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[nosemasters-blog]

III. THE ELDERS OF THE INTERNET

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away a tiny little snowflake fell gingerly on the nose of a little girl, making her sneeze hard, so her head kicked violently forward, into a young boy’s back. He turned around and despite what the little girl learned about boys from her family, her schoolmates and once from her teacher while she eavesdropped on a conversation behind a cupboard in the teachers’ lounge, the boy smiled with a charming, appropriately crooked tooth and the girl smiled back. Little did she know they were the very few of the lucky little bastards for they lived happily ever after, never once doubting the effect kindness has on the world around them.

It’s all about fun and games from now on, I promise. But bear in mind that promises are easily broken for people tend to give them away like candy or chlamydia. But today is so bright and shiny that sometimes, sometimes I wish I had a nice coffin to lie into and sleep until the undead finally take over the world again and I was chosen to be their queen. And it’s not about power, power is too much hassle. Way too much responsibility, for one. I don’t feel like having that much stuff to carry around on my cold, pale, sexy shoulders, y’know? Plus, I’m gonna have to live forever which means never will I be able to retire. How does it even work, is there a strict retirement age or do queens serve a sort of a symbolic role and sometimes to eat a (non)person here and there in a disgusting manner as a warning to the rest of the gang? Can I delegate? Is there paperwork? Do we share a stapler? Because that’s a bad idea if I ever heard one. But the clothes…I would look so awesome, you don’t even now. Nope, I strive at mediocrity and hope to one day quietly accomplish nothing much and to work just above the minimum requirements to get the job done. Disappointed? Don’t be, nobody cares! Shocker, I know.

So, an old guy lies in his death bed, surrounded by family and no friends because they’re all already dead. They were really old, I don’t make the rules, people. His daughter comes by his side, and asks: “Daddy, would you like me to sing you a song?” He turns his head around slowly, looks her in the eyes, smiles and says: “I’ll pass.” And dies.

And that, ladies and gentleman, was the last dad joke Clint ever told.

Now, I’m not very good at telling jokes. I just don’t remember them. I’ve heard a bunch and repeatedly so and still – nothing. And I’m bad at telling them, I get embarrassed. Everyone is looking at me and listening and I have this awful task of keeping everyone entertained… Also, events, movie and tv show plots, names of songs, especially those I like because as my lovely, quasi-intelligent part of the brain tries to remember the name of the song I listened to app. 15648 times in my time on this earth, the other part, where Brian lives in his comfortable blood money mansion with stables and a fondue fountain starts singing zabaladebijakustamustamimarena, zababadebijakustamustamiakarena, zabaladebijakustamustamimarena EEEEEEEEE MAKARENA. Well played, Brian. Smooth. Smooth and smoking. Like a fresh turd on the roadside on a cold day.

Maybe I just shouldn’t recommend stuff to people anymore. You listen to what you wanna listen and watch what you wanna watch and stop asking questions about what I like! I like what I like and like it because I like it and I don’t know how to answer that…It’s been so long since someone asked me hey, what kind of music do you like? As if when you grow up, you don’t listen to music anymore! Hey pal, hold on a minute! I know about stuff! I’m hip! Sure, I have a kid, work for money, have health insurance and more than two pairs of shoes (barely, though) but I’m hip! I’ve SEEN what the interwebs can do, I’ve lived through the interwebs and beyond. I’m a veteran, a proud owner of multiple e-mail addresses, murky search history, opened tabs in double-digit fashion, a web camera aaand a skype account because messenger is no more which is really a shame because the memories are really - NO! I see you, BRIAN! Just because I don’t understand why we need social networks when networks are networks and society is society doesn’t mean I’m not hip!

And if you wanna talk, go to a bar like regular youngsters or go pay an adult to buy you a beer and hang out. Jeez, don’t kids have the need to hang outside anymore? Sheesh, parents used to think alcohol and pot were bad, your kids think it’s rad to take photos of their faces and put little hearts and cute pandas all over. Just buy them a six-pack, at least they’ll go out of the house! Just don’t give them pot or they’ll never leave.

My point is, if there ever was one, I don’t know how to talk about things I like. I just like them, I may love them and if so, what’s there to talk about? My dad asked me recently why do I like this song that was playing. I burned a cd so I could make window cleaning even more fun than it already is (like that’s even possible, right?) and he said, and I quote, they’re very persistent, why do you like them? Dad…dad!! What!? Because I do, they make me happy so I do! Why do I like them…persistent...the audacity!

