Scar tissue is stronger than normal flesh
You are turning me into a living scar
I don’t know whether to thank you or myself

-Henry Rollins

(Names have been changed to protect the indifferent)

Nicole “Sir, I finished that book you lent me.”
Me “Didn’t I only lend that to you yesterday?”
Nicole “Yeah, my Mum’s reading it now.”
Moana “I want to borrow it after Susana.”
Me “Hang on, when did Susana come into this?”
Nicole “After Mum finishes it, Lisa wants to borrow it, then Susana.”
Moana “Then me, sir.”

And this is a year 10 class.

Incredible.

Why teaching is a bad job

Actually, I can’t tell you why teaching is a bad job, not even if I change the relevant names.

Because those horrors are not for public consumption.

So I get to carry it all around in my head.

My brain is made of glass, and I may not survive the week.

"Do you want to have sex?"
"With you?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Okay."

Fuck you and all your negativity
It won't rub off on me
I've got my own as you can see
You're not alone in hating me

-Blindspott

In the last quarter of the twentieth century, at a time when Western civilisation was declining too rapidly for comfort and yet too slowly to be very exciting, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat, waiting - with various combinations of dread, hope, and ennui - for something momentous to occur.

-Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker.

When we were growing up, the whole of south Auckland was into gangsta rap and everyone was like "I'll shoot you in the head" and we were like "Shoot us with what?"

-Mareko, from the Deceptikonz (and a solo album that we don't like to talk about, so the less said about it the better, really...)

So I've been thinking about music recently (which happens every time I go on a massive CD binge. I mean, the very act of doing so pretty much guarantees that I'm not thinking about rent).

I've always been one for meaningful lyrics. A big part of my initial dislike of rap was the self-centered pointlessness of the lyrics. I wasn't interested in how big their penises were (well, not that interested) so it didn't speak to me.

Of course, rock would never betray me.

Back in 97ish, when I first heard Perry Mason by Ozzy Osbourne, I immediately loved it. Not being spectacular at deciphering lyrics, I always wondered what the song was really about.

Having very recently purchased Ozzmosis and thoroughly investigated the matter, I am no longer in any doubt.

The song is about Perry Mason.

A song of such sinister power being about a crap tv detective. I couldn't help but feel a little let down.

Of course, as I'm writing this, I'm rocking out to I Am The Law - one of my favourite Anthrax numbers, which doesn't even have the decency to pretend it's not about Judge Dredd.

This leads me to thinking about the great pieces of poetic philosophy contained within your average sweeping musical masterpiece.

Exhibit A: Tori Amos. Tori is the poster child and role model for thousands of wispy young girls who think they're poets. They find solace and beauty in her music.

Now, I'm an easy mark for Tori, but the lines that come to mind every time I think of her?

"So you've found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts.
What's so amazing about really deep thoughts?"

I think about the Clutch song where they found not one, but two words to rhyme with australopithecus, and all of a sudden I want to slip Tori a rhyming dictionary.

Of course, as a control group, I present Henry Rollins.
Rollins (yes, Tori Amos is Tori, Henry Rollins is Rollins - it's an important distinction) is the poster child and role model for thousands of angry young men who pine after the wispy poet girls from afar, but are too consumed by their own insecurities to approach them, so get it out of their systems by punching holes in walls.

So what does this man, who, incidentally, has several published books of poetry to his name, have to contribute to the world of lyrical genius?

"Don't like to think too much
It makes me think too much"

Anyway...

I remember listening to Tool's Eulogy in my formative years. This emotive post-lapsarian cry to a defeated Jesus informed a large part of my Christianity. At a time when I was confused about many aspects of my faith, that song clarified a lot for me. The attitude I have towards Jesus to this day is based heavily on the portrayal of the Son of God presented in the lyrics to that song.

One problem; Eulogy isn't about Jesus. It's about - cough - Henry Rollins.

