Hello, another bunch of random off the top of me hed cause Im bored crap for me to post.

Robert, the smithsonian blacksmith, eyed his prize non-chalantly. The dapper young thing with the mincey grin eyed him head to toe, as she sidled her way through the pressing through of people. He sprinted after her.


I listened to CD’s today. I listened to the music going ‘boom, boom’ in my ears, while I sat and played pool with the trout inhabiting the Leath. I just was, and for a moment, it was my birthday, with a little ‘da-da-dumm’ and the crescendo in the music spurred my thoughts off at a gallop. The people passing by don’t smell the flowers. They tred on them. The poor little things, I’d like to go throw some bark at them, make them respect what is all around them, rather than just the cigarette they clasp in their grubby little first-year hands, huddling in masses like shoals of fish. Lucky for them it is safety in numbers, maybe not with an uzi. Then I think the motto becomes every health sci for himself. But they would all scatter, and tred on all the lovely blossoms that do-not lie in the direct path between their science library sanctum and the lecture buildings. What we need is a fence, so that the tapered mayhem many people often refer to as a ‘sence of fashion’ could be shielded from eyes that are already bloodshot and sore, from witnessing the blatant disregard for the beautiful blossoms. It all comes down to lectures, I would guess. Put them all in one big building, and save the beauty for the rest of us.

Four tall men, boards in hand, shelter from the cutting breeze. Don’t tell them no, those cigarettes kill, just say hello in a warm manner, and maybe they will flee from the cozier environs provided free of charge with every cigarette pack purchased. But I would not hold out too much hope. When there is no smoke screen to hide behind, pretending to the world that you are something else, everything seems so sharp and clear, almost cutting. Like the music permeating the atmosphere about me, arising, as I spy, from the crusty old building where the music students lie. It quivers it dances, its sweet and bitter, im a lover, a painter, a dead man, the hunter, I am a bee on a treck through the Andes, picked up and tossed about by great gusts of snow-melt air, till atlast I glide free and graceful on the wings of a condor. To sail the seven seas, like a pirate, with a wooden leg. Stride mixed with thump. Arrr, mixed with clomps. I would like that a lot. A bastion of eternal freedom, scaling the walls of human experience, with a load of cannon to bring down stray vessels, not unlike, those four tall men.

Look at me, in a puddle, all muddled and wavering, while the wind whips up the hair. Never to impress the ladies like this. With hiccups and burlap sacks, to hide my inner poverty in. I could look at them, see straight through their eyes, into nothing. Nothing at all, but the next lecture or the next party. Cant stand to watch, all the swirling vibrancy that can be so representative of the whole. But I suppose it is true, that the world is round, I must return to the beginning wherever I venture to. But the trout have given up on our game, as I have no more bread with which to sustain their interest in the pittance affairs of humanity.

The leaves of the page line up in a strange way, while the saber-toothed man in the lolly-pop stand sells sweets to minors at a fraction of the price of fame. That is the ticket though. Behind all these numbers, im told, is a world of meaning for me to inquire, and to be inspired, with the wretched self worth magazines and high payload electronic gadgets I can use to interpret the swirl of nothing written on my page. It would all be a waste of time, a persute of drunken hoolagens, if it wernt for the internal assessment marks, chasing me through the nine-hells of exhaustion. Tommorow is another day, in which to be clean, in which to read another book, searching for the truth inside these numbers and wonder what the heck is going on…..

Don’t look at me funny. You are all laughs and clowns, but I saw the darting glance. He says to me. But I didn’t, I would never. I respect privacy, so leave me alone…


Take us in captain. The jumbo elephant comes down. I am not here, complains the captain. Well too bad says the first mate, this is mutiny. And stage school is started by the random pitterpattering raindrops on me windersill.


Harry the-crab had a big lunch of salamander. It is not good for crabs. He smiles, in a chitinous way, like the way his old man did before he passed on. Run over in his prime by a gang of confederate seals bent on revenge against the Lobster don. And Harry ducks under again, to begin hiding and waiting for his chance……


I am a space.
All these are people, how could you go in there?
I am a SPACE
But they all died because of you! You are not a nice person
I am A space
When the moonbeams come down, you will be locked up in a room with no doors.
How will I get in there?
You are a space.