Let me just throw this in your general direction before I take off: the term guilty pleasure is made up by insecure people so, if you like something, be proud about it for it makes you who you are. Also, I don’t know who the hell I think I’m talking to so hey, socks don’t need changing every day, eat the whole chocolate bar because what’s medicine for and for the love of God, google people in panda suits doing stuff with their stuff, why do I care?

- fin -

Nonsense lives here

[nosemasters-blog]

III. THE ELDERS OF THE INTERNET

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away a tiny little snowflake fell gingerly on the nose of a little girl, making her sneeze hard, so her head kicked violently forward, into a young boys back. He turned around and despite what the little girl learned about boys from her family, her schoolmates and once from her teacher while she eavesdropped on a conversation behind a cupboard in the teachers’ lounge, the boy smiled with a charming, appropriately crooked tooth and the girl smiled back. Little did she now they were the very few of the lucky little bastards for they lived happily ever after, never once doubting the effect kindness has on the world around them.

It’s all about fun and games from now on, I promise. But bear in mind that promises are easily broken for people tend to give them away like candy or chlamydia. But today is so bright and shiny that sometimes, sometimes I wish I had a nice coffin to lie into and sleep until the undead finally take over the world again and I was chosen to be their queen. And it’s not about power, power is too much hassle. Way too much responsibility, for one. I don’t feel like having that much stuff to carry around on my cold, pale, sexy shoulders, y’know? Plus, I’m gonna have to live forever which means never will I be able to retire. How does it even work, is there a strict retirement age or do queens serve a sort of a symbolic role and sometimes to eat a (non)person here and there in a disgusting manner as a warning to the rest of the gang? Can I delegate? Is there paperwork? Do we share a stapler? Because that’s a bad idea if I ever heard one. But the clothes…I would look so awesome, you don’t even now. Nope, I strive at mediocrity and hope to one day quietly accomplish nothing much and to work just above the minimum requirements to get the job done. Disappointed? Don’t be, nobody cares! Shocker, I know.

So, an old guy lies in his death bed, surrounded by family and no friends because they’re all already dead. They were really old, I don’t make the rules, people. His daughter comes by his side, and asks: “Daddy, would you like me to sing you a song?” He turns his head around slowly, looks her in the eyes, smiles and says: “I’ll pass.” And dies.

And that, ladies and gentleman, was the last dad joke Clint ever told.

Now, I’m not very good at telling jokes. I just don’t remember them. I’ve heard a bunch and repeatedly so and still – nothing. And I’m bad at telling them, I get embarrassed. Everyone is looking at me and listening and I have this awful task of keeping everyone entertained… Also, events, movie and tv show plots, names of songs, especially those I like because as my lovely, quasi – intelligent part of the brain tries to remember the name of the song I listend to app. 15648 times in my time on this earth, the other part, where Brian lives in his comfortable blood money mansion with stables and a foundue fountain starts singing zabaladebijakustamustamimarena, zababadebijakustamustamiakarena, zabaladebijakustamustamimarena EEEEEEEEE MAKARENA. Well played, Brian. Smooth. Smooth and smoking. Like a fresh turd on the roadside on a cold day.

Maybe I just shouldn’t recommend stuff to people anymore. You listen what you wanna listen and watch what you wanna watch and stop asking questions about what I like! I like what I like and like it because I like it and I don’t know how to answer that…It’s been so long since someone asked me hey, what kind of music do you like? As if when you grow up, you don’t listen to music anymore! Hey pal, mhold on minute! I know about stuff! I’m hip! Sure, I have a kid, work for money, have health insurance and more than two pairs of shoes (barely, though) but I’m hip! I’ve SEEN what the interwebs can do, I’ve lived through the interwebs and beyond. I’m a veteran, a proud owner of multiple e-mail addresses, murky search history, opened tabs in double-digit fashion, a web camera aaand a skype account because messenger is no more which is really a shame because the memories are really - NO! I see you, BRIAN! Just because I don’t understand why we need social networks when networks are networks and society is society doesn’t mean I’m not hip!