So I think it's time to stop being quite so precious about music. I mean, there's a lot of potential out there. Having trouble believing Avril Lavigne's claims to angsty punk cred? You're entirely right - she's 17; the poor dear doesn't know about proper angst. But just wait until she walks in on her Sk8er Boi getting Dirrty with Christina Aguilera. The album after that will be well worth a listen...

"I wear black because I'm comfortable in it. But then in the summertime when it's hot I'm comfortable in light blue."

- Johnny Cash

Here’s a concept for you to think about – The idea that some species have, as their natural state, certain deficiencies. Design flaws in their genetic makeup.

Take Axylotls.

Turns out the awkwardly designed little buggers have a natural iodine deficiency. The reason is pretty simple – They’re really not meant to exist. However long ago, there was something like a tadpole, which turned into something like a frog, with the halfway stage being an Axoltyl.

But one day, one of these transitional forms, through a accident of birth - some random mutation - had the ability to breed. Somehow, the breeding halfcastes superceded their sires – the new species of half-tadpole-things survived, whereas their forebears went the way of the Dodo.

Of course, it’s still there in their gene sequences – what they are meant to become.

If you correct this natural imbalance, evolution kick-starts, and the metamorphosis programmed into their genes is completed.

In real terms: Give an Axoltle a healthy dose of iodine, and it turns into this entire other creature.

But enough of Axolotls.

Turns out that human males also have a natural deficiency. Our natural state is to have less than optimum zinc levels.

I was told this by a biologist friend of mine who has started feeding himself zinc. Not the store –bought dietary supplements, which are mixed with calcium, which blocks the body’s ability to absorb zinc (yes – everyone out there taking zinc supplements may as well be taking $20 a bottle chalk pills).

He now needs about four hours sleep a night, and is going to the gym at 11pm.

On the one hand this raises very serious questions what else we might be lacking – if it’s that simple to affect such a major change, what else could be done? Are closer to super-humanity than we’ve ever believed possible?

On the other hand, I’m genuinely disappointed that it’s taken this long for one of my friends to get around to artificially evolving themselves. I really did think that one of them would try it a lot sooner...

Difficult for me to get a grip of what you mean
When you stick your fingers in your ears and create another scene
You always step into the traps set perfect in your path
Busy going crazy over who's knife's in your back.

-Anthrax

"For everyone who thinks I'm the new Audrey Hepburn, there's someone who says I'm an alien rhomboid."
-Sophie Ellis Bextor

Yes, and yes. I've never wanted anyone more...

You could talk me into fucking you
But I don't think you'd survive

- Vulcan, by Snake River Conspiracy

Rape, suicide, sexual harrassment, bullying, pregnancy, drug busts, cancer, suspensions, drop-outs, runaways, physical abuse, stabbings, and generally having so much noise and weight in my brain that I forget to breathe sometimes.

I'm pleased school's started again - the holidays were getting so bloody boring...

From the people that brought you Sexual Hangman(tm), comes...

Condom Hacky!

Oh well, at least the one that popped was the one with the picture of me on it, not the one filled with water....

I need a long rest.

Not to worry, I told her, she could do Classics as a sixth subject and just not have a study (read; free) period in her final year of high school.

Bracing myself for the ensuing verbal and (knowing this student) physical backlash, I instead saw her looking thoughtful.

“Can I really do that?”
“Uh… Yes… If you want…”
“Cool.”

I could snap my fingers and end the world. You’d do well to remember that.

“It’s a concept EP, the concept being fuck America and fuck weapons of mass destruction. It’s a protest record. It’s the kind of record that you would want to put on if you were going to go out on a riot.”

I’m so close to burning out I swear to God I’m generating my own internal heat source.

Why teaching is a good job

A few days ago, to alleviate my boredom, I spent ten minutes making a Year 9 laugh so much that she was doing sitcom style spit-takes from the school water fountain. Every time she’d try to have a drink I’d say something that would make her spray water all over the ground. Her friend was rolling around, literally collapsed with laughter.