X is for narrative locking the plates down. P is for the small man under my pillow. H is for Harry in his nice little hidey hole. And M is for me about to bed. Don’t forget S, Sally, the driver man, drives me wherever, I wanna go. To the moon, or to Venus, or to Alabama, or some other planet, it don’t matter where. L is for the big old potato that hates me because I ate his brother. E is for the soup I never let go. T is for the time it is 10:39. And Z is for nothing because it is the last letter in the alphabet, and therefore racially discriminated against, and although he has a great resume, is unwanted in the entertainment industry.

Beep. Beep Beep.

Timings all the timing.
It seems today, 2 hours from now, that 2 hours can be a year, 2 hours before?
Follow me?
Thought not.

Anyhoo,
I'd just like to say, that, although it feels as glitter-free a day as your average tuesday when your zoology lab was short, but the wind kept changing so you had to bike all the way there and back against a rather gusty wee blighter, it is actually the eve-of my nineteenth. Yes indeedy, 2 hours from now I shall oficially be 19 years of age, firmly established survivor of the transition to adulthood.
Joy.
I am now writing this, wondering if I will feel different tommorrow. Likely hood is not. Labs and lectures as per norm.
Proabably no party, as I am too plain lazy to organise one and everybody is busy.

YEs.
GOtta go now, and email my old boss for a nice wee reference before he leaves Mc-D's in Masterton, leaving me in the dust.

It would please me now t obe waxing lyrical as of now, but it is not in me today.
I am thinking of typing and seeing what happens.

Greetings all you wonderful people who read this writings , extra-specially those i have not greeted previously. Feel free to comment on anything you like in the wee commenty box thingies link-and-such. I dont mind mindless drivel or anything, im well aquanted with the stuff.

Anyhoo, enough with my pitch-to-make-matthew-feel-good-because-people-comment-on-his-commenter-thingie.
A starting note, cracked 10 comments not too long ago, for the first time. Yay for me.

Ahh, where to begin, where to begin?
Easy come, easy go.
I came, i went.
Ahh, but where you ask?
To the dinosaurs!
Where the toothed ones lie, set my foot did i.

Yess indeedy, this last friday me, good-friend Alex, and his delightful lab partner, with the classic name of Martha, tiptoed our little way across campus, across road, across footpath, through door, and into the museum. Upstairs there was a little stall, for lack of a better word in my brain, where we payed the million dollar (8) fee, and entered the blacken curtain of doom. Inside did we see? Yes, bones we saw I say, bones to make a grown man fetch his hands through his hair and whilstle soothingly to himself. Chinese bones. All dinosaurs there , all eleven, were from China, or therabaouts.

We actually acsked them, and one or two came from mongolia, as a matter of fact, but we let that slide. They were gino-monstro-hugo-magno-tastically huge. All teeth, bone, and empty staring eye-socket, in a dark, haunting environ. It was FAN-tastic. There we stayed, for 2 and a half hours, amusing ourselfs in meaningless speculations and random chitchatter having a positively spantabulous time.

One exhibit, however, was a bit of a letdown. It was simply titled 'fish'. "Them ain't not dino's!", I pointed out. The supervisory, helpy person agreed. Further along, in the fine print, it read that they were fresh wawter fish. And I said HAH, said I. how could they possibly know? these here fish have been dead for positively ages, and are completely stone-ised. They said it was tellable by the scale patterns. Then I said"How do you know that these fish were not the origional sea-water variety style fish before moving from the midst of the oceans broad. .. Needless to say, they had no answer.

We could not (ie- were not allowed to) touch the much-beloved dinosaurs, no matter how we tried thinking up manyfold 'accidental' movements that could accomplish such an endeavor.

And then it was gone. The wonderful slant-eyed dinos (and slant-eyed they were, according to the accompanying sketches) were but a memory of a memory, as we dragged our soul-weary feet on their ways back to our homes.

I was very hungry, having not eaten since 8:30 AM when I had breakfast (it being then 5:30 PM). So i went home, and bought F&C on the way home. Tasty tastic.




