We've got fun and games.

It consists of tying a moron to a tree and then kissing them upside the head with a big stick until they lose consciousness.

Then we light them on fire.

Nothing much to report this week. In defiance of Australia's kiddy attitude towards all things Nintendo, I ordered a game from overseas. You will remember me mentioning paying Brenda for it about two weeks ago. Well, it arrived. Trauma Center: Under The Knife - a surgery game. That is to say, a direct simulation. People are infected with weird parasites and it is your job to operate on them with scalpel, antibiotic gel, laser and a few other things. The game was banned from ever being released in Australia; as the authorities felt that the gore and stress of trying to save the life of a VIRTUAL heart bypass patient or motorcycle accident victim was too much. After all, violence in video games such as Prey, F.E.A.R and Grand Theft Auto usually involves shooting something until it explodes messily, showering the area in blood and pieces of meat. However, this game involves actually cutting open a simulated human body and observing, tampering with and sticking pointy things into perfectly recognisable human organs.

It's not a wonder they banned the game from Australia. All things considered, the game might just create a few more psychos out there.

And look who has it now.

Hello, Clarice.

My mobile phone got fried last week. As in, literally fried. I was talking to my father on it when the line cut unexpectedly (I was outside and the line had already disconnected twice. That's considered normal for Telstra). I looked at the phone, and smoke was drifting out of the mouthpiece and from the keys. The stupid machine, a forty-dollar Alcatel phone I bought from the supermarket had literally gone up in smoke, taking all of my records and phone numbers with it.

After converting the ruined shell of a phone into a makeshift explosive and hurling it into the cleaning products aisle of the supermarket I bought it from, I went into Casuarina to go cellphone-shopping. I knew what I wanted; a phone that could play MIDI or Mp3 or both, could store more than one number under one name and could connect to my computer to transfer said MIDI or Mp3.

Apparently, that's harder to do than it sounds.

First place I tried was a massive store called Wow Sight and Sound. That's the initial response when you walk into the store, which is dark and crammed with flashing TV screens, beeping mobile phones, blaring stereos and blinking lights. You say "Wow! Sight and sound!" and then collapse writhing and screaming in pain as your retinas have just been burnt out and your ears are bleeding.

Once I'd managed to pick myself up off the tile, I headed over to the phone section and spoke with one of the clerks. I told her exactly what it was I was after, and she printed out a specifications sheet for a phone (a Motorola of some description) and began reading it to me. Mp3 and MIDI playback, wireless compatible, hands-free compatible, bluetooth compatible, two hundred and forty hours standby time, can store up to four numbers for each name in the phone book, able to send and receive MMS, can connect to WAP (some sort of expensive cellphone internet) and even contains a camera. Best of all, the phone was a hundred and ninety dollars; and I had two hundred and ten to spend.

Neko: Excellent, I'd like to buy one of these please.

Clerk: I'm sorry sir, we don't stock them.

What is wrong with these people?? Are they actually TRYING to piss me off? Or are they just that retarded that they don't know what they're doing? Are these the people responsible for the WARNING - DO NOT TOUCH signs on top of powerlines? Just what the fuck is going on here?

And yet, if I were to plant an axe head in their skulls, sever their limbs with a chainsaw and burn the store to the ground, I would be the one to go to jail.

Trying to look normal, I briskly thanked the clerk and left the store.

As soon as I was out of range, I screamed like a lunatic.

AAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!! What the fuck is WRONG with you people?? If you don't stock the damn phone, then don't try to sell me one you fucking nimrod!! Who told you to try to sell your customers things you DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE?? You spend ten minutes of MY time telling me about how great this phone is and how it can take photos and play music and cure fucking cancer, and then tell me you don't sell them? I'd fucking HATE to see this carried out elsewhere. Can you imagine it in a fucking hospital? "Well we have a procedure for taking the bullet out of your heart Mr Nicholson that will be painless, quick and offers a 100% chance of success. Also the entire thing is deductible by Medicare so you won't have to pay a cent, AND once you've awakened from the surgery anasthesia one of our many nurses will give you a complimentary blowjob. Only problem is we don't have that procedure here so you're just fucked." I fucking swear, if I meet another graduate of Betty-Sue's Scheewl of Biz-i-niss Efficks I'm going to stab them to death with the phones that they DO have.

The next day I went into Casuarina again. This time I tried several stores, including Telstra, Optus, Vodaphone and Crazy John's. I got lucky with the last one and walked out with a phone that could do everything except the multiple numbers, and it was forty dollars cheaper too. It was even the same brand as the one that had been teasingly dangled in front of my very face the day before. So that ended well.

School is nearly over, again. Christmas holidays, yay cheer huzzah woo big fucking whoop. Later this week I'm climbing onto the rooftop to electrify the tiles. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with a gigantic fat old man breaking into your house, watching your children while they sleep and then eating your food and leaving things for your children to make them like him? I swear, every fucking year it's the same old song and dance. I'll walk into the mall to go grab a burger or see if they have anything nice in the clothing stores I frequent and suddenly there's gigantic red and green balls dangling from the ceiling and wreaths of holly and mistletoe and carols are playing over the PA and tra-la-la-la-la and it makes me want to throw the fuck up right over everyone's cheerful jolly faces. We're celebrating what? A holiday that was originally based on some great mystic fuck who got his ass strung up and killed and is now based entirely on lying to our children?

I'll be blunt.