I have a better job than you.

(Some of Henry Rollins' poetry for y'all - which I post because I like it, and for no other reason. Everytime I post lyrics/words by Rollins, someone emails me asking if I'm okay... I mean, I'm not, but that has nothing to do with why I'm posting this - I just like it, alright?)

I don’t know when it happened
Parts of me died
I don’t know if they all died at once
Or if it was in installments
Maybe I killed them off
Too many nights trying to destroy my weakness
In front of strangers
Maybe I did it in hotel rooms dotted all over
When I look into your eyes
I don’t feel the way I used to
It’s not you, you’re beautiful as always
It’s me, I’m dying piece by piece
Things don’t seem as good as they used to
Maybe I’m growing old
Remember when someone’s touch could send you to another world?
When it was the only thing you needed?
I feel like a soldier finishing the mission
I don’t know if I’m as stupid as I used to be
Half of life is fucking up
The other half is dealing with it
If I had tears
They would be hollow

I am very pleased that I found the following line in a non-fiction book;

"His greatest strength was that he was an utter and complete bastard without a breath of compassion in his entire person."

-Bryce Courtenay, April Fool's Day

Alright, so my year 11s are doing research projects. As part of this, they have to look up their topics on the internet, see what they can see and such carryon. One of them is doing his project on gangs.

Who would have thought that www.gangs.com was really, really, not about gangs?

I notice a lot of things. Like for example, last week, I noticed that a girl who has a hisory of cutting herself was carrying a knife again. I filed it in my head to tell the school social worker when next I saw her.

So anyway, the week flew by as I dealt with various crises, office-politics, and the day-to-day screaming rollarcoaster that is the upcoming exams. Couldn't find a free minute to track down the social worker.

My girl came to class today with her wrist and forearm swathed in thick bandages.

Now, not to sound self-righteous or anything, but could everyone stop complaining to me how fucking hard their jobs are?

It’s times like this that I know I’m in the right profession.

Me: "Why are you going drinking with thirty-year old men?"
Student: "Well, they’re my Dad’s friends, but we get on. They buy me drinks."
Me: "Yes, and why do you think thirty-year old men would be buying drinks for an 18 year old girl?"
Student: "Nah, it’s not like that."
Me: "Trust me, I’ve gone out drinking with more thirty-year old men than you have."
Student: "I wouldn’t be so sure of that."

Last day of my seniors. I'm going to miss them.

Now I remember why I stopped trying to change the world – the fish were floating too close to the surface of the barrel.

Over on the webpage of the White Pride Coalition (Australia), the founder (I forget his name – Adolf something, probably…) responds to claims that white nationalists are bigots. To counter these claims, he points out that it is better to be a mass murderer than to be homosexual.

How exactly this proves that he and his are not bigots was a little unclear – frankly, it didn’t seem even remotely connected to what he was talking about, it just sort of jumped out there. Maybe I didn’t get it.

Of course, racism was never really my campaign (where I grew up, we couldn’t hate brown people if we wanted to – they didn’t let any into the neighbourhood). I was always butting my head against the ‘homophobia’ wall, so I skipped straight to the section marked Information and Warnings on the Homosexual Menace.

My favourite part was the information that AIDS is spread by three sources – Homosexuals, homosexual bisexuals, and homosexual I.V. drug users.

Of course, my favourite sentence would have to be;
[Anal sex] can also transmit hepatitis B, another deadly communicable disease that can be easily transmitted to innocent people through food service, a favorite career of homosexuals.

On the one hand I’m terrified that my kids are growing up in this world. On the other hand, I take solace in the fact that they’re all way too smart to be in any danger from such clownishly absurd lunatics.

Those who dance are considered insane by those who can't hear the music.

- George Carlin

But that’s understandable given that, according to the research, thirty percent of them were drunk at the time…

Further through the detritus I found, in the margin of an English worksheet, an incorrect mathematical equation, complete with self-commentary on why the student had gotten the question wrong;

Forgot to multiply
(reproduce)
sexual intercourse

I am very sad. I may cry, you know.