Following the delightfully relaxing friday afternoon, I was beset upon by a large and angry lab report due on monday that I was supposed to have started ages beforehand. Well, under my careful tutelage, the report blossomed into the monstrous beauty reminiscent of the dinosaurs i had seen only a few days before. And standing at an impressive 18 pages (3200 words), I am currently feeling like a smurf that has just climbed mount everest with edmund hillary, having been the stand-in replacement when Tenzing came down with a cold 2 days before the climb had begun, and having to carry all the gear. Smiles all round i should think.

Now I must leave you all, as yet another lab report becones to me.
Coming darling.

And now, without further a-doo,
The infamous story: (revised)

Josef came to with a start. His head throbbed to an unholy beat, and one of his eyes was gummed shut. He snatched a glance around but spied nothing but a thick morning mist. He tried to peer through the gloom, and was rewarded with a spike of blinding pain that tore through his vision with pure starless blackness.
Sometime later the darkness lifted, and consciousness found him sprawled on his back in a pile of rubble, head pounding like a jackhammer. It felt like all the hangovers he had ever experienced had contrived to return in unison to wrack him to insanity. A brief scan informed him that other than the seismic tremors inside his skull he was fine. After several long minutes of groaning inactivity, his wits returned at a gallop. Shooting up to his feet, with a rather violent protest from inside his head and nearly tripping over his meter-and-a-half long, bristly beard, he looked around in a panic. What he had previously mistake for mist, was in fact the settling dust that marked the remnants of the collapsed roof.
“Tim! Magnus!” he cried in a voice choked hoarse with dust, “Where are….” He never finished the question. The acute pain behind his eyes seemed to melt away, as he spied a bloodied hand grasping through the rubble in a final bid for life.
“No!” He hurled himself at the rubble not caring if he broke a nail or even a finger, he dug like a man digging for his life. But it was to no avail. The two bodies he excavated, at the loss of his favorite nail, Mrs. Penelope, did not twitch a whisker as he dragged them clear of the mess. They were definitely dead, as lifeless and stiff as the statues that their house had contained. The world seemed to close in on him. He was alone, and there was nothing for it but to get out before the whole house collapsed.
There was a massive thud, and the walls began to shiver, as though the house was as wracked with pain as he. He ran, and did not stop running. Over hills and through forests he ran. He ran to relieve himself of the guilt that he had survived his brothers. He ran to hide the tears that streamed down his dust caked face. He ran to catch up on the sanity that was fleeing at a blinding pace. Thankfully for him, he was quite fit or a dwarf.

Jeremiah, the twisted protégé astronomer was feeling rather bored. He wasn’t tired, had no work to do, and it wouldn’t be dark for several hours. He had already exhausted his supplies of juggling balls, using them as missiles of vengeance against the slimy townsfolk that passed along the road by his tower. All that is except one ball. It had a certain majestic, powerful quality about it that was difficult to pinpoint, but which, however, made it too valuable to waste on the pathetic slow-moving townsfolk. He needed a grand target, a foreign target, and so he set to scouring the countryside using his telescope.
Just then, a small, red-faced dwarf came sprinting over the top of a nearby hill, wall-like grey beard blown helter-skelter by the wind; the ideal target. Jeremiah gingerly placed the juggling ball into his projectile launcher, fingers quaking with barely controlled mirth. After spouting a half-learned blessing for trueness of aim, he swiveled the launcher and locked in on his unsuspecting target. Capering with an evil sort of glee, he did a spontaneous pre-victory dance, the details of which are so revolting and fear-inspiring, even to mention them would cause the unceremonious wetting of trousers. The lack of self control nearly undid him. Perched mid evil-gesticulation, cream robe whipping to a halt, the spark of realization kindled inside his brain: he had forgotten to launch the ball.
Time seemed to tread through a peat bog, the air condensed into a thick jelly, and he was forced to muscle his way through it to reach the trigger, each heartbeat a torture, as the insufferable dwarf passed the optimum skull denting range. He threw himself at the trigger, slamming into it with such force, the machine nearly disassembled there and then.
He held his breath, pulse racing wildly in his ears, while with a screeching roar, the machine charged. He clenched his eyes shut. There was a terrible fizz, and the whole tower convulsed, spewing out the ball at near-light speed. A fire-coated purple blur streaked towards the dwarf, striking him clean on the back of the skull with a wet crunch, sending him end over end to the bottom of the hill, and the astronomer into a fit of hideously evil, booming laughter and a continuance of his victory dance.

