with syringes (giggle guess what), cigarette butts, empty bottles that reeked of old alcohol, and empty food packaging. There was also, unusually, a grapefruit on the table. Untouched and sitting alone, it had begun to rot. The smell of decaying grapefruit was overpowering throughout the room; sweet at first, it lured you into taking a bigger sniff, drawing the scent deep into the soft whorls of your brain. At which point the sweetness became nauseous and made you sick. It became our perfume; permeating everything it touched, it sank into our clothes, our hair, our skin. But we got used to it.
The night I first kissed Jon, I was feeling sore. That morning, I had broken up with my girlfriend, who'd dumped me for not caring about her enough. Bullshit, I'd spat at her. You don't know what you're talking about. Needless to say she was not pleased.
So I'd slunk back, and found Jon, who was willing to lick my wounds with a lapping tongue loaded with alcohol and drugs. In this way I managed to push the resentment into a multicolored haze in the back of my mind.
Later that night, we got tired and lay down on the mattress with the others. Like I said we were lying very close. The warmth of the packed bodies was soothing, comforting - soon alcoholic drowsiness stole over me like honey over your tongue.
Suddenly I heard the unmistakable sound of someone crying, and it was very close to me. Why don't I do something, like get up and comfort them, instead of lying here like a pickled lemon? It was only when I sat up and tasted a light saltiness on my lips did I realize it had been me crying. Duh, Will. Why I was crying, I wasn't really sure. Maybe because my ex-girlfriend had been the last reminder of what my life was before I had been kicked out. Now that she was gone, it felt as though my last tremulous tie to my old life had been severed. I suddenly felt lost - set adrift in a sea of uncertainty, with nothing to hold onto, not knowing if either Scylla or Charybdis were coming up or whether I could avoid them. I cried for my piteously naive 14 year old self, for first accepting that belt around the arm. I cried and cried.
Jon sat up next to me. Hey man, he said softly, tugging at my sleeve. I turned to face him. In the moonlight, I imagined my tears burned silvery trails down my face. I couldn't see his expression, but I was glad I couldn't. After all, Jon must have though crying was for children.
So I was surprised when he lifted his hands to cup my face, and pressed his lips softly against mine. In that kiss, I tasted the delicate saltiness of my tears mingled with sour wine in his mouth, hopeless despair in mine entwined with demanding exuberance in his.
Also I was a little frightened. When our lips parted, I stared at him unsteadily, and blurted out, I'm not gay, but he stopped me with another kiss. This one was rougher, harder - he nudged my lips open, caressing my tongue with his, demanding I respond. I wanted to pull away, yelling - but my hands and my tongue betrayed me, one sliding treacherously up Jon's back and the other between his lips. The inside of his mouth tasted faintly of tobacco, teenage defiance and a delicious guilt that coursed through the connecting bridges of our tongues and shivered spikily down my spine. Capturing my mouth hungrily, he nipped at my neck with his sharp teeth and grinned. I gazed serenely, calm now, up at the ceiling while he worked his way back up to my mouth. He bit me sharply, I felt his teeth sink into my lower lip, which resisted at first then yielded to his insistent bite. I tasted the warm metallic tang of my own blood - it spread around my mouth and smudged Jon's lips with red. Groaning softly, he smeared a red print on my neck, branding me, and pulled me back down onto the mattress.
It'll be alright, you'll see, his warm breath stroked my ear like the lightest mothwing as he folded me into his arms. It'll be alright...
Soon our breath mingled as we sank into a deep sleep, our lips sticky with blood and saliva. Cuddled up close and purring, we dreamt our viscous filthy dreams to pass the time as we waited for to dawn to break.
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Disclaimer
(8 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| Mr Brownstone |
[30 Jun 2006|10:30am] |
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+ Maximo Park + |
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It's sad and pathetic that musicians like Pete Doherty are romanticizing the use of drugs like heroin. Being on heroin is not the most beautiful feeling in the world. If you think about it, it is an insidious poison creeping through your veins, under your skin, finally bathing your heart and brain in it. It sinks its vice-like grip into your very being, and you can't help feeling unclean. It's a dirt that can't be washed away. Even when you slam your hand down and declare, 'I'm giving it up,' you just know there are traces left within you, hiding in the vulnerable folds of your body. It'll catch you at your weakest, attacking with a strength you never thought possible. You'll be yowling like a heartbroken cat for days, your face and body contorted. You'll go right back to it. It knows you will. You are, like a 90's junkie version of Romeo, addicted to being addicted.