This is the original blurb to Atlas Shrugged from the 1950s. I like it - It's really old school movie sort of thing - a product of it's time.

This is the story of a man who said that he would stop the motor of the word - and did.

Is he a destroyer or a liberator?

Why does he have to fight his battle not against his enemies but against those who need him most? Why does he fight his hardest battle against the woman he loves?

You will know the answer to these questions when you discover the reason behind the baffling events that play havoc with the lives of the amazing men and women in this remarkable new book by the author of The Fountainhead. You will discover why a productive genius became a worthless playboy... why a great steel industrialist was working for his own destruction... why a philosopher became a pirate... why a composer gave up his career on the night of his triumph... why a beautiful woman who ran a transcontinental railroad fell in love with the man she had sworn to kill.

Tremendous in scope, breathtaking in it's suspense, Atlas Shrugged is unlike any other book you have ever read. It is a mystery story, not about the murder of a man's body, but about the murder - and rebirth - of man's spirit.

So, music channel du jour was playing the Top Ten Grunge Songs.

Flatmates and I were watching it with the same sense of je ne ce qua, before one of them realised what it is we were all feeling:

Flatmate: The depressing thing is that this is making me nostalgic for a time when I was really, really unhappy...

"The Whale Rider was a cool movie."
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was!”
“Would you like to ride on my sperm whale?”
“It’s too small.”
“Even a 747 looks small when it’s flying into the Grand Canyon.”

Which would all be fine and dandy if the above hadn’t been a conversation between two of my Year 10s…

"Good morning mister."
"Good morning. How are you?"
"I'm having a bad day, mister."
"Ten to nine in the morning is pretty early to be having a bad day already. Anything I can do to make it better?"
"No. Not unless you can bring people back."

If anyone ever tells me that teaching is just reading from books again, I'm not going to tell them this story, I'm just going to punch them in the face.

I remember that saying, the one that goes something like; If you're not a socialist at twenty you have no heart - if you're not a capitalist at forty, you have no brain.

Over the years I've written enough vitriol on this issue to wallpaper a moderately spacious ivory tower. Some of it is on Nov9, some isn't, either way, none needs to be rehashed.

As my final comment on such things, I give you this from the last weekend:

Down country attending to family business. Driving around the city with my father and uncle as they discuss landmarks that no longer exist.

Driving down a street, they point out the site of their old house. They tell of the sale; The land agent told my gandfather that the prospective buyers were a young couple with almost no money.

My grandfather was moved. Firmly believing in the old chestnut of giving according to your means to those according to their needs, he sold the house for fifteen hundred odd pounds - unheard of generosity even in those days.

So, of course, the land agent bulldozed the house, and put up a block of apartments.

Now, strictly, he may not having been lying about this poor young couple - over the subsequent decades, a great many destitute young people have probably lived in those apartments, being gouged for what little they had.

Certainly, my grandfather could sleep at night, but it was in a small drafty house in a worse neighbourhood than he would otherwise have been able to afford.

My uncle summed it up better than I could:

"That's what old socialists do; they live the way they should. It's a staggeringly stupid thing to do."

"Rock n' roll is dead. But it's our only culture."

-Richey Manic

"I’ve been on the receiving end of violence, I’ve been a connoisseur of violence in my younger days, now and then, and I knew that, if I indulged myself much more than I did, I’d begin to enjoy it. I think an intelligent person steps back from something they can potentially enjoy."

-James Dean Bradfield

This is dialogue I wrote for a story ages back. I realised it didn't fit into that story, so I tried to squeeze it into another thing I was doing. Then I remembered I can't write, and gave up entirely. This tract didn't work for either story because, in the end, it was about too many of my friends at the time, and not about the characters I was trying to write about...

The scene is a scummy flat filled with directionless wastrels. You know the sort. The speaker looks a lot like me.