The assaulted dwarf scrambled to his feet, and vigorously dusted himself off. As the king’s messenger, it was unusual for him to be the target of ill treatment, and now, of all times, he had an urgent delivery. He peered around, features etched into the very essence of dwarven ill-temper. There was no one about, and the only structure of consequence was a rather squat, ridiculously poorly built tower, with a figure capering up and down atop it. He squinted. It was definitely a person, a wizard, by the looks of the long, mother-of-pearl robe flapping haphazardly about, and he did not look happy. Apparently he was even less tolerant of passers by than most of the xenophobic, magic-wielding freaks of nature. There was little the dwarf could do now but tighten his belt and get the message delivered with all haste. However, even as he legged it back towards the woods, the wind carried, what could only be the wizard’s magically amplified cries as he prepared another spell, apparently he was very angry.

The king’s steward rushed into the throne room, a shock of unkempt hair and an ink-stained tattered robe, looking positively perturbed, and only sketch a bow, a sure sign he was at his wits end.
“Majesty,” he began in the deep rumbling base stewards of the realm are known for, “The royal chef informs me that the dinner is ready. Also, there is someone with an urgent message for you.”
The king nodded with all the patient dignity he could muster, his squat stature easily filling out the massive throne, and the steward hurriedly shuffled out of the chamber, swinging the door shut behind him with a muffled thump. A few moments later, the messenger entered, a youngish man of solid build but very sparse height. He bowed as deeply and theatrically as one of such a vertical disposition is capable of.
“Your majesty, my majesty”, the flowery messenger peered up to be sure he had the king’s attention, “Expresses his royal wish to meet with your eminence and discuss weighty matters of state.”
The king laughed a short harsh rasping of breath that did not sound at all happy. His earth-hued eyes fixed wickedly upon the arrogant messenger who had the audacity to insult royal sovereignty.
“Off with his head!” He bellowed dissonantly, “I will not meet your bastard-king! May he rot in damp smelly places, where his undergarments are beset upon by filthy vermin of all dispositions, and his damned eyes fall out from the boring repetition of removing the puss from his numerous awkwardly positioned boils! I’m off to lunch.”

Although he was two heads shorter than even the shortest of his subjects and by a long-shot more bulky, the king was well respected, mostly due to his unpredictable temper and propensity to behead people on a whim. Despite having only recently beheaded the favored messenger a rather powerful king, the people were awash with praise for the clarity of the royal perception, that somehow his royal majesty, had divined out the hidden wretchedness of the man’s character, and had awarded fitting justice. The messenger was now well known as a scoundrel (the rumors that he was pilfering from the royal treasury had been thoroughly circulated by the royal steward shortly after the hanging). It was into such a state of general joyful chaos that an unsuspecting messenger arrived, dusty and wheezing from exertion. His demands for an immediate audience with the king were met with suspicious stares and delays. In a final exasperated attempt to see the king, the messenger was forced to employ some rather underhanded tactics upon the obstructive servants (well maybe not underhanded, but they were definitely below the belt). Stepping over the writhing royal attendees, he kicked open the throne room door and strode in, right into the middle of the royal dinner.
The throne room was a mess, with partially chewed chicken wings strewn about the hall as if frozen in some remaining chicken-derived desire to flee. Quick reflexes alone spared the messenger from a rather unpleasant meeting with a large ceramic bowl-full of tepid, greasy mashed potato flung randomly by an impatient and unforgiving king.
“This food is disgusting! In fact it’s not even food! It is slime that is not deserving of the royal presence. It is not fit for human consumption, let alone for me! GUARDS!”, the ill-mannered king squealed painfully loud, deep brown eyes wild in anger, “Fetch me that worm of a royal chef that I may hear his pathetic excuses before I have him beheaded!”
A dramatic silence ensued as the king laboriously realized that he was not alone. Huge bovine eyes fixed upon the trespasser. He was more solid than the previous messenger, but that wasn’t saying much, the king noted dully as he chewed on a chicken bone. He was also shorter than the previous messenger, by a head, firm evidence of the merits of the fellow. The king raised a ponderous arm in a haphazard gesture for the man to begin speaking.
“Your majesty”, the exhausted messenger blurted out, “The ogres are coming, what are we to do?”
“Rally the defenses”, the king cried at the top of his poorly pitched voice, “Man the walls! Stoke the fires! Bring out the dwarves, and more chicken!”