Fuck. You. Take your holiday and fuck off, because if ONE more fucking person wishes me a Merry Christmas or tries to sell me another christmas pudding I'm gonna grab the nearest wreath and shove it so far up their ass that they'll be coughing leaves for a week. I'm gonna get a hammer and smash it right into their jingle bells over and over again until they fucking die. You say deck the halls? I say suck MY deck you empty-headed retarded fucktroll!

I do not like christmas. Granted, I enjoyed the excuse to spend time with my family and Chan last year, but the holiday itself is a bigger farce than Leonardo DiCaprio's talent. The only fat red man that exists, ladies and gentlemen, is the one at the front of the church with a five year old under the pulpit playing hide-the-sausage. Sorry to burst your bubble but grow the fuck up. If you want your children to be honest and respect you then quit lying to them for god's sake. You spend all year telling them that there's a stranger who's going to come to your house once a year and give them candy and gifts, and then you panic when Junior gets abducted by a strange man offering them candy from the backseat of his car? I swear, if you people were any fucking dumber you'd have to be watered twice a week.

For some reason, lately my perception of reality has been somewhat skewed. Things that I do and touch feel as if they're not real; and that is a downright pain in the ass when you're trying to drink something but NOT spill it all over yourself. My hips hurt (this may be due to one of the cats trying to dash inside and me catching it under the chest with a snap-kick and sending it back out the door) and I can't get any rest. Mainly because when I sleep I see stuff I really don't want to see.

No, not violence. I enjoy that. Hell, I learned quite a while ago that if you have sufficient willpower you can incorporate yourself into your dreams; and the first thing I did was reprogram my sleeping mind into believing I was immortal. I've ended many of my recurring nightmares by simply pulling the sword out of my gut and stabbing the nameless silhouette with it until I wake up. No, the stuff I don't want to see isn't violence.

Oh come on, use your imagination.

Aha. Look of disgust, step backwards, hand reaching for the mace you keep in your back pocket. Now you've caught on.

Most males would rather enjoy this. Personally, I find it rather annoying. Particularly because I am a lucid dreamer. The dream will suddenly take shape and instead of being dragged through it as though I am watching a movie through my own eyes, I will stand there and get annoyed. Then I force my willpower into the dream and start altering it until things get better.

Of the three things I like doing in my sleep, the best part is immortality. I can face any nightmares or entities that bother me. The other two things are willful synthesis and pyrokinesis. I can will my old sword to appear in my hands and I can use it; or if I get bored I can jerk my hand at a passing car and it will then proceed to blow the fuck up. I remember when I was little, before I learned to control my subconscious and the abilities I have there. I used to have dreams about dodging and almost dodging falling planes and helicopters that would spiral down toward me and explode, and cars with no drivers running me over.

Actually, I would rather like one of my old car nightmares. It'd be interesting to see what would happen if I got inside the car, drove it off a cliff and leapt out, survived the fall because of my immortality, and blow the fucking thing to pieces before it hits the ground.

That's for tormenting a five-year old boy, bitch.

But, back to the reality shifts. It's getting weird. I mean, just earlier I was sitting here listening to music and I started to drift off into a world of swords and people in flowing black robes. I could even swear that things I've been sure of doing haven't been done at all or have been altered in such a way that although I know I didn't do it, there could have been nobody else that could have either.

I don't know, maybe I'm going insane? Maybe all of this stress and lack of patience has finally made me lose my grip?

Naaaaaaah. The world's just gone fucky. It ain't me, it's everything else.

Meanwhile, I'll focus on being an immortal with the ability to make things catch fire and go boom.

And no, my subconscious self is not Akasha.

Mael, maybe.

One last thing. I learned something interesting yesterday. And in light of that, I would like to say this: Kat, by all means say something. Insulting, complimentary, isoterical, philosophical, dogmatic, pragmatic, dynamic or freakin' orgasmic. it's a free country; and it's nice to share thoughts with someone like-minded.

And before I go. This is just for another of my readers, you know exactly who you are. Here's a hint, you're probably the only person to have been offended even slightly by my post about my dislike of emo idiots. It's one thing to dislike someone. I dislike plenty of people. It's another thing to badmouth someone. You want to insult and rant and overall allow filth to spew forth from your lips about somebody, knock yourself out. But when you go up to someone's best friend, someone's who's known them for years and twice as long as you have, and not only badmouth them but try to convince them that you're right, well... then, my dear, you are just another slab of meat.

Don't worry, I'm not angry. I'm also not hurt, upset, wounded, or dare I say it, surprised. Quite frankly, I find your pitiful attempts to discredit me amusing and downright adorable. If you were here I'd ruffle your hair and then push you off the nearest pier. Your pathetic endeavour amounted to nothing more then second-hand slander and gossip that people would expect to hear from a Britney Spears fan, and I have to admit, I'm getting quite a lot of sadistic pleasure in knowing that you're reading this right now and that you know that I'm talking about you. I would have loved to have been the one to put you back in your place, but I have to bow to Diss. She did a commendable job, and I can already tell that you left in a huff like a bratty teenage girl, mumbling and snarling under your breath just quiet enough that she couldn't hear you because you realized a little too late that it is a REALLY bad idea to piss off your superior.

Word to the wise, her nickname is Diss for a good reason.

I'm so proud to have a friend who not only defends me as such, but can make a total moron actually REALIZE that they are a total moron, if only for a little while.

I am going to bed now. While I am incinerating cars and such, I will be curled around my pillow and smiling like a maniac because I'm one step closer to having my sarcastic smackdown commando army of doom.

Start running.