Get fucking jobs! All you do is hang around and lethargically mull over the wreckage you've furnished out of perfectly servicable lives.

You wouldn't have all of these pathetic, rediculously insignificant problems if you had jobs, because you simply wouldn't have time to create them. The reason you are all fucked up is that you choose to spend your time in the company of directionless layabouts and self obsessive ne'erdowells forming an ouroboros of masturbation. The serpent devours its own cock as you try to piss the day away with sex, drugs and naval gazing, and then whine that you have nothing in your lives but pregnancy, addiction and neuroses.

You have created your own hell. If you got jobs and hung out with a better class of person, then you simply wouldn't have this shit, because, as you freefall into your late twenties, you might actually turn into adults!

-Richey James

I've done a touch of spring cleaning to the site. Just because I'm too much of a packrat to bin it, I'll put up the old "About Nov9" ramble here.

The smart one, the responsible one, the easy one, the mellow one, well it's our time now

So what's this then?

Nov9 is my little corner of Map For The Blind. MFTB is what Heironymus calls a creative focal point for myself and a few friends (and, hell, whoever else wants to use the space). MFTB is the third serious attempt that we've had at a website. The others have gone the way of all flesh for various reasons, but most of the major content of Key23 (ie version 1.0) and Mutopia (version 2.0) can be found in the Mutopia section of this site, including many of my old impassioned pleas for the proletariat to be less stupid. We did some good stuff, and I'm rather proud of a lot of it. But right now at this very moment, I'm not up to going back to that sort of thing.

As per usual, someone else has put it better than me - Heironymus in a recent email on the topic:

"You see, I want the world to change; I just no longer believe I am qualified to say how. The era of plotting and conspiring in coffee houses and taverns and expecting that to lead to the next revolution has passed; the world is too big and too mechanical for one cog to make a difference."

I started to write a long winded Mutopia-style rant based around what he had said - a full blown piece paralleling myself and the Manic Street Preachers, about the death of anger and the birth of adulthood and aimed, if blunted, efforts to change the world. Elective surgery that removes some of the cancer, rather than semi-focussed trauma that damages as much as it helps.

But given that I was trying to write an extended rant about how I was a little too tired and uninspired to write big extended rants any more, I got almost as far as you might imagine I would.

When I were a lad, I raged against the shit and apathy and hatred polluting the world, then went and watched tv with a hamburger in each hand.

Now, I'm a little too busy.

Sure, people who said they were too busy to create used to be a major target of mine, but that's sort of the point - I never wanted to be a writer or a film-maker or an artist; I wanted to be a teacher. I express myself in my chosen medium every single day. Certainly, no-one will be seeing the fruit of my labours on their bookshelf or CD rack. But then I think of the troubled Year 11 who, at the beginning of the year, made it very clear that the only way to get her to class this year was to ensure I would be her teacher. Then there was the lad I ran into at a party recently who told me that I was the only reason he finished school. That makes it just a little easier to sleep at night than it probably otherwise would have been...

Things still find their way into my head - things that want letting out through a keyboard, but I'm no longer in the space for long impassioned rants. So, for the time being, I'll leave the big creative projects up to the others. I'll lurk around this wee place, posting the little things I find or notice. A culture journal, if you will - small snapshots of the society we're feeding and feeding off right now.

"What we want to know is that if one of us goes down, there is a host of cronies ready to kick us back off the floor and in front of that keyboard."

This is from General Wesley Clark, Presidential candidate, great white hope of the Left, and semi-professional lunatic. I like it, but something about it bugs me. Perhaps it's the fact that the guy saying it is just a bit unbalanced, I dunno...

"If you are the type of person who likes assault weapons, there is a place for you -- the United States Army. We have them."

This is dialogue that I don't think I ever had a home for.

"We hate ourselves."
“Yeah, but we like each other, which is enough, right?”
“I guess so.”