The dwarves rushed out of the latrines, flies undone and shovels in hand. The enemy was coming, and the stalwart dwarves would not go down without a fight. They hurled into the long halls lined with marble statues, carved portraits of dwarven heroes and craftsmen long since dead and dust. They were much too precious to leave undefended.
A resounding crash shook the building to its foundations, and the dwarves stumbled to a halt, flanked by their petrified ancestors. Several more explosions displaced the dwarves several feet towards one wall, or did it displace one wall several feet towards them?
“Damn,” muttered Josef as the world collapsed about them.

HMm
Last night
Thought about going to bed
Tired I was an all.
So I just sat at the computer and typed
(no thinking involved)
I find it amusing, you may to:


Its like it was never there. Just a phone away, a few footsteps along the white-flecked sidewalk as the snow really started to sheet down. Then it finally hits. What was isn’t anymore. But it’s to late for goodbye’s now. We have fallen upon deaf ears. The eyes of the world are upon us and Im afraid I might flicker out. The calidescope visions that used to guide my way, with promises and hints of a luxurious nature, with their self-preserving mottos and charismatic ways, I feel they did us proud. Sitting all alone. The last kid in school, with the tatterdamelion lunch-box and the eyes of burnished bronze. Waiting, just waiting for that car to pull up that was never going to come, so that for just one day, they would not have to trudge the eight miles home with holed shoes to a house where love has never been found. You talk to me about growing up and staying alive. Well I try, when the doors close in and the snow mobiles get stuck halfway down the mountain. I’m already late for work. When they show you the newest product, you have to be there, or you just get caught in the queue like everyone else. Im not a bad person, just the result of a missfunctional brain coupled with the abberant self-loathing policies endorsed by the lower-middleclass income earners. Slaving away all day to provide ends meat and a house where the mistletoe doesn’t have to be reused every year. And the laughs don’t come forced from a soul crying out from the cloying barrages of mesmerizing media perpetually flinging at them the luxury items they can never afford, giving them the false hope that maybe one day dreams do come true. The frog will turn out to be the handsome prince, and that the vicious cycle of poverty imposed upon them by the self-same monetary monoliths will somehow be broken. There is no magic spell, no fancy cure. Now is the time of the day that I like. Atleast I would if the endless groaning of the suppressed neighbours encompassing me about would quit for just one hour, just one minute. Where silence could permeate the air like a renewing balm, and the clothe-factory clearance sales would quit the clamoring for attention. We could all see that money isn’t anything more than a rusty old iron bucket, holed through and through, and thoroughly useless. Maybe then we could all see the beauty right in front of our noses. The way the birds sing, the bees hum, and the trees whisper their rapturous music when the lull of humanity has passed them by. Assuming, that is, that the greedy and exploitive companies have not already ground them into obeisance, bruising and ultimately losing the sweet, sweet sound. I long for the country, an armchair that creaks soothingly every time I rock back to catch up my glass of iced freshly-sqeezed lemonade, and a pure and undefiled sunny afternoon in which to enjoy my hard-won pleasures. There will be no hooting of horns, no blaring of ridiculous signs, imposing the will of a plethora of ignorant despisers of the true depths of humanity upon my already careworn soul. Every time the ad comes on, and the lights grown dim, I can feel myself being sucked just a little further into their lies and deceit. I mean it’s just so easy to believe that all we have made, all we have become, all that was sacrificed to pave the way to the sprawling monstrosity of a society we have erected about us was not for naught. I know I lie awake dreaming of the possibility that some starving African child somewhere benefits because we know how to treat her malnutrition caused diseases. But then why are they starving, why do they duck for cover every time something louder than a gentle rustle is heard? Why are they scared of everyone and everything? Was it not our wonderful society that funded the terrorizing bands of militia scouring the countryside leaving it devoid of wealth and food? A little too late for sorries and bandages I think. I know that if the world revolved around us, we would all have frozen to our lazyboys, reclined in front of a television screen teeming with images of the ugliness we have created, so far from any light, that all we have to see is what was, and what could have been. I could be lying sprawled on the nutrient starved earth, calling out for help till I died, but would anybody hear? Would anybody listen? I really wish I could stay and chat, endorse your label and purchase some new running shoes and run the hell out of this place. Maybe dreams do come true….




