solipsism

At last I have something in common with Jimminy Christmas: after months of soothsaying and weird omens I magically appear on the 25th of December. (All gifts of myrrh, or other bodyshop products, happily accepted.)

And now I suspect I have a leeeeetle bit of catching up to do...

In the meantime, Merry Chrimbles to one and all, may your day not suck as much as mine is going to.

Today I am in a bad mood. Not sitting in a corner, snapping retorts, looking pouty sort of mood; but rather a terrifyingly uncensored I'm-going-to-say-exactly-what's-on-my-mind sort of mood.

This is bad, because honesty is bad. This is why manners were invented. Today I have no manners, just really fucking grumpy honesty. Today, every slight insult or possible vexation that I have encountered (real, or imagined) has been met with the jackboot of my unfettered id on 1000 decibles and Defcon 1. (Or is it 5? Damn you, professor Falcon!)

One such recipient being my best friend. She sent me a 'hilarious' (sic) Forward about the benefits of sex, ending with the caveat 'send this on to 10 people, or you'll become celibate and your genitals will rot away'.
In the spirit of open discourse, I admitted it made me laugh slightly less than Schindler's List, and was in fact far too late to save me from a life of rot and celibacy. In hindsight, considering last year's deathmatch with peritonitis, I should have cried 'was gangrene not enough, you heartless rotten cunt?'
Though to prevent myself from becoming even more celibate (and as genital-less as a Barbie doll) I decided it would be prudent to just forward the 10 copies on. So I sent them all to her. I hope she knows 100 people.

And of all the people I spoke to today, she's one of the few I actually like.

(Tartlet, does this make me the Empress of Darkness?)

Lark, nice Lark
Lark, I am going to pluck you
I am going to pluck your head,
I am going to pluck your head,
And the head, and the head,
Lark, nice Lark
Lark, I am going to pluck you.

It's not the same in English.

Who was your best (or worst) elementary school teacher?
Submitted by Minnow. 

Not best or worst, but strangest primary school teacher would have to be Mr Moyle.

He had the kind of height that lends itself to permanently stooping; so that vulture-like his long neck and small head stuck out, not up, from the shoulders. And in all of his wiry-ness the shoulders were the bulk of him, as though under his discoloured shirt he was cultivating a hump. Seen from the side he was a shabby question-mark.

More vulture-ish still was his nose: a solid bony hook that surely stooped him even more under its weight, and left little room for a face. But somewhere between the beak and the thinning, oiled-back hair were eyes so squinted we never discovered the colour. He would doze off, sometimes, in the warm afternoons whilst still seeming to watch us. Only his angry snort upon waking would give him away.

His classroom had a distinctive smell, especially in summer, of old cork, sour leather and bovril. It was a smell that didn't belong to the late 20th century - and neither did he. There was a Dickens novel somewhere with a character missing.

He was clever though, we knew that. But it wasn't a typical teacher's sort of cleverness: all calm, even and correct. His was a sly, dry, narrow erudition that could see around corners. With him our educational goal posts were constantly on the move, so we dispensed with the text books and learnt the Moyle answers instead. And, invariably, they involved apples.
It seemed odd, coming from such a crooked grimy character, but it was apples all the way.
'Always eat an apple at bedtime!' He snarled. 'It's better for you than brushing your teeth!'
We would all nod and nervously reach for the apple we'd brought to school for teacher's approval.
He'd smile briefly before his expression soured again. 'And what about salt?!'
'Never put salt on anything, Sir.'
'That's right! And who here watches television?'
Those few brave enough to raise a hand would receive a poisonous look in return.

There would be sporadic checks of fingernails, clean necks and lunchboxes. If he found a packet of crisps, or (god forbid) sweets, he'd lean back in his chair, open the bag and start eating - pausing to offer one to his pet of the week. His lecture went that if you were crass enough to bring junk food to school you'd have to share it.
We started bringing in apples for teacher which he stoically accepted, but probably never ate. I imagined that somewhere in his nest there was a bin full of darkening apples.
If, however, you brought him 'sweeties' his fruity zeal would be instantly forgotten and he would actually rub his hands togther in glee.

He real talents lay in two things: maths (he was a master of long division, exasperated by our stupidity); and the piano with which he taught us songs from Oliver Twist. It seemed apt, even then.

I think we all knew that while we were in his class we were beyond the curriculum and the educational board and modern life as we knew it. What we did learn was how to be a student of My Moyle, and for us that became normal. Only occasionally the spell would break when another teacher came in to see ours - and whoever it was, for whatever reason - there would be that look on their face: Eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a line and the underlying hum of an unfinished argument.

Shortly after I left, the old school building (a stern, stone victorian thing) was torn down and its students siphoned into the sparkling cement replacement. The old place suited Mr Moyle with its creaky wooden floors and narrow stairs, and as far as I know he taught no more after that. I never found out what happened to him in the end, but I still remember the words to Oliver Twist and eat an apple now and again, just in case.

Edit: Christ on a bike, I've only just now read the title of this Qotd. Bloody hell.

Who or what do you really love?

Chicken samosas.

And vector graphics. And white backgrounds to write on.

so I choose life. Or, christmas trees (for now). It may be skulls very soon.

But hurrah for the new holy land for the suffering of 20six to exodus to. Yea. Pass the milk and honey.