"All manner of men came to work for the News: everything from wild young Turks who wanted to rip the world in half and start all over again - to tired, beer-bellied old hacks who wanted nothing more than to live out their days in peace before a bunch of lunatics ripped the world in half."

-Hunter S Thompson, The Rum Diary

Going through this year’s ‘mementos’ – things I’ve saved from school. Christmas cards, the business card of the school’s cigarette dealer, the newspaper clipping about the brother of one of my Year 10s, who spent hours in a freezing river to escape police before surrendering because he got cold, the little stuffed monkey a student gave me for spending weekends helping her study, and a scattering of little things that make me smile, and almost bring a tear to my eye.

It’s been a long year. Some of the best times of my life have jostled for space with the worst.

I walked around my neighborhood the other day, down the alleys and side streets. It’s the first time I’ve done that in a while.

I didn’t realise how many of the vacant lots and abandoned properties have had apartments built over them in the last six months. Everything around me looks so… upper middle class. Four years ago, my neighbors were artists, prostitutes and the homeless insane. Now most of the people I see walking my streets are clean shaven with neat clothes and identical hair, talking about “a nice wine” with secretaries named Rachel or Tracey who own at least two pairs of white pants.

There are less and less places in the city with, for lack of a better term, mystique – places you can walk past and wonder about. This is not helped by the fact that the funeral parlour beneath us has finally pulled up it’s last root and moved to more suburban premises. When that space is occupied by an accountancy firm or something equally as banal, I will no longer live in that unique place that makes passers-by wonder – I’ll just live in a dirty, broken down old flat.

Of course it’s nice to know that there are still outposts of the old strangeness. Coming home at 3 am recently, across the road from my neighbors who still have the homemade anti-government billboards bolted to their house, I saw my neighbor falling out of his second storey window and crashing through the corrugated iron awning to the pavement below.

A friend of mine tells me I should blog more of my teaching stories. But you know what – no one would believe me. I don’t have the words to describe this year. There’s an Eliot line about a series of fragmented images that would do if I could remember it… The tired face of my top student. A concussed Year 10 taking a swing at me because he doesn’t register that I’m not one of his attackers. Two of my Year 13s pretending to have Tourette’s Syndrome as they cheer on the First 15. A fifteen year old girl assuring me that, while, yes, she did steal a car over the weekend, it was only to see if she could, and she put it right back.

Those dreams have remained and they’ve turned around, or so they tell me.

There was that student with problems. Bad ones. I spent all of this year wishing I could help her. Sure, I did the small things – the odd kind word, cutting her the tiniest of slack when it seemed necessary. But with every insignificant act, I wished I could make a real difference, help her in a way that meant something.

Opening the Christmas card she gave me, finding the note thanking me for helping her through her ups and downs, saying how much it meant to her.

Yeah.

Down country to see my grandmother, knowing this may be the last time. Walking into the wards and being unable to breathe, flashing back to earlier in the year, visiting my favourite student in hospital with lymphoma. Choking on the horror as I’m overwhelmed at what cancer has tired to take from me and mine this year.

“I’m genuinely happy being sad and bored. I have no desire to do anything else. If I can survive, I’ll be content walking the dog, living with my wife, seeing the family, watching the telly. It might change, but that’s how I feel.”
-Nicky Wire

"Sure a lot o' rich people are assholes, but believe me, a lot o' poor people are assholes too, and an asshole with money can at least buy his own drinks."

-Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

"Talk to every woman as if you loved her, and to every man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you will have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact."

-Big Bearded Bonking Butch Oscar Wilde

-Woody Allen

Three days into the new year, and already someone's come to Nov9's parent site by running an internet search for 'raping drug'.

Good Christ you people scare me.

Alright, I'm pakrating again - this time it's the original preface for Map For The Blind - Nov9's ever neglectful parent site - that is being replaced by a shiny new one for 2004...

Excuse me while I get deeply and movingly unpoetic for a moment.

