Job hunting is an annoying process.
Jobs, I find, can be sorted into three groups.
1) Jobs I don't want.
2) Jobs I can't get.
3) Jobs that don't fit into either of the above, but mysteriously have already been taken.
So then I apply for jobs from option 1, to discover I can't get those either.
Which means logically, I can put everything in group 2. Technically anyway. Capital.
There's nothing worse than a bad haircut. Seriously.
... Actually no, bollocks to that. There are plenty of things worse than a bad haircut. Like herpes. But gosh darnit, it's the worst thing to happen to me this week.
... Well, no. My temp job ended. I guess that's worse. Though not really so bad. Cos temping sucessfully means more work.
You know, nothing really sucks anymore. Does that suck? No. Not at all :P
You know, I'm just not that good at complaining anymore. Comes from laying off the Livejournal, I guess. Either my standards got lower, or my life got better; either of which is fine with me. But still, I'm sure a few more posts will see me back on form.
(Do note though, my haircut is COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS)
So I'm on my way to work, and every day I walk past this billboard. It's an ad for Courage Best (Beer. For those not in the know). On said ad, it features a short shy looking guy being given the come hither by this very curvy lady. And the caption is "Take Courage, son". So the advert is telling you to go get drunk and laid.
But in the bottom right corner it tells you to "Drink responsibly".
So what the advert is really trying to say is, "Go on son. Have some drunken sex..... BUT IT'S WRONG."
Too many mixed signals. I think I'll stick to IPA. Noone ever got laid drinking that.
I haven't updated this thing for 110 weeks
That's one hundred and ten weeks! Seven hundred and seventy days! Eighteen thousand, four hundred and eighty hours! One million, one hundred and eight thousand and eight hundred minutes!
And a fuckload of seconds.
Bet you thought I was going somewhere with this, didn't you?
As a result of Valentine's day, I now have a second degree burn.
On my arse.
It's not heart shaped.
What would you tell the you of twenty years ago...?
Stay exactly how you are. Don't let people tell you to be quiet.
What would you tell the you of ten years ago...?
Be less spineless. Friends are worth standing up for.
What would you tell the you of five years ago...?
You are not going to get the grades for the uni that you want if you sleep in class all the time. (And take a shower. You smell funny)
What would you tell the you of two years ago...?
Dump that crazy woman before she makes you do it on Valentine's day. QUICKLY. You have 5 days left. Also, stop being miserable and get some work done.
What would you tell the you of a year ago...?
Damn you look good, boy. Buy me a pint.
What would you tell the you of a month ago...?
Start your essay now, son. I ain't kidding.
What would you tell the you of a week ago...?
Baliffs cannot beat down your door, and the council doesn't want to destroy the lives of students who don't have to pay council tax. Calm down!
What would you tell the you of a day ago...?
Exec applications close at 5pm. Start filling out the forms earlier.
Having owned a printer for the last few years has spoiled me.
It is not great fun to spend an hour on a Sunday searching for a place with a printer that is not freaking shut.
Stupid Benedict Spinoza and his intelligible rambling. I WANT TO SLEEP GOD-DAMMIT.
I have come up to Birmingham for resits, without the foresight to bring razors, disposable or otherwise.
After sitting around for three days, trying to revise, I have begun to look like King kong's grandad.
But I do not want to go out and buy razors, lest I am seen in this unshaven state.
... Clearly, I have not thought this through.
There is something intensely wrong when your dad's music collection is better than yours.
This means WAR.
(Though it is good to know that taste appears to be hereditary)
I just pulled the ultimate faux pas, and missed my last exam.
Fucking hell. This was supposed to be my good year.