One other thing - heroin makes you constipated. Remember the toilet scene in Trainspotting?
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Disclaimer
(13 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| Nightmare Anatomy |
[21 Jun 2006|01:05am] |
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+The Mars Volta+ |
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It was nighttime. The street was nearly empty, save for a few people left walking home, to their destinations; they had a purpose. Unlike me, just wandering aimlessly. It wasn't like I really had a home to go to anyway.
The street was lit with a single lamp. Normally there were two - two bulbous orbs gorged with electricity, glowing white-hot under the night sky. It always hurt my eyes to look at them. But tonight, there was only one. Only one sent out its bright light - the other end of the street was shrouded with an almost tangible black.
I walked down to that end. The light annoyed me - it revealed too much of me to passersby, let them take one look at me, the kid dressed shabbily in black, curl their lips in repulsion, and hurry on. Their glances flew through the air swift as bats; unlike bats, they carried a barbed message - Stay away. I gladly complied.
At the end of the street was an alleyway where the sun's light never shone. It was a favourite meeting place for all sorts of drug abusers who want nothing more than vile substances racing through their veins. Oddly enough, there didn't seem to be anyone there tonight. I made my way to the end and hid behind a set of bins. I sank down against the wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Sighing as the warm, creamy smoke filled my lungs, I fell into a slight trance while contemplating the glowing end of my lit cigarette.
A sound cut through my daze, as an axe might cut through the air and hit me between the eyes. If that happened, I would be seriously pissed off; in the same way did I glare over the top of the bin. I froze.
It was the hulking figure of a man and a woman. Normally I'd just turn my back, but he had his hands round her throat, and she was desperately struggling. The sound she was making reminded me of the time we had rats, and put poison down, with the result that the drain became choked with the bodies of dead rats - the gurgling of the blocked drain was exactly like the sound the woman was making.
Maybe I should have helped. But as I watched, spellbound, the man did something that make me very glad I didn't step in.
He gagged her with a ball gag, then lifted her up against the wall. With his right hand, he pulled out a long, thin knife. Before I even had time to gasp he'd slashed her stomach open in a perfectly horizontal line. He then dropped her to the ground, where she tried to crawl away, whimpering and holding the contents of her body in with her hand. He let her go a few feet before dragging her back by her arm. She struggled. He kicked the arm so it broke. Hanging limply, he was able to use it to drag her back. He pushed her over, and cut her hands and feet off, using an excruciating see-saw motion and tossing the seperated parts carelessly aside as if they were merely shoes and gloves. Then, in one quick fluid action, he slit her body from where her collarbones met to her pubic bone. It was so quick the blood took a few seconds to start spurting out. After that he put aside his knife, plunged his hands into her and pulled her open. Dragging out her insides, he casually tossed them all around her sprawled body, before sticking his head into the gaping wound. I heard a wet, sucking sound, and felt as though my own insides would come hurtling out of my mouth. Closing my eyes, I silently begged for this to stop.
Upon opening my eyes, he - whoever he was - was gone, leaving the mess behind. At first I felt immensely relieved; then a lurching fear overtook me. What if he was behind me? He wasn't. But I still didn't know where he is!
I ran out from behind the bins, but tripped. Looking up, I realized I was staring directly between the sprawled legs of the mutilated woman. I felt horror and disgust, as well as a maddening fear, as I surveyed the carnage.
Her body was thick and sticky with blood and gore. Her poor torn flesh looked so awful, the ragged shreds hanging. Piles of dark entrails were gently steaming in the cool night air and were strewn in a wide arc around her. Blood, already beginning to coagulate, pooled around and ran in rivers to become fresh drink for the rats.