And if you wanna talk, go to a bar like regular youngsters or go pay an adult to buy you beer and hang out. Jeez, don’t kids have the need to hang outside anymore? Sheesh, parents used to think alcohol and pot was bad, your kids think it’s rad to take photos of their faces and put little hearts and cute pandas all over. Just buy them a six- pack, at least they’ll go out of the house! Just don’t give them pot or they’ll never leave.

My point is, if there ever was one, I don’t know how to talk about things I like. I just like them, I may love them and if so, what’s there to talk about? My dad asked me recently why do I like this song that was playing. I burned a cd so I could make window cleaning even more fun than it already is (like that’s even possible, right?) and he said, and I quote, they’re very persistent, why do you like them? Dad…dad!! What!? Because I do, they make me happy so I do! Why do I like them…persistent...the audacity!

Let me just throw this in your general direction before I take off: the term guilty pleasure is made up by unsecure people so, if you like something, be proud about it for it makes you who you are. Also, I don’t know who the hell I think I’m talking to so hey, socks don’t need changing every day, eat the whole chocolate bar because what’s medicine for and for the love of God, google people in panda suits doing stuff with their stuff, why do I care?

- fin -

Nonsense lives here

[nosemasters-blog]

II. MORE NORMAL, MORE NORMAL

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, there was a nice girl who loved to be loved and loved love for love itself so naturally she ate aaall the planets, the faraway galaxy in question and others, less important galaxies and then she imploded unto herself in an embarrassing display of an emotional breakdown and became a nice little black hole that sucked everyone in, respectively.

For all of you and all of me who walk this earth with a great question mark upon their heads, it’s alright. I’m sure there are exclamation marks for each and every one of you and me out there. In fact, they’re just like you and me. They smile, love dogs, poop, shave at least some areas sometimes, learn, work, play poker for money and yes, hold most important state secrets. Most important. All of it in this very chronological order. And yes, you may use this as a reference when looking for your own, personal exclamation mark. Good luck with that. Love is awesome. Love is patient, love is kind and love is blind. Roses are red, violets are blue, yes I fart but so do you. Just keep in mind that the previously mentioned exclamation marks usually see themselves as question marks so, as I said, good luck with that, seriously.

On an unrelated note, yesterday I wrote some stuff I thought was funny and there might have been a poem involved and I apparently didn’t save it so now it is officially lost. I told you this once and imma gonna tell you again…technology is a huge, smelly zit. Visuals, people. And now, surely there are great uses for it blah blah medicine blah science blah research blah. But it is mostly designed to alienate, suffocate and help the dumb procreate and defecate on other people’s mental health all the while elevate the feeling that is desolate also kinda perpetuate, accelerate, segregate and activate the most fearful feeling that bears no meaning – hate.

Also, I could have been more careful and save the document but what is this, a witch hunt?

Anyhoo, let us discuss some nice, substance bearing topics. Grab some popcorn, some sort of a drink with a straw and/or a buttock of a loved one or at least liked one (It’s not nice to lead on innocent, deserving butts, aight?). Some emotions are there to express and share, to describe and there are also some emotions that are impossible to. And for whatever godforsaken reason, I tend to (try to) explain everything to everyone and the annoying habit to overshare information about my own, personal, weird emoting capabilities is astounding. YES BRIAN, ASTOUNDING. YOU DON’T OWN THE WORD! GOD!!

For this very reason I think people around me think I’m kind of unstable. In a nice, normal way. Like a slightly larger owl would be if she decided to make a nest in a burrow inside a Whomping Willow. The owl may be considered rash in this very circumstances. Or brave. And also a little silly. Haha…she’s an outcast from her owl pack for she’s the first owl to ever quit owl college. Or how owls call it, college. Father is heavily disappointed, mother has been hunting mice all day, her best friend is a fox (hell yeah she is) so she can’t offer any understanding or advice and to top it all off, she thinks she might be in love with a barn owl. Dammit, Susan…

So, here’s the scoop. She may be a little different and a little confused and she may not assess situations in a staying alive and not dying manner but she’s her own owl. An ownl, if you will. And hey, maybe next time the Whomping Willow catapults her into the Forbidden Forrest she’ll think twice about nesting where no owl nested before.