Hmm.
A few more points:
Used superacids today.
Fun.
A superacid is defined as any acid strong enough to protonate sulphuric acid. We are talking strong here. The one we used was about 1000 times stronger than sulphuric acid. It reacts with almost anything.
Its fun, but kapuut for the unfortunate eye.

Also.
A breath-ful of gasseous HCl is very difficult to hold.
My record is 7 seconds.
My lungs still feel iritated, generally a bad idea.


One more thing.
I like spring-time cherry-blossom goodness
All around campus the now.
I sat on a small hillock in the windiest part of uni, anchoring my beloved university-based items (eg- bag, books, etc) with my own self. I had hair blown everywhere, but, joy of joys, i had a front row seat to a lovely operatic performance by the blossoms of the nearby trees, with which to entertain myself while I ate.

Blossoms remind me of happier carefree times, under the expert tutelage of a Teacher Hamilton, back when the boys were men, and the girls weren't ladies, so they needed lessons, and 1000 line punishments were not uncommon, but the work was non-existant.
'Sa-pu-ra' everyone.
And feast your metaphysical eyes on the blossomy goodness next time you are out and about. You will be a better person for it.


As for me
It is time to bow out with dignity.

Tomorow, i promise myself to up the 3 page story i schave created,
till then TATA.

Here lies a few dittitudes i penned myself through a series of boring lectures on organic chemistry.


Feel contentment slide down the mud-chocked gutter drain
Packed like sardines, huddling in from the rain
It could all seem so clear
But you went and threw it all away

Take a boat ride, streaking out across the bay
Gag the pills down but you cannot stop the pain
You claim it's so unfair
And life's a darker shade of grey

Feel her wolf-eyes searing hollows in your brain
You broke your promise, and she's not coming back again
It's not like yesterday
When everything was bright and daylight plain.




'The clouds are coming in on your wedding day'




.......
Strolling down town with a froidian frown
And eyes afire with wrath
A stomach all churned and a tongue all burned
From skulling the boiling broth......



"We always have options
We won the civil war
With freedom at stake
We lay claim for forever"





It was dark it was cold I was terrified
Creeping my way through the gloom
There was blood on my shirt
Slick and black with dirt
Deadening my eyes to the world
In my hand was a gun
I was overcome
By the alien grace of the moon
As it swirled through the night
On a perfect flight
On an evening chilled cooler than death
And for one single moment I lost myself
In a cloud of my quivering breath

It was dark it was cold I was terrified
My feet pounding loud through the gloom
And I fled from the gun
From which my sorrows had come
And the alien grace of the moon.







Yo'll never know
Cause you never guessed
Content like the brainless
Spineless contestants
That vie for their wealth
Their power, their fame
Convinced they'll be repayed
Spiralling through the flame.

Insider traders
Screwing the markets
Stealing the homeless
In wicker-work baskets
They'll sell them as slaves
They'll ship them away
Who's gonna be next?
The government won't say.

Taking us all
On a mery-go-round-ride
Neighborhood bullies
Have stolen our slide
It's just like the movies
Where everyone dies
But the bullet-proof hero
Strolling away
Just another day
At the office.



Yes indeedy
Thems the lot
And that's them all
Cherio what what.

Greetings dear reader.

A few things to note today, bit like a diary entry, which m' not too good at but here goes:

Yesterday was a bad day. Woke up at 10:25. Had a lecture at 10:00. Had a lab report due that lecture. Did not have breakfast. Did not have shower. (Did have cleaned teeth) Did make it to lecture at 10:40, record time. Did manage to hand in lab report. Did get out paper and pens to copy notes. Lecture did finish five minutes early (at 10:45 AM). Did not get any notes down.