I ran. What else could I do? I picked myself up and ran. Once outside the dark maw of the alleyway, I stopped and retched, my dry stomach heaving. At least it's still heaving, I thought to myself, unlike that poor bitch back there. This somehow made me laugh, and I was still laughing and retching when someone came up.
'Hey, are you alright?'
I kept laughing and dry-heaving, retching and laughing that same humorless hysterical laugh. I squeezed my eyes shut to try to blot it all out, to block the memory of her ruined carcass.
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Disclaimer
(15 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| Innocence is.. |
[12 Jun 2006|11:51pm] |
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Innocence is looking around and still seeing the magic in life, the beauty in small things. Innocence is looking at this and still seeing the bright lights, the charm of it all, instead of feeling a heavy weariness, seeing the long-dead, stagnant expressions in the eyes of the workers, and not having your heart hammering its way out of your chest when you see this. It's looking at daisies and dandelions, and seeing flowers instead of weeds. It's looking at your friends and family, and thinking that they're indestructible, they'll always be around, they're gonna live forever - not realizing that every minute you spend with them could be the last, that they could kill themselves before your eyes and there's nothing you would be able to do. It's looking at pills and seeing brightly colored candy, drugs and seeing something dangerous, rather than a way to shut out the thoughts in the seclusion room of your head...
So.. it's the way you look at things?
Yeah, I guess.
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Disclaimer
(1 green bottle standing on the wall |shoot it)
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| I suck |
[11 Jun 2006|01:57am] |
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You could reenact the whole of the French Revolution with the amount of writers' blocks I have.
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Disclaimer
(shoot it)
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| Puzzling spiders |
[07 Jun 2006|07:11pm] |
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music |
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+ Iron Maiden + |
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I'm still getting to grips with this journalling thing. Bear with me.
Sometimes when I have a spare hour, I start to play games. You know, like puzzles. I love them, our website is a puzzle of sorts, but it's piss-easy to solve. I wanted to make it harder, but Nick said if it was too hard people might not try it. And that's not the point of the website.
You know what I just noticed? The word 'website'. What do you think of when you hear that word? Sickly fluorescent computer screens that send out a pulsating light. Slickly designed corporate pages plying their trade. A jumble of letters ready for your brain to rearrange into neat words. But look - 'web'. Now what do you think? Dark spiders, with spindly legs and tiny glassy eyes. Long tangled threads drifting before your eyes. When you use your website to reach people, you are in effect ensnaring them. Bringing them into your world. And if they're (un)lucky, they'll stay there. Spiders are pretty damn cool - they make great bed partners when I can't sleep. They eat insects and have an eye for each leg. Wait - so do we.
Back to puzzles. I like them because there's always a result, always an answer. Sure, I could stop wasting my time on pointless games and do some maths instead, but numbers make my head hurt and my eyes bleed. Pictures are more fun. Though I don't actually like jigsaws. I have a secret fear of the holes left behind where pieces have gone missing. The gaps seem to grin mockingly at me, the jagged edge of puzzle piece acting as teeth, waiting to bite my fingers as punishment for losing the pieces.
No, I like the ones that close neatly. Like the ones I've been playing. They're the ones where you're locked in a room and you have to escape. Most are crap, but these are fucking awesome. The Viridian Room is the best, the concept is ingenious. The blue one is a bit shite, it's too easy, it took less than ten minutes. Try them. They're stupidly addictive though, so set some time aside for them.
<3wiL
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Disclaimer
(shoot it)
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| the beginning |
[05 Jun 2006|07:49pm] |
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My name is William Francis, but I go by wiL. I am the singer in the band Aiden. We took our name from the kid in The Ring movies, which by some coincidence is set in Seattle, which is where we're from. I used to be a bit of a 'wild child' - I was addicted to heroin at 14, living on the streets at 15, and planned a mass killing spree when I was 17. Fortunately for the civilians and myself, that did not happen, and instead I joined the band. We're currently touring with HIM, which is great since they're one of our favourite bands. Then we'll be on the Warped Tour which will also be fun.
Anything else? Thought not.
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Disclaimer
(7 green bottles standing on the wall |shoot it)
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