This story was building up to a nice, meaningful conclusion; it’s not just about wood animals. And if your into that, I do work in a library and would you believe it, we have many books on the subject *not sponsored*. And if you’re into that in a very different, albeit disturbing way, please refer to our nothing at all and lock your doors and force bonds™ before connecting with the almighty interwebs.

How bout we finish this off with a song, eh? You do the rhythm and I’ll sing…

Feelings are many, feelings are plenty, feelings are here to be felt. You can feel happy, you can feel sad, you can feel jealous, crappy or mad. You can feel lonely, broody or good. You can feel bad or misunderstood. But if someone makes you feel like you shouldn’t feel at all, if they make you tiny, if you become small…fuck those people, they suck.

That’s a wrap everybody, great show. See you next season when we discuss discussing and take a look at taking looks. Meanwhile, a great white dame was seen running around the city center with what appears to be a boneless steak from a large, grass fed animal, sources say... I’m sorry, there seems to be a glitch on the teleprompter. A great white Dane, not a great white dame was seen running around an – oh – the steak was not grass fed, I repeat, the steak was not grass fed. More disappointing news after this sponsor from our message.

- fin -

𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆   is the epicentre of nonsense.

[nosemasters-blog]

Hi, I’m new and hopeless

If yu’re looking for a protagonist with goals and agendas and a fiery will and any such trades, you might just be in a very wrong place!

Also, you might be in the exact right place, too.

Who knows? Don’t look at me, I’M CLUELESS.

You should probably read what I wrote and find out. Just in case. :)

This is a site with all my nonsense.

[nosemasters-blog]

I. A SERIOUS DISCUSSION ABOUT BOOKS AND SUCH

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away there was a mother of one, sitting at her desk and writing whichever stupid thing came to her, on the job. In a library. Amongst books...it feels like cheating, should be using pen and paper...karma is bound to get me now, but is it though? Is it worse, cosmically, to deny the flow of evolution of all things (including the mighty interwebs) or to deny your beliefs that the system WILL crash because technology DOES think you're a doofus and books are awesome and paper is dead trees and nature will punish me either way so hurrah, another sin to add to the plethora! A pretty, pretty plethora of tiny fuckups that don't really matter because people kill for money and I guess, if I were God, I wouldn't care about the planktons either ("Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa", said God, as he came back from vacay to look upon humanity). And maaan, there are so many books...everyone is a writer. Everyone IS one, but these guys and gals made it. They're published. Sure, some of it sucks but you did it, you're living the dream. Not the most ambitious dream and not really luxurious (unless you wrote about vegan vampires falling in love, y’all!). And those are really some great subjects if you think about it, the demand is huge. Vegan stuff - check, vampires - check, love - *the system is shutting down*.

Muahahah I'm just pulling your tassels, love is great. Love is like books in so many ways, the more I think about it. And I've thought about it for the last 8 seconds. Books are old, so is love. Books smell nice, so does love. Books are full of crap but also beauty, so is love. Books are made by process of killing what lives in order to fulfill ones selfish intentions. HA! You see that? You wish you saw that.

Soooo, what was that? More importantly, why was that? Oh, right, talking about nothing to no one but myself. So, just a regular last 23 years of my life. It's good, I like it, I'm not complaining. It's healthy, talking to yourself. They did studies. Because people who do talk to themselves don't really have the money or time for psychologists so they had to prove it was normal so that we don’t freak out and become sex driven maniacs. Like that's bad, c'mon. As long as it's consensual and the cat is watching! Really, sex is like books, too. Everything is like books because I am literally surrounded by them. Yes, grammar nazis, fascists and other awful ideologies, I used it right because I am. Literally surrounded by books. Bet you don't believe me. Bet you wanna see a PHOTO TO PROVE IT. Ya sick, untrusting people. I'm just tickling your earlobe, you do you. And if someone tells you otherwise, boop their nose and they'll remain stupefied. Unless you doing you requires stabbing, slicing, invading, stealing, kidnapping and whatever else there is in the beautiful murder rainbow, whether it's emotional or physical. Then, please report to the nearest police station unless you're a psychopath or a sociopath or have a narcissistic personality or really any long term brain farts.

