Making paper models of stuff is very entertaining, and theraputic.
OMG WHAT YEAR IS THIS!!!
It was…
I’ll never…
There aren’t even enough words in the English vocabulary to fully express what I have experienced. The distinctly uneasy knot in my stomach is still there and I feel every breath is desperately swallowing down a mixture of stomach acid and bile that in part, I really don’t want to remain contained.
Lucozade Alert Plus energy shot. I really thought that I had hit the apex of bilious, barely-stomachable substances when I first let the bitter taste of a Relentless Energy Shot touch my tongue. I even went as far as forewarning others (who, it’s worth noting, never heeded my warning) of the nauseating substance those pitch black phials contained.
Aparrently, I was wrong.
I’m a fan of Lucozade, and not much more proof is needed than the eighteen empty bottles of Cherry Lucozade that litter my room like short, fat baseball bats. But this thing is an affront to mankind, and quite frankly, the most disgusting thing I have ever consumed in my life. All 50ml of it.
Cracking it open, I peer inside and am greeted with a liquid that it completely clear. It just looks like a 50ml bottle of water. It claimed to be orange flavour, but no distinct smell was there, even if I pressed my nose against the rim of the bottle. A vague sickly sweet, penicillin-like scent of sucralose touched my olfactory senses, causing me to nearly gag right there and then. On taste, a mere quarter of the bottle touched my tongue, and I instantly felt my stomach churn, fighting off an instinctive dry heave as the aftertaste left behind once swallowed encompassed entirely too many bad memories. You know that salty, unstoppable salivation you get, when you know you’re going to throw up in the next ten seconds? That is the aftertaste of this vile concoction.
Oh, I drank the whole bottle. I’m not a coward, and I wasn’t going to let some B-vitamins and artificial sweeteners beat me. Still. I’m sitting here with a stomach that is angrily churning at me, and not feeling that energised at all.
Addendum: Contrary to some beliefs that this poor experience was due to my hypersensitivity to chemicals, it was not. Double-checking with a bottle of Relentless Energy Shot, I found the taste was not just palatable, but enjoyable in contrast to the positively emetic Lucozade Alert Plus.
This is pretty much everything I want to do today. Be single, happy, drink tea, and smoke.
I’m pretty stoked for Discount Chocolate Day, aren’t you?
Nice going, HMV Leeds. Nice going.
It’s probably the worst analogy that I’ve ever thought of, but it really does sum up how I feel so often. I have so many things to say, so many things I want to rant about, and yet as soon as I look at this little box of text, I can’t write it. Oh, it’s still there, milling around, buzzing like the drone of a faulty alarm clock, slowly nudging me to the edge of my already questionable sanity. But the ability to put it into words that are capable of mortal comprehension completely fails me.
It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, I just don’t know how to say it. There are so many things I could say, but rarely do. My mind constantly grumbling at me that nothing I have to say is really that interesting anyway. I guess that’s what the daily grind will do to you. Where nothing is new, so nothing more can be said. SSDD comes to mind, though I will never use that term in a serious form.
What I’m trying to say is that in my endeavour to be more intellectual and interesting beyond the normal LiveJournal entry, I’ve restricted myself too much. So you know what? From this day, more _life_. Maybe I’ll get back into photography, maybe I’ll start documenting the odder parts of my life. Either way, I’m gonna try to keep this up, rather than squandering it all on nothingness like I do most blogs.
We found him hanging from an old radio tower, its red light promising us shelter. Instead we only found a broken down shack, and him, swaying in the wind. Completely motionless, seemingly dead, dressed in a bloodied robe from where his infected leg had been rotting away. Lashed to the aerial with thick cables and pipes, a gas mask bolted to his unseen face.
Nobody really knew what the point was in dragging him down from there. It was doubtful that he was alive. How long had he been hanging there, withering and rotting? As we pulled his rotting carcass down from the tower, it was clear that the pipes and metal were all bolted, welded, or otherwise permanently attached to his body. When we tried to detach one of the thick cables jutting from his back, the lenses of the gas mask on his face lit up orange, and a strangled cry of agony echoed with tinny notes in the mask.
We all jumped back, as did the sorry creature. Creature seems a harsh term for him, but it was clear that whatever humanity was in him had rotted away long ago and had been reforged in metal. He tried to scramble back, but another metallic yelp pierced the uneasy silence as he moved the blackened, decaying leg. That bright, alarmed orange glow faded into a subdued and dim yellow. Unable to get away from us, and us not wanting to get closer, we came to a stalemate.
Remarkably, he stood. He failed to use the infected leg, but instead, the cables and pipes that were attached to his back and arms took the weight for him. They acted like limbs to him, and for that level of control, one wondered how long they must have been attached. Coughing violently, the lenses dimmed to black momentarily, as if eyes underneath the glass had closed. As the watery, bubbling and sickly coughing subsided, the glow returned. Black gunk dripped from holes in the pipes of the mask.
It took hours to clean the pipes and cables that seemed to be as much of a part of his body as anything else. We scooped and carved out the dead flesh from his leg, and packed it tightly with gauze. It still seemed to work perfectly. Underneath all that blackened sludge, glimpses of metal and more cables were seen. He never spoke a word during it all, but always did as he was told.
A few days later, while resting from travel, dim green lenses looked up at us. Like his agonised yelps and cries, the voice was hollow, metallic, but distinctly human.
“Donnelly.” he said. His name was Donnelly.