Following that lecture, was another lecture, and following that was lunch. Very hungry. But needed to go shopping at supermarket on the way home. Managed to master willpower and not buy lunch. Needed, and bought new shampoo/conditioner. Pantene V05 marked down significantly, so bought two bottles of each. Bought stuff. Returned to flat to discover had payed full normal price for conditioners. Felt ripped off, and purposed to tally reciepts at supermarket in future. Had a small amount of lunch.

At 2:00 PM had a zoology lab. Fun but long. Got back 8% lab report and essay. Did OK in essay. Forsome reason, you are expected to put a reference behind every last statement (shudder), which to my poor researching skills is a nightmare. Got thoroughly shafted in the lab report. Am currently very annoyed at the zoology markers. Put much more effort into that lab report than the first one, and was rewarded with 10% lower mark. Vowed never to do zoology again (not verbally, so it isnt binding).

Today.

Have the motherload lab report for CHEM 203 due tomorrow, but was moved back to friday due to 'unforseen circumstances'. Very handy for me. Had only 25% of it done as of currently, and it was going to be a sqeeze to fit it in tonight. Also, interestingly, have an Elder's visit scheduled for tonight, and was afraid I was going to have to flag it. But now, i'm thinking, it is not so much a problem. The announcement was made during a CHEM 203 lecture. Following the announcement, i engaged meself in a silent period of rejoicement (seated victory dance inclusive).

Had lunch. Not to nice. But an odd thing happened, one of my lab demonstrators from one of the papers i did last semester happened by, and greeted me by name. Then it occured to me how disturbing it is when you move from being some random number student at Otago to being someone with a name. And yet, you are still someone less than yourself. This thought occasioned much shudder and it was decided to blend into the background more at labs. Added camoflagued lab-coat to list of things to buy.

Hmm.
1:21 PM,
got half an hour before next lab, might do some work, thenagain might not.




Feel contentment slide down the mud-chocked gutter drain
Packed like sardines huddling inside from the rain
It could all seem so clear
But you went and threw it all away

Take a boatride, Steaming out across the bay
Gag the pills down, but you cannot stop the pain
You claim it's so unfair
And everything's a darker shade of grey

Feel her wolf-eyes searing hollows in your brain
You broke your promise, and she's not coming back again
It's not like yesterday
When everything was bright and daylight plain.

Hmm.

A bit more clarification.
Since publishing the before coefficient calculation, it has come to the publisher's attention, that the calculations are not all inclusive

This is especcially clear in the absence of wind or rain. It also fails to account for the amount of heating produced inside the shelter.

So a reminder that this is still very much a work in progress is in order:

"This is still very much a work in progress"

Any sagely advice on the topic of improvements is heartily welcomed.

Friday evening was interesting. It involved a party with a fair number of odd people tht I barely know, but whose antics were generally enjoyable. However, towards 12 PM ish, the party started getting depressing, with a number of drunk and depressed people shambling about, and lying comatose. So I turned to other persutes to entertain myself.
The party itself was mostly out-of-doorsy, being covered by a set of hastily strung up tarpolens. They did not keep out all the rain, and let in most of the wind. Seeking to quantify the shelter value of such a setup, i theorised the "Baird Shelter Coefficient". This can be calculated simply :

The sqare root of ( [ (Rain flow rate in cubic meters per square meter per second {ie- meters per second} outside the tarpolen)/ (Rain flow rate {meters per second} inside the tarpolen) X (Wind flow rate above the tarpolen {again in meters per second})/ (Wind flow rate beneath the tarpolen {Meters per second}) ] squared + (temperature inside minus the temperature outside) squared ) times the correlation constant

In symbol form R is rain flow rate
W is the wind flow rate
T is the temperature
M is the correlation constant

Hmmmm.

Damn.
Dunno how to paste in pictures.
I shall leave you to work it out and mebe paste it in on a later date.

Chow.

Note- scratch numbers 1 and 2.

Story still forthcoming.

A few wee tiddlers.
Got a cold
Mucus my sworn enemy
Hidden in every cranny
Eyes awash with silent tears
Crying out for justice
Ears walled up
In the wax of their ignorance
Head thumping slowly
And spinning in circles
Work to be done
Swarms on the table
Eyes only for me
Saying " Time has come"
And "Feed me"
When the pivoting earth
Capsises beneath me
And my besieged skull gives way
And shatters....