Oh, man (and woman)...I made myself sad for the world we live in and also, for the worlds we don't know about yet because do you really think alien life has built a purrrfect society? Na - ha. Sure, it may be more advanced and their genitals are probably prettier and more tucked in, like proper extraterrestrials but other than that? I bet ya those funky little grey (not green as we learned from the queen of everything that's unholy - Fox Mulder) men are into some weird stuff. They might not hurt each other physically cause "oh ma gawd we're so like above that" but I bet you they do it telepathically.

Haha...imagine two alien life forms, just chilling in the grass and one alien says to the other - with their mind - honey, you sure it's ok I go with the boys? And the other is - yes dear, you just go - and then she turns into liquid, starts glowing profusely and closes all three of her genital areas theatrically, turns back into her solid form and lights a cigar. Now that's a show I would watch. Then again, it was probably already made and cancelled after one season.

Have they learned NOTHING from Supernatural? One, salt may be killing humans slowly, but it sure freaks out the undead! Two, you never really die so yay, life is basically drinkopoly! Three, pretty gurls are: a) monsters, b) monster killers c) in distress. Four, family is important and sometimes, yes, they are in other dimensions than yourself but Lucifer is all consuming so focus on the good stuff. Five, just because you're a demon, doesn't mean you don't have a soul. Well it usually does, but you know what I'm...it's a thing, fans know, stop it. And most importantly, monsters are awesome, sci fi is a bottomless pit of possibilities (much like the universe…and books) and we still cry for Firefly.

This could go on forever but unlike Sam and Dean and almost everyone in the Supernatural universe, we don't have forever. WE don't have anything. We is me, me is we and we are all together. And to think I didn’t smoke anything today. If I did, I wouldn’t think about it, ay?

Welcome, welcome! Please, take of your shoes and mind the slippery signs so you don’t trip over one. We double as a road maintenance warehouse. To your left you can see a beautiful valley filled with dinosaurs an - - oh my, a dragon just flew by! My, my this one really doesn’t care for historically accurate facts now, does she? - LIKE MOST OF HISTORY WASN’T ALREADY MADE UP, BRIAN! To your right you can see a small glimmer of what appears to be good judgement, says Brian, as he gesticulates elegantly with a slight smirk on his face. He does dress better than any snobby, imaginary British guy I know. And I don’t. Know any British guys, so… Moving on, moving on. We’re coming to a slight halt now, if you would please take out your silly pants and put them on. Very good. DON’T DO IT, BRIAN, YOU ASSMONGER. Now, on the count of three, spread out and make poopy! One…two…three!

Anyhoo, enough about me, let’s talk about me, weird voices in my head. Was commute bad from where you came or are you here to stay? I heard the view is really nice and I adore sleeping so there's much you can interrupt. Why, some nice tea would be super! Oh great, it's absinthe! Even superer!

You know…you’re doing great, life is good. It’s winter, winter is pretty. It is pretty. IT IS! It’s not just the Christmas time, holiday cheer bleeeeeh everyone jumping off roofs. It’s the air and all, you know. The nostalgia is real and solid, longing for the times that had past and that never were, like you know them as your own, like a shelf packed with old , expired jam and fresh, delicious jam intertwined in a big, fat, sticky ball of goodness and bitterness, none of which you can really catch, wouldn’t dare to take credit for. You know, winter. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. And I would very much like for everyone to be happy, but they’re not. Mooooving on, cap’n, I see a great spiraling ahead!

Let me tell you, all of you, aaaaall of you *pointing a moving finger in front of my face*, always looking at the bright side is tough. It’s tough and sure, sucky upbringing helps and nasty people make you more resilient to sadness and it’s easy to be grumpy when out of toilet paper while pooping, but…don’t pretend like you don’t have a choice of doing good because it wasn’t done on your behalf or you have to be bad because other people are bad to you and around you and why the hell…if you already know you gotta poop…and sooner or later you gotta, because you would die otherwise…just put the toilet paper either in the close proximity of the poop bucket (throne, smellsafe, litterbox, queens lair, whichever you prefer) or if that’s too much hassle or your toilet area is Harry Potterish in size (both the man and the staircase cupboard) just don’t poop! Surely it became such a problem you should just stop already. Go do something else, find a hobby, go fish, catch and release or don’t, I don’t care. Point is, if you feel shitty, it’s probably your own fault.

And now, ladies and god makes mistakes too, get ready foooor *drumroll but backwards*

- fin -

[nosemasters-blog]

Welp, I tried.

Check out all the nonsense here