I'm back in BAC
Yes, I'm back in BAC.
Ah, the immortal words of Brian Johnson, adapted by me to fit this utterly pointless blog entry in pointing out where I am. Yes, BAC does indeed, as I'm sure none of you postulated, refer to the Brennan Access Centre. Because yet another Tuesday evening is upon us, which means that following our mutual English tute finishing at 5:30, and in a silly yet fruitful attempt to 'beat the traffic', Bec and I make an excuse to hit the computers and do some work. Or rather, she makes an excuse to do some work, I make an excuse to be bored and write shit in my blog in order to scab a free lift later. What a delightful relationships of mutual wants and needs we have.
So what's in the pipeline for young Sam on this fine but dark (curse you, fact that Daylight Savings is finite) Tuesday evening?
Well, firstly, there is the fact that young Sam has only four and a bit days of being able to refer to himself as 'young Sam' before he must alter this to something resembling "buggery old fart Sam" as he waves goodbye to that dank, cloudy swamp known as adolescence and leaves on the long, winding but ultimately rewarding path to that far-off and elusive land known as twentidom. (In non-literary wankerist terms, I mean me fackin' (Nyngan-style) 20th is on Sundee) What do I think about this? Well, firstly I'm worried about the obvious change in people's attitudes towards me because obviously everyone really gives a toss... I mean, so many expectations and heuristics regarding people in their twenties. Or rather, as I continually whinge about to people around me, I will no longer be able to blame my immaturity on the fact that I'm 'not even 20 yet', but instead will have to blame it on the simple fact that I am just very, very immature. Secondly, and on the alternative metacarpus, I am actually quite pleased to finally be admitted into that exclusive fraternity of twenty-year-olds, of which nearly all of my friends are already members. It's like a gentleman's club that you can only join when you're in your fourties, balding, and with a gut and fortune roughly comparable to each other in size and stature. What will the common room be like? Will I undergo any hazing procedures? What perks, rewards and bonuses lie in wait for me? Ooh, the excitement is as palpable as a pauper carrying paper to the papalcy.
Seriously though and in all honesty, it's simply an excuse to get together with a bunch of my acquaintances to "hoppe and synge and maken swich disport" (I really enjoy my medieval London course, on an extremely unrelated topic), all the while thinking and smiling about what an absolutely wonderful person I am and how grateful and fortunate we all are that someone as delightful as I could have enriched our lives so thoroughly and completely that... I think I'll stop there, I'm making myself sick.
So that's the big event on my calendar. Fortunately I have no further assessments due this week, nor next week, which seems to imply that I am free for such merriment on Sunday night, and God bless those Australian and NZ troops for deciding to land at Gallipoli the day after my birthday, where would I be without a statutory recovery day, regardless of the day of the week on which it falls?
But yes, to write about any more personal details would involve expending mental effort yet again so I shall leave you with this unconnected rambling about my birthday, and if the need arises to vent my spleen about any other qualms, queries or quagmires, I shall do so in time, in time, my darlings. At least now I have fulfilled my moral obligation to the leader of my posse (How's about that Ang? Another impersonal reference to you) and can sleep now. And Just to perpetuate my tradition of concluding with a reference to the Shaking of the Speare, I shall add: To sleep, perchance to be woken up at 6 AM by those FUCKING lorekeets again. Fucking bastards. Fuck all birds. I fucking hate them all.
(That's from The Merry Wives of Windsor, by the way. It's no wonder it's one of his lesser-known works. The language of the man. Tut tut)
Ah, the immortal words of Brian Johnson, adapted by me to fit this utterly pointless blog entry in pointing out where I am. Yes, BAC does indeed, as I'm sure none of you postulated, refer to the Brennan Access Centre. Because yet another Tuesday evening is upon us, which means that following our mutual English tute finishing at 5:30, and in a silly yet fruitful attempt to 'beat the traffic', Bec and I make an excuse to hit the computers and do some work. Or rather, she makes an excuse to do some work, I make an excuse to be bored and write shit in my blog in order to scab a free lift later. What a delightful relationships of mutual wants and needs we have.
So what's in the pipeline for young Sam on this fine but dark (curse you, fact that Daylight Savings is finite) Tuesday evening?
Well, firstly, there is the fact that young Sam has only four and a bit days of being able to refer to himself as 'young Sam' before he must alter this to something resembling "buggery old fart Sam" as he waves goodbye to that dank, cloudy swamp known as adolescence and leaves on the long, winding but ultimately rewarding path to that far-off and elusive land known as twentidom. (In non-literary wankerist terms, I mean me fackin' (Nyngan-style) 20th is on Sundee) What do I think about this? Well, firstly I'm worried about the obvious change in people's attitudes towards me because obviously everyone really gives a toss... I mean, so many expectations and heuristics regarding people in their twenties. Or rather, as I continually whinge about to people around me, I will no longer be able to blame my immaturity on the fact that I'm 'not even 20 yet', but instead will have to blame it on the simple fact that I am just very, very immature. Secondly, and on the alternative metacarpus, I am actually quite pleased to finally be admitted into that exclusive fraternity of twenty-year-olds, of which nearly all of my friends are already members. It's like a gentleman's club that you can only join when you're in your fourties, balding, and with a gut and fortune roughly comparable to each other in size and stature. What will the common room be like? Will I undergo any hazing procedures? What perks, rewards and bonuses lie in wait for me? Ooh, the excitement is as palpable as a pauper carrying paper to the papalcy.
Seriously though and in all honesty, it's simply an excuse to get together with a bunch of my acquaintances to "hoppe and synge and maken swich disport" (I really enjoy my medieval London course, on an extremely unrelated topic), all the while thinking and smiling about what an absolutely wonderful person I am and how grateful and fortunate we all are that someone as delightful as I could have enriched our lives so thoroughly and completely that... I think I'll stop there, I'm making myself sick.
So that's the big event on my calendar. Fortunately I have no further assessments due this week, nor next week, which seems to imply that I am free for such merriment on Sunday night, and God bless those Australian and NZ troops for deciding to land at Gallipoli the day after my birthday, where would I be without a statutory recovery day, regardless of the day of the week on which it falls?
But yes, to write about any more personal details would involve expending mental effort yet again so I shall leave you with this unconnected rambling about my birthday, and if the need arises to vent my spleen about any other qualms, queries or quagmires, I shall do so in time, in time, my darlings. At least now I have fulfilled my moral obligation to the leader of my posse (How's about that Ang? Another impersonal reference to you) and can sleep now. And Just to perpetuate my tradition of concluding with a reference to the Shaking of the Speare, I shall add: To sleep, perchance to be woken up at 6 AM by those FUCKING lorekeets again. Fucking bastards. Fuck all birds. I fucking hate them all.
(That's from The Merry Wives of Windsor, by the way. It's no wonder it's one of his lesser-known works. The language of the man. Tut tut)
posted by Sean's Beard at 6:59 PM
4 Comments:
Masturbation
My immortal fame knows no bounds, for now it is interr'd in the hallowed halls of the internet, and more specifically, Sam's blog.
Jeah.
Nicely done for posting. *pats Sam on the head*
happy birthday for tomorrow o old one.
Have you recovered yet, ol' fella?
Dad
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