We have no dreams, no high minded ideals, and this is certainly not a manifesto.

We, as people who like to think of ourselves as creative, have been involved in a number of projects that have over reached themselves - collapsed under their own weight - grandiose plans for world domination don’t exactly gel with lethargy and alcoholism.

Over the past few years, the cartographers of the Map For The Blind have found ourselves in a place that we're pretty sure will be familiar to a lot of you creative types out there; Everyone we know is talking about their grand dreams and plans, but nothing is coming of it.

Frustrating, isn’t it?

The simple fact is that if all you do is dream, your dreams become too big for you to realise - especially if you're a bit on the lazy side, as we unapologetically are.

There's a lot to be said for just bloody doing it.

That's what this site is - A place for our stuff. Nothing more.

Over the years, the dreams of those around us have reached various stages - most have not left the bar table at the end if the night, but many have gotten to the stage of planning meetings, manifestos, late night gatherings, tools in hand.

And yet, we've still not seen anywhere near as much as we should have.

So we have this place. It exists as a home for the stuff that we do. Oh, certainly, we'll do a lot of talking about how things should be, putting the world to rights, telling you all how clever we are and such forth. But at the end of the day, the only reason we do this is because we are more intelligent than you are, and know what's best for you.

We're not revolutionaries, we’re not special. We're just a pack of people with stuff in our heads.

That is all.

Excuse me while I conduct a little experiment.

This site has a hit counter which tells me the various things people have typed into search engines to wind up here.

Some of them make me happy, such as "hangman game with brittney spears", "an eulogy about australopithecus" or the truely heart-warming "dirrty posters music video christina aguilera fuck thai".

So anyway, around six weeks ago, I posted an anecdote about one of my students finding his way to www.gangs.com on school time. While the above searches, and indeed almost all others, have led one person each to this site, in the last month and a half, 239 people have ended up reading this very drivel because they looked up www.gangs.com.

So, in the interests of pandering to my desperate need for attention, I present a list sure to bring visitors swarming to Nov9:

Sex, Porn, Naked, Midget, Pre-operative, Fetish, Aguilera.

Thank you for your patience.

So, Britney Spears has gotten trollied in Vegas and married some guy.

Christinagasm overriding all clever comments... So happy... Must... insinuate... pantslessness...

Found my way to the online Glossary of Perversion . The first entry is;

Abe Lincoln - Doggystyle sex, just before you climax, give her a "Donkey Punch", then while she is knocked out, roll her over and jizz all over her chin and face. Shave off her pubes, and sprinkle in the beard region of her jizz covered mug.

Fair enough. There are worse things on the internet. No need for the screaming which is, as I type, echoing through the halls of my flat. Not at all - that screaming comes from the duel realisation that a) I already know what a Donkey Punch is, and b) I know because my students told me.

Ah well, at least as I blind and kill myself the moment I've finished this post, I'll have the satisfaction of finally understanding what Kurtz was talking about. Which my old Year 13 English teacher would say is well worth it...

I've been worried recently that Nov9 isn't cultured or high class enough. To put my fears to rest, a bunch of quotes by Avril Lavigne:

"I have a great body. I could be better than Britney."

"The prep group always looked at me like, 'Who is she?' They totally looked down on me. I'm not going to call myself punk, because punks aren't on MTV. But normally I would say I was this little punk messing around, getting myself in trouble. But I can't say that, because I'm not punk."

"I'm getting more famouser by the day"

And, as final comment on Lavigne (for now... for now...) I give you my brother's thoughts;

I think Avril's got a great body, too, even though she doesn't show it off as much as Britney does. In fact, I'd fully do her, even though she's dressed like a scruff.

How come this doesn't sound as deep and sensitive as when Avril says the same thing about the sk8r boi in the eponymous song? Maybe if I re-phrase it:

Too bad that you couldn't see, see the breasts there'd grow to be
There is more than meets the eye
I see the breasts on the inside

No? What am I